Charles Finch - A Stranger in Mayfair

“I did,” he said tiredly.

“To continue-only after you had been arrested did you realize-or were you told?-that Paul Starling was guilty. In order to protect him, you confessed. When he’s overseas, you’ll tell the truth and, you hope, go free.”

“I don’t see why they would believe you, though,” murmured Dallington.

“That’s true; you may swing either way,” said Lenox.

Collingwood’s face, so mobile during their conversation, transformed now into a mask of fear. “I can’t hang.”

“Confessions are valuable in Scotland Yard,” said Lenox. “They don’t question a confession there. My young friend and I have that luxury, however-we may question what we please. Tell me, then: Are you protecting Paul Starling?”

At last Collingwood relented. “Yes,” he said and then went on, in a desperate tone, “Oh, please! He’s only a boy! You can’t send him to hang! He’ll be out of the country soon-gone from England forever-he has time to change!”

“You have admirable loyalty,” said Dallington. “‘How well in thee appears the constant service of the antique world,’ and all that. You must love the Starlings.”

“You can have the Starling family, all of them-but I’ve known Paul since he was an infant. He might as well have been my own child, for all the time we spent together.”

“Then did you attack Mr. Starling?” asked Lenox.

“I’ve no reason to lie-I didn’t. I told you before, I was having tea and reading the newspaper when you and Mr. Starling came back into the house.”

In that bare room, one of its walls darkened by damp, Lenox suddenly felt something strange: a new grief for Frederick Clarke, that extended soon into grief for Collingwood and his irreparably compromised life. Wherever he went he would remember these days in jail, and his loss of faith in Paul Starling-accompanied by no matching loss of love.

“How did you find out that Paul was guilty?”

Collingwood sighed. “I didn’t suspect him at the beginning. It was when I came to jail. Mrs. Starling visited me, two days ago. She said Paul had confessed to killing Clarke, and that he was being sent abroad forever.”

“Did she tell you why Paul killed Clarke?”

“No.”

“Yet she persuaded you to confess?”

“She said Grayson Fowler was beginning to put the clues together, and that it was only a matter of time before he discovered the truth.”

“So if you offered the police a false trail-”

“Yes, a confession, which I could then retract-”

“You could save him from the hangman,” finished Lenox.

“It was foolish,” said Dallington.

Agitated, Collingwood said, “Remember, again, I dandled the boy on my knee when he was still spitting up his milk, Mr. Lenox, and I was myself only a tiny boy in first livery. He’s a decade younger than I am and always looked up to me-always asked me to play games, to show him things. Until he went off to school, finally. But I could understand!” he went on hastily. “To be among the sons of nobility, princes from Bavaria, every such thing-I could understand his not having time for me anymore! It didn’t mean I stopped regarding him as my own family.”

There was a dead silence in the room.

Lenox broke it, in the end. “There are mysteries remaining in all this.” He thought of the butcher, of Ludo Starling’s lies. “Still, you have my backing, if that counts for anything during your trial, or before that when the police build their case. I believe you to be innocent. As for Paul-I’m not as convinced as you are that he’s guilty. If he is, however, I cannot promise to protect him.”

Collingwood was past caring. His soliloquy about Paul and his fresh confession, of innocence, had taken the last of his energy. “Can I go now, please?”

“Yes,” said Lenox. “Thank you for speaking with us.”

Outside of the prison Lenox and Dallington were standing on the pavement, waiting for Lenox’s carriage to round the block and pick them up, when they saw Ludo Starling. He was smoking a short, fat cigar, a hand in one pocket, seemingly idle.

“Starling!” called out Lenox. To Dallington he whispered, “Don’t mention anything Collingwood told us.”

Ludo turned to see them, and his face fell. “Oh, hullo,” he said. “I suppose you’ve been to see my butler?”

“Yes, we have.”

“It’s damned…I wish you wouldn’t have done it. Elizabeth and I have both asked you over and over to step out of our family’s business. What will it take, money? Let me pay your standard fee, and we shall be done with each other.”

“Money doesn’t interest me.”

“Fowler has everything in hand. Collingwood has confessed, for the love of Christ.”

“That’s true.”

“Will you stop?”

“There are one or two small things I wish to learn the truth about before I do,” said Lenox.

“Damn it, you’re a Member of Parliament! It’s a disgrace!”

“Because you’re angry I’ll let that pass, but don’t say it again.”

Ludo waved an angry hand at him. “We’re at an end, by God.” He paused to regain some measure of composure. “I’ll be pleased to deal with you in the House, or see you socially-but as for this business, there will be no more relationship between us.”

“A final question, then?”

“Well?”

“Who does your butchering?”

Starling reddened and walked inside the prison without another word, throwing his cigarette angrily to the ground as he went.

Dallington looked at Lenox. “You know who his butcher is.”

“I wanted to see his reaction.”

“Is it so mysterious? He wants to protect his son from you. Just like Collingwood.”

Dallington was perhaps right, but too many loose threads remained for Lenox to feel happy. Why had the butcher run out of the boxing club? Was he from Schott and Son? And above all: If Paul had killed Frederick Clarke, then first, what was his motive, and second, who had attacked Ludo? For Paul and his mother had been in Cambridge then. Though the idea of him being asked to defer entry must have been a lie, the trip wasn’t.

Lenox explained this all in the carriage, which he directed to Schott and Son. “Will you come along with me?” he asked Dallington. “I can drop you at home.”

“Oh, I’ll come. I’m as curious as you are. Actually I feel stupid-all the facts before us and no solution, no rhyme and reason to any of the blasted thing.”

A dry laugh from Lenox. “If you dislike that feeling, you should leave the profession before it’s too late.”

Unfortunately Schott and Son was closed again. It was strange, of course, for a prominent butcher in the heart of Mayfair to close on consecutive days without any explanation.

“There’s a wine shop I know next door,” said Dallington. “Trask’s. We could ask about our butcher there.”

“Perfect.”

They went inside the shop, which was so honeycombed with wine bottles-on the walls, in great cases down the middle of the floor-that it was hard to move to and fro. A tall, thin, gray-haired gentleman, evidently with poor eyesight because he had thick glasses perched on the end of a thin nose, approached them.

Only when he was very close indeed did he exclaim, “Lord John Dallington! It has been far, far too long.”

Dallington, smiling ruefully, and participating gingerly in the shop keep er’s vigorous handshake, said, “Only a week, I think.”

“I remember when you were here every day! Will it be another case of champagne? Or did you like that Bordeaux we ordered for you in August? Too heavy a wine for such weather, I said, but you had it; and liked it, I fancy, for it’s a hard wine not to like.”