Charles Finch - A Stranger in Mayfair

Meanwhile Lenox, taking a key from his pocket, opened the silver cabinet and took out that strange hybrid pot, with a short spout and a long wooden handle sticking out of its side (never its back), that it was customary to serve chocolate in. He poured the milk into a saucepan, and then they slowly melted the chocolate bars into it, one by one, until it was rich, dark, and fragrant. At the last he dropped a pinch of salt into the mixture and swirled it in.

“Isn’t this wonderful?” she whispered. “I forgot what it was like to sneak around-I used to be a terrible little thief as a child.”

“So did we all, I imagine. My father was in a fearful temper once when he couldn’t have cold steak and kidney pudding for breakfast, the day after we had it for lunch. I went down and ate it all. I was punished, though-I felt sick for two days, glutton that I was.”

“You devil!” She kissed him happily on the cheek.

When the chocolate was ready Lenox carefully poured it from the saucepan on the stovetop into the silver pot. Jane took two teacups down from the hutch by the stove, then two saucers, and, still laughing, they stepped quietly upstairs and back into the study.

Nothing, they both said after they had finished off the whole pot, had ever tasted better.

As he fell asleep a little while later, Lenox realized that for the first time in too long he felt content. Gradually he began to think about his day-his afternoon in Parliament, his morning at the boxing club, Collingwood’s confession, all in the drifting, cloudy way of half-consciousness.

What was missing, he knew, was a clear motive for Collingwood to kill Freddie Clarke. Would such an apparently genial soul-loved by Paul, Alfred, and Tiberius Starling-commit murder over a few coins? No. But then what could the real motive be?

The next morning he woke up and, just like that, he had it.

He jumped out of bed and dressed hurriedly, not bothering to shave or comb his hair. Soon he was at Dallington’s flat-a particularly eligible set of rooms in Belgravia. Lenox had never been there. There was only one servant, who looked at Lenox suspiciously.

“Lord Dallington often sleeps well beyond-”

“Get him. I’ll answer for it.”

In the event it took Dallington half an hour to appear in a candy-striped dressing gown, and even then he was groggy. He grabbed at a cup of coffee his valet offered him as if it were the elixir of immortality, and until half the cup was gone he held out a hand to prevent Lenox speaking.

“Well,” he said at last, “what in all of fiery hell could it be, to get me up so early?”

“Did you visit Collingwood?”

“I did. They wouldn’t let me in.”

“You have to bribe the guard. Didn’t you see? Well, never mind that-yesterday, you remember, you suggested that Paul Starling killed Freddie Clarke, didn’t you?”

“Yes, and you dismissed the idea.”

“I was wrong. Listen: Collingwood has only confessed to protect Paul Starling.”

Dallington looked skeptical. “Paul Starling killed Freddie Clarke?”

“I’m less sure of that, but I feel certain that Collingwood believes he did. Do you remember when Paul’s name came up at our meeting with him?”

Slowly, Dallington nodded. “I think I do. He said Paul didn’t have a key to the larder.”

“I remember his phrasing because I found it awkward at the time…he said, ‘He wasn’t involved.” I was too focused on the green butcher’s apron and knife to notice but I think you’ll agree it was an odd thing to say.”

Dallington, awake now, nodded. “So he’s facing the gallows to protect one of the family he serves. Bricker, my man, won’t even press my suits.”

“I don’t think he’s facing the gallows. I think he’ll wait until Paul is out of the country, then tell the truth.”

“What good does that do Paul, then? He can’t come back to Cambridge.”

“No, but he’ll be safe from hanging.”

“I’m confused-do you believe Paul Starling murdered Freddie Clarke or not?”

Lenox grimaced. “I don’t know. All I know is that it’s what Collingwood believes. I want to go visit him again.”

In Lenox’s carriage, which had been waiting outside, both men gazed through a window, lost in thought. At last Dallington said, “And Parliament-how has that been?”

“Do you know that saying about answered prayers? No-but it’s wonderful, in its way. It’s just harder than I imagined it would be.”

“Personally I wouldn’t go into that House for love or money. Every man you meet is a stuffed shirt or a bore, or one of those chaps at university who look down on fun. You know the kind-half vicar, half self-righteous scholarship student. If you have a glass of punch in front of them they start to tremble.” Dallington suddenly looked more ruminative. “Do you think you’ll continue to do this? To take cases?”

He sighed. “I don’t know. It’s too difficult to balance them, and I can’t help but wonder whether perhaps my ability in each pursuit has suffered for the other.”

Dallington’s face, which was usually on the verge of a smile, now looked concerned. “More than just losing a teacher, I worry at London losing you. Many men can sit in a room and talk nonsense, as they seem to do in Parliament, but fewer can go to a prison and phlegmatically sit with a confessed murderer.”

Lenox’s own face, which he turned again to the window, showed that it was a point he had considered himself.

Money changed hands, there was a brief wait, and then they were led into the same room. What was different in it was Collingwood.

The butler looked as if his insides had been hollowed out. Whether this was because of some emotion-guilt? sorrow for Paul?-or because the full terror of his situation had alighted on his mind, it was impossible to tell. But something was affecting him powerfully.

“Sunshine,” he said to them dully. “That’s welcome enough.”

Lenox glanced up at the small, high window in the room. It was brighter today. “Your cell is dark?”

“What did you want from me, gentlemen?”

Dallington and Lenox exchanged a look. “Just the truth,” said Lenox. “I understand you confessed to killing Freddie Clarke?”

“Yes.”

“You were lying before, then, when first we visited you?”

“Yes.”

Dallington looked at him critically. “You were remarkably full of conviction, my dear man. I daresay you could make a living on the stage. The deceiver’s parts-Aaron the Moor, say, or Iago. When this is all over, I mean.”

“When this is all over?” Collingwood coughed out an astringent chuckle at the thought.

“Mr. Collingwood, I came to ask you one question: Did you confess to protect Paul Starling?”

Collingwood could say what he wanted next, but his face gave him away entirely. “No-no-bizarre thought-” he stammered out, barely suppressing his shock.

“Did you attack Ludo Starling to shift the blame onto yourself, the suspicion? I can think of no other reason why you might have done it.”

“The God’s honest truth is I don’t know anything about the butcher’s apron or the knife. I was drinking a cup of tea and reading the newspaper when that happened, Mr. Lenox.”

“I believe you,” said Lenox.

“And Paul?” asked Dallington.

“May I return to my cell now?”

“Your cell! Certainly not.”

“Then I shall be silent.”

“Like Iago indeed,” said Lenox. “In that case, let me tell you a story-a drama, if you will. In the days after Frederick Clarke’s death, you had no idea who had killed him.”

“I did it, for God’s sake!”

“You didn’t; my dear fellow, you really didn’t. You had no reason to.”