Charles Finch - The September Society

“Not here,” he said. “Wait a moment and then follow me out.”

They regrouped in a low doorway in the alleyway outside.

“Who is this?” Hallowell asked.

“My assistant. He may prove indispensable.”

“I agreed to hide you, Mr. Lenox. Two people simply won’t work.”

Payson piped up. “I’ll find a place to hide. It’s important.”

Gradually they talked Hallowell around. With great reluctance he took them to the back gate of the Biblius Club’s garden and unlatched the door.

“The Biblius will all be out tonight, as I mentioned to you once before, Mr. Lenox.”

They went upstairs the back way, along the stairs that attached the kitchen to the two clubs’ respective dining rooms. The September Society’s dining room was small and comfortable without much decoration, a plain place.

The main room of the club was not.

It was a wide, long, high-ceilinged room, and every surface in it was covered with artifacts of the Far East. There were ornate, painted clay pipes, old tin lamps, portraits of the Earl of Elgin, Lord Amherst, and a number of other British Viceroys of India, bolts of decorative cloth along every surface, old and battered service rifles (Lenox noted, thinking of Matte, the gun expert) hanging from the walls, and in one corner of the room a life-sized sculpture of a tiger with bared teeth. While Hallowell fretfully asked them where they meant to hide, Lenox and Payson took a short look at all of it. There was no question of the worth and quality of the objects. They had the usual value of imperial plunder.

It took no time at all to find two hiding places. Lenox meant to stay behind the thick, dark curtains in front of the window; Hallowell assured him that they would remain closed for the secretive meeting, and even if they were opened he would remain concealed. Payson chose a spot behind a massive wardrobe only five feet or so from where Lenox would hide. It was angled into a corner and had a triangle of space behind it that he could slide into. A clearly relieved Hallowell left them without much in the way of politeness, and Lenox and Payson, both armed, nervous, and bored, settled down for a long whispered conversation.

The hours passed agonizingly slowly. The edge of apprehension in the air gave the time an aura of adventure, but as the minutes crept by the feeling dissipated. At last they had been there two hours with only two to go; then suddenly there was only an hour to go, and their whispers grew hesitant and even softer; then there was half an hour to go before the meeting, and neither of them dared speak; and then, just as they both began to die a little, there was a footfall in the front hallway.

It was a thrilling, terrifying moment.

Lenox didn’t recognize the man’s face-he was just able to see the left half of the room-but he was obviously a member, of the right age, with the same military bearing Lysander had. Perhaps this was the enigmatic Theophilus Butler?

It took fifteen minutes for the rest of the members to arrive, first in ones and twos and then in a great flood. Lenox could hear himself breathing and tried desperately to quiet himself. While the majority of the men drank glasses of wine and traded stories, at the far end of the room, away from the windows, a smaller group was in deep conversation. Lenox guessed that these were to be the meeting’s conductors. Among them he recognized only Maran.

Lysander wasn’t anywhere to be seen.

In all there were twenty-two men present. Every one of them had the well-fed appearance of a contented middle age, far removed from the battlegrounds of the East. They scarcely looked dangerous-merely self-satisfied, lords of all they surveyed, a mood Lenox knew could be dangerous in itself. They looked like the kind of men who could justify any action to themselves, given a moment or two.

It was Maran who opened the meeting.

“Welcome back,” he said. “You are all very welcome indeed. In a moment I’ll turn this meeting over to Major Butler.” He nodded at a doughy, narrow-eyed gentleman standing just behind him. “But first, please raise your glasses in a toast to the 12th Suffolk 2nd, in a toast to India, and in a toast to September.”

The men drank each other’s health, and then Butler stepped forward. Whether it was prejudice or not, Lenox didn’t like the look of him.

“Gentlemen, how do you do?” His voice was startlingly high-pitched, with a cold maliciousness obvious in its slightly giddy, laughing tones. “This meeting finds us all in good moods. Our income is consistent, our plans move along smoothly, and Maran has done his work admirably.”

A small ovation went up at this.

“There is only one situation of real concern to report on, as you are all aware.”

A murmur of agreement and alarm moved around the room. “But our junior friend has handled it, hasn’t he? All’s set up just at this moment, isn’t it?” A small man, tiny, wrinkled, and sun-baked, said this.

“Yes, it’s all been smoothed over. But there’s another aspect to the problem. A man we all once knew has indeed returned to London, and his problematic reappearance has only one solution. I trust that we all know what that solution is and remain in concord as to its execution.”

“Hear, hear” went up the cry.

“We must find him and kill him.”

Lenox’s blood chilled. He understood very little of what Butler was saying, but here was tangible proof of what they had known from the start: that this Society was capable of murder.

“Yes, but where is he?” said a member from the side of the room.

“We know that he has left Oxford.”

Returned to London? They were obviously talking about Canterbury-but did that mean that Canterbury wasn’t Lysander? Where was Lysander?

“Where would he hide in London?”

Butler waved his hand. “The key is Dabney.”

“No!” said several people at once, and several excited side conversations broke out.

“Can we end this farce?” said the man at the side of the room. “The solution to our problem is here with us, isn’t it?”

Butler said mildly, “I thought it might not hurt to discuss our plans before that, but yes, as you wish.” He turned to the door. “Friend, step in!” he shouted.

And with a sickening thud Lenox realized what had happened.

But our junior friend has handled it, hasn’t he? All’s set up just at this moment, isn’t it?

Tomorrow, then. Meet me here tomorrow at five in the afternoon.

Can we end this farce? The solution to our problem is here with us, isn’t it?

The man obviously had a brightness and quickness that were going to waste in his job. The perfect spy, in other words.

It was Hallowell.

“Oh, Lord,” Lenox said softly, unable to help himself. He tried to signal out the window for Jenkins, but didn’t know if it had worked.

“Come in, come in,” Butler said genially. “Where did you say they were?”

Hallowell’s voice was loud and clear, with none of the frightened quiver it had when he had left them to hide in the room. “Behind the curtain and the wardrobe respectively, Major.”

“Thank you, Lance Corporal,” said Butler. “Will you do the honors?”

“Dabney, run!” Lenox shouted.

His words were cut off as the bullet struck him.

Lenox fell out from behind the curtain and into plain view, and although he was in pain he was conscious. It was obvious that there was some commotion at the door, a thudding. He saw Hallowell move the gun toward the wardrobe where Payson was concealed, and then saw somebody burst into the room and tackle the doorman.

It was Dallington.

Following on his heels were Jenkins and half a dozen police constables. Lenox reached futilely for his gun while the twenty-two members of the September Society raised their hands in bewilderment.