Charles Finch - A Stranger in Mayfair

For so long she had been his best listener, and in turn he had tried to be hers. During their honeymoon, marriage had seemed to twine together the best elements of their friendship and their love. Now, however, he felt robbed of both.

At last her food came, and his wine. She ate happily-there was a cottage pie and some turnips.

“Made of real cottages,” he said, repeating an old joke she loved.

She rewarded him with a laugh and then, perhaps observing something in his face, put down her fork and came over to the sofa. “Are you all right, Charles?” she said, taking his hand in hers.

“Oh, quite all right. A bit tired perhaps.”

“It’s been difficult, I know-I’ve spent so much time at Toto’s, and you’ve got both Parliament and this poor boy’s death.”

She had missed the point. “It’s nice to sit here with you,” he answered her.

Or perhaps she hadn’t. “I don’t know if I’d like to have children,” she said softly.

“Oh-that, put it out of your mind.”

She gazed at him unhappily. “I will, then,” she said at last.

Soon they went to bed, neither of them quite tranquil in their heart.

The next day was exceptionally busy for Lenox. After her long hours at Toto’s side, Lady Jane slept late, but he was awake and reading a blue book over eggs by six in the morning. There was a succession of meetings to attend; Graham had laid out what he needed to read before each of them, and as Lenox finished the last of his tea they spoke about each in turn.

It was difficult to be patient about cholera, but Graham would begin to canvass for support among the secretaries of other backbenchers. Listening to Graham’s strategies was an education for Lenox, who had believed-naively, and against all the evidence-that a good idea would always win out in politics. The murky world of favors, exchanges, and alliances was new to him, but Graham was already emerging as a master of it.

“How many days before I can take this to Hilary again, or Brick, or the Prime Minister?” asked Lenox as he was putting on his overcoat, ready to go to Whitehall.

“Parliament opens very shortly, sir. There will be a great deal of official business to accomplish, and people are often bursting with ideas in the first days, from everything I understand.”

Lenox nodded. “So I’ve heard. I don’t want to get lost in the shuffle of things.”

“No, sir, certainly not. I think we must wait a week or two. When we have support and the House has quieted down, and the less committed Members have returned to their clubs after their bursts of initial enthusiasm have subsided-then we may strike. I recall from your account of the conversation that Mr. Hilary laughed at the idea of you giving a speech in your first weeks.”

“He did.”

“Without support-as simply a wild gesture, sir-his incredulity at the thought of a speech might be correct. With the proper support, however, it could be powerful.”

Lenox nodded thoughtfully. “Perhaps I’ll begin to write something out.”

“That would be wise, sir. As I understand it the best speeches are heavily revised and compressed, never off the cuff-very brief, full of conviction, even inspirational, but always with a practical bent.”

The detective laughed. “Yes. Although I’ve heard enough tales of new Members who write a perfect speech and forget every word of it the moment they stand up. Still, we must try.”

“Indeed, sir.”

After a long day of meetings-the most tedious was with a gentleman from Durham who represented northern farming concerns-at five o’clock Lenox was in his office. He was running through potential clerks, Graham at his side. They were all young, bright boys from middling backgrounds, the sons of merchants, schoolteachers, doctors, small landholders. A job as a clerk was moderately paid and, better still, might lead to a job as a personal secretary. Even if that route failed, a Member with influence could be a wonderful ally for a young gentleman hoping to make his career. There were jobs in the City, jobs in the colonies, government sinecures in Ireland and Scotland.

He had interviewed four boys and now was sitting across a desk from the fifth. This was by far his favorite. The lad, one Gordon Frabbs, was very young-looking, with pale blond hair and a dense of freckles on his cheeks. He had an earnest air about him and was cleverer by half than any of the other boys. He had Latin and some Greek, was excellent at sums, and could even draw skillfully. What weighed against him was his age-he was only fifteen, on the callow side for this sort of job-but otherwise Lenox approved. He wondered as they spoke whether Graham would agree.

“You can write a good hand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Can you read quickly?”

“Yes, sir.”

“With comprehension?”

“Yes, sir.”

He pushed Cranford across the table. “There, read the first chapter of that as quickly as you can, and I’ll ask you a few questions about it.”

Frabbs grabbed the book as quickly as if it were a life preserver and he was drowning, and began to scan the lines, biting his lip and with a look of immense concentration on his small face.

There was a knock at the door. Expecting it to be the next candidate-they were running behind-Graham went to the door.

Instead of another seventeen-year-old lad, though, Dallington came rushing in. “There you are,” he said.

“What is it? I’m in the middle of seeing clerks.”

“Never mind that-Ginger came to the Beargarden and told me that they’ve arrested Collingwood.”

“What? Why?”

“It was he who killed Frederick Clarke and attacked Ludo Starling.”

Lenox stood up immediately. “Mr. Frabbs, you’re hired. Graham, give him his desk.”

“Am I really, Mr. Graham, really really?” Lenox heard Frabbs say as he left, the boy’s voice squeaking with delight.

“How do you know?”

That was what the detective asked his apprentice as they rolled through Whitehall in a hired brougham.

“Fowler caught him last night after you left.”

“Fowler?”

“He pretended to leave-this was Starling’s plan-and fetched back quickly to the alley door to take everyone by surprise. He was convinced it might be Collingwood, apparently.”

“Perhaps he’s spoken to Ginger, too. Did you ask him?”

“Damn, I didn’t. That’s true. I thought we had an advantage.”

“It’s not a competition,” said Lenox. “I would be just as pleased if Fowler caught the murderer as if we did.” This wasn’t true at all, but he felt he needed to say it.

“In any event, Ludo ordered the entire staff to wait in the living room, and Fowler went through all of the rooms.”

“What did he find in Collingwood’s?”

“It wasn’t in Collingwood’s room. That was what Fowler hoped, and he searched it high and low, but no such luck.”

“Well?”

“Among the staff only Collingwood has a key to the larder. It was in there. A bloody knife, a black wool mask, and a green butcher’s apron. It was you who saw the flash of green, wasn’t it?”

“It was I, yes.”

“He arrested Collingwood straightaway, for assaulting Starling. The house was in a stir about it, of course.” Suddenly there was a silence, and Dallington stared moodily at the carnation in his buttonhole, fiddling with its stem. “Charles, I’ve told you a lie.”

“What?” said Lenox, shocked. “It wasn’t Collingwood?”

“No, no-not that. About Ginger. It wasn’t he who came to me at the club.”

“Then who-” Suddenly Lenox remembered with perfect clarity the light banter, the looks of curiosity, that had passed between Dallington and the young housemaid. “Jenny Rogers, was it?”