Charles Finch - A Stranger in Mayfair

“When?”

“1829. I was one of the first peelers. Fifteen years of age, but I looked eighteen. Thirty-eight years ago, it was.”

Lenox nearly gasped. In 1829 Sir Robert Peel-one of the great politicians of the last century, famed for the greatest maiden speech ever given in Parliament-had founded the modern police force. He started with a thousand constables, the peelers. Over time they had taken as a nickname not his last but his first name: They were bobbies. To have been among the first rank was an honor, and Fowler was surely one of the few dozen who remained alive.

“I never knew that,” said Lenox and could hear the awe in his own voice.

Proudly, Fowler nodded. “I always drink to Sir Bobby,” he said and nodded toward a dusty pencil portrait of Peel as a young man that Lenox had missed before. “I met him four times. Once he asked if I had heard who won the fourth race at Goodwood. That was the only time we said anything other than hello.”

Lenox smiled despite himself. “You said-”

“Can you imagine what that meant to me? My brothers and sisters worked the worst jobs-dipping matches or out with my father-and so had I. It was on a lark that I applied to be a peeler. I had always had good marks, when they could afford to keep me in school, but to be selected, Mr. Lenox-to be chosen -can you understand that? Birth selected you; I had to wait fifteen years. And then, the greatest day of my life, when I was plucked from the constables and allowed to train as an inspector! Can you imagine the honor, to a boy like me?”

“Yes,” murmured Lenox.

Fowler, who had been at the window, now faced Lenox. “I’ve given this work every ounce of my being. You know that.”

“I thought I did.”

“I cannot apologize for accepting money. I needed it, not for myself alone, and after thirty-eight years the Yard is going to turn me away. That-no, that I could not brook.”

Lenox didn’t know what he should do with this information, but he knew what he would do. Nothing, as long as Fowler pointed him toward the truth. His own conscience wasn’t strong enough.

“Listen,” he said rather desperately. “You said Collingwood would be out of Newgate next week. Why?”

Fowler waved a dismissive hand. “Paul Starling will be out of the country by then,” he said and drained his drink.

“Just a moment-Paul Starling?”

Fowler looked at him. “You didn’t know?”

“I assumed it was Ludo.”

“Why did you think Paul was being sent away on such short notice?”

Lenox looked stunned. “I know Collingwood took the blame because he wanted to protect Paul, but it didn’t add up for me. What can the motive have been?”

Fowler shrugged. “I don’t know. Mr. Starling saw it all happen, apparently. He laid out the facts before me, and I decided that a young man’s life could still have value.”

This inflamed Lenox. “What about Frederick Clarke’s life? That didn’t have value?”

Fowler sighed. “I didn’t say it was easy to look in the glass every morning as I shave, but I’ve explained to you why I did it already.”

“There’s a mother sitting in a hotel in Hammersmith right now, crying her eyes out.”

“Would it really have helped her to know that Paul Starling was in prison? Between his father’s connections and his youth he wouldn’t have swung for it, I don’t think.”

“Leave all that aside-how does Ludo being stabbed fit into this theory?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps it was a way to pin the blame on Collingwood.”

“My God!” said Lenox. “Don’t you see that the stabbing suits Ludo perfectly as an alibi, not his son? Did you even bother to find out that Ludo was Frederick Clarke’s father?”

Fowler blanched. “His what?”

Lenox was in no mood for explanation. “There’s every chance Ludo killed the boy and blamed Paul to keep them all safe.”

“There’s-no, it was Paul! The mother knew about it, too-she came here weeping, begging me for lenience!”

Lenox chuckled grimly. “I see now why Ludo came to me, at least. I never quite understood that. He must have wanted someone to bribe, and thought he would test the waters with both of us. My reaction was less civil than yours, apparently.”

“I assure you Paul-”

“How did you intend to get Jack Collingwood out of Newgate, can I ask?”

“Telling them the truth! Ludo said he would come forward and confess that he had seen his son do it.”

“You believed him? The stupidity, man-my God.”

Fowler looked horrified. “But he swore-”

“To a man who had accepted a bribe from him! What pressure could you have exerted on him, may I ask? No-I must be off.”

Lenox stood up, and his head, which had felt quite under his control as he sat, gave a twinge and started to throb like a heartbeat. Nevertheless he just managed to turn to the door.

“Wait! Lenox!” cried Fowler, standing up, too. “What about me?”

“You?” Lenox paused, and remembered the story about Fowler in the peelers. “Do you have enough money now?”

He nodded slightly. “I suppose.”

Lenox saw that there had been other times-perhaps many-when Fowler had taken money. Perhaps it had begun nobly, but it had turned into base greed. “Are you quite rich?”

“No!”

“The Gauss imbroglio-I wondered at the time that you couldn’t solve it.” This was the murder of a diplomat from whom quite secret papers had been taken the year before.

Fowler tilted his head in miserable assent. “It was the cousin.”

“Gauss’s? Ah-I see. He sold them to a foreign government and cut you in on the proceeds. Yes. Well, Grayson, if you retire this week I can leave it alone. I’ve known you to do good work, after all.”

Fowler cringed with gratitude. “Instantly-straight away. Reasons of health-easiest thing in the world.”

Without responding, Lenox turned and left.

Out in the street it had started to rain hard, gray in the sky, with wind gusting the raindrops every which way. Nonetheless Dallington was stood there, waiting, and Lenox felt a wave of respect and admiration for him.

“We may have to swim out!” called the young lord.

“There are usually cabs at Brown’s Hotel-let’s walk there.”

Eventually they reached Hampden Lane, a little wetter than they had ever been before. Lenox tipped the driver handsomely, and they dashed inside.

Dallington had heard about the meeting with Fowler on the drive there, and they had only intended to regroup before going to the Starlinghouse. But Lady Jane was waiting at the door and insisted Lenox rest for an hour or two.

After arguing only halfheartedly-for his head did hurt-Lenox said, “Will you see what you can find out about Paul?”

“Find what out?” asked Dallington.

“Whether he’s left the country. If he hasn’t, you might try to sneak a word with him.”

“I’m sure he’s under lock and key.”

There were fuller reports in the morning newspapers about the attack on Lenox, and as he rested he cast a critical eye over them, looking to see whether any marked the connection with Ludo. In fact the only bystander named was Dallington, and the comments from Scotland Yard were diffident. It would be out of the news tomorrow.

What did it mean, he wondered? Had it been foolish to leave the house today? Was the attack even related to the Starling case? Or was it another alibi Ludo had created for himself, in the vein of the butcher’s attack?

His head ached, and he prodded the bandage above the wound gingerly, looking for the spot that hurt. Tossing the newspaper to one side, he picked up a fresh blue book. He was in the back sitting room, a small, quiet chamber where they often read in the evenings, stretched out on a sofa. The small fireplace nearby was burning bright orange, keeping out the cold of the rain.