Charles Finch - The September Society

Following this introduction the report went on for some time, describing in great detail Payson’s wound and how it might have been sustained. Lenox scanned this quickly and flipped to the second page of the report, an addendum from the same pen, which read: After further investigation we must conclude that our original report’s conjecture about Captain Payson’s death was incorrect, and that in fact he was a suicide… it may be seen that the angle of the shot, while unusual, was not impossible… in re the question posed about the scars on his face and chest, an animal had obviously been at the remains between Payson’s death and the discovery of the corpse, not surprising given the emaciated state of the domestic animals in this region… the scent of aniseed around the body points to canines… added to the peculiarity of Payson having wandered off alone, quite out of his usual routine, we are forced to believe that he killed himself with aforethought…

Lenox read over the report a second time; his brother was sitting at his narrow window, tapping the ash of his pipe outside as cold air blew into the room. Nevertheless Lenox flushed as he read on, slowly realizing how this twenty-year-old description of James Payson’s suicide corresponded with McConnell’s report on the suicide of Peter Wilson. Was it possible that these two men, drawn from the same small circle of a battalion’s officers, had died in the same fashion, under the same cloud of uncertainty, coincidentally? No, of course it wasn’t. Of course it wasn’t.

Above all it was eerie that James and George Payson’s deaths were so similar: both bodies found in public fields, their bodies mauled, their lives over at the age of twenty.

“This damned Society,” Lenox muttered. “Look here, Edmund, I don’t suppose I can take this folder with me?”

They had both seen that Arlington had marked it NOT TO BE REMOVED

“You know, I’m not sure you should, Charles. I hate to say so. Is it quite important?”

Lenox waved his hand. “Oh, I understand, of course-look here, would you mind if McConnell came in and had a look at it?”

“Not at all-as long as he does so before the end of the day.”

“Then I’ll fetch him right now. I won’t come back myself, Edmund-thanks awfully for lunch, and I’ll see you as soon as this business is resolved, all right?”

“Yes, all right. You can’t explain?”

“I wish I could,” said Lenox, taking his coat and heading for the door.

A s he stepped out of his carriage by McConnell’s house, Lenox heard a piano and a clear, melodious voice accompanying it.

It was Toto, playing and singing. Her spirit was captured in music, often: evanescent, chatty, generous, warm. He almost hesitated as he knocked at the door, loath as he was to cut her off. Then again, Arlington’s file would only be with Edmund for the rest of the day.

“Charles!” she said. “You see how frivolously we pass the time.”

“Good for the baby, to hear such sweet sounds. Where is Jane?”

Toto looked cross. “Where is she ever! As secretive as the sphinx, and always in and out. I should chain her to this piano. But how’s your case?”

Lenox looked to McConnell. “In fact, I came here about it. Do you think you could go to my brother’s office and look over a file he has there?”

Toto looked unhappy at the request, but McConnell nodded. “Of course. What’s it all about?”

Briefly Lenox explained what he thought was the similarity between Wilson’s death and Payson’s. “I’m not sure, however, and I could use your opinion.”

“I’ll go straight away.”

“Thanks very much. I have to be off as well-let me give you a ride.”

“Perfect.”

In the carriage, Lenox said, “Thanks for your letter to Arlington, by the way. He thought it best to send the file through official channels, rather than handing it over. Sensible enough I suppose.”

“Don’t mention it. How did you find him?”

“I liked him. He seems to be straightforward about things. He says exactly what he means.”

As he dropped McConnell by Westminster Abbey a moment later, Lenox said, “Do you want to come around to see me afterward?”

“Yes-it shouldn’t be above half an hour, if the file’s as short as you say.”

“I’ll be waiting for you, then.”

At home Lenox sorted through his post and found that there was a report from Graham about Hatch’s movements in the last day or two. It read: Mr. Lenox – Per your request, I have closely followed the movements of Professor John Hatch since your departure. Unfortunately he has done nothing untoward; his routine seems to be very set, a limited range of motion including his rooms at Lincoln, his laboratory, and the lecture hall. I shall continue to observe him but have little hope of a breakthrough. Unless I receive instructions to the contrary I will return to London tomorrow.

It would be best for Graham to return, certainly. Lenox sighed. If Lysander and the September Society were responsible for killing George Payson, why? What did Hatch know that he wasn’t revealing? And where on earth was Bill Dabney?

There was also a note from Inspector Goodson. It was very brief but made Lenox more hopeful than anything had in days. Have found a small campsite just by the meadow, due 100 yards south in a thick grove of trees. Sign of habitation some days old. Remnants: some food, a bright red lock of hair, and a thick, straight line of ash. Thought the latter two might interest you. Please report any findings, as we have lost Canterbury and no sign of Dabney. Goodson.

Before he had time to think about this, there was a knock on the door, and he knew it must be McConnell.

The doctor was drenched. He came in smiling ruefully. “Don’t suppose I could have a cup of that?” he said, gesturing toward the tea tray. “Something hot would go down well.” He took the towel that Mary had just arrived with and managed to make himself slightly drier.

“Come over by the fire,” Lenox said. “Only milk, right?”

“Right.”

They sat opposite each other in the brown armchairs by the fire, Lenox quickly removing a small stack of books he had left on the one he never sat in.

“Was I right, then? About the report?”

“Yes,” said McConnell, removing his flask and taking a slug with a wince, “you were absolutely right. There’s no question about it. Unless James Payson and Peter Wilson’s regimental training encompassed a uniform lesson on the proper way to commit suicide, they were both murdered.”

Though he had known it was coming, Lenox’s composure lurched a bit. “Murdered?”

“That’s as clear as I can see it. I wanted to come over here first, but then I’m going to go see the coroner who worked on Wilson’s case and ask his opinion.”

“I wish you wouldn’t, just yet.”

“Why?”

“In a day or two it won’t matter-next week, say-but at the moment I don’t want him calling in Daniel Maran and the rest of this damned Society for testimony about that weekend, asking them about George Payson.”

McConnell nodded. “Yes, all right. By God, it’s pretty grim all around.”

“Yes. Pretty grim.”

“Have you heard anything from Oxford?”

“They found the place where Payson and Dabney were hiding out behind Christ Church Meadow.” Lenox handed his friend Goodson’s note. “Everything seems conclusive enough, and at the same time completely baffling. Why would this Society care after twenty years that old James Payson’s son was sitting around studying modern history in some innocuous college? And it has to be Payson, doesn’t it? He was the one killed; he’s the one with the link to this group; Lysander was in Oxford. And yet, and yet…”