“Was the third crime another broken window?”
“No. This time — you recall the white doors of the church?”
“Yes.”
“Someone had painted on them, in black paint, writ very large, a roman numeraclass="underline" XXII. Twenty-two, as I scarcely need to inform you.”
“How strange.”
“Yes.”
“The curate had it whitewashed immediately. Then, three nights later, this image appeared on the same door.”
Frederick passed across another slip of paper. Like the hanging man it was eerie: a black dog, very simply drawn, and again with an air of definite menace.
“And nothing in the last five days?” Lenox asked.
“No.”
For some time Lenox was silent. Finally, he said, “It’s bizarre, to be sure, but how can you be sure that it wasn’t schoolchildren all along?”
The older man sighed, and swirled the last sip of port in his glass before drinking it down. “We congregated, a few of us men who are concerned with the village’s well-being: Mr. Crofts, who has a little land west of here, a very fine gentleman; Dr. Eastwood; Mr. Kempe, who lives now in the old parsonage. There are only thirty-two boys in the village who are of any age to make that sort of mischief. In the end we asked their parents to keep them under lock and key until the problem had been sorted. It seems extreme, I know, but as I said before this is Plumbley, not one of your great cities like Bath, like Taunton. The symbols were very menacing, Charles.”
“What happened?”
“The Roman numeral appeared on the door of the church, overnight. We checked in with all of the parents, and none of the boys had been out past dark.”
“Boys are very sneaky, you know.”
“I had your brother and yourself here once upon a time, did I not? We enquired carefully, however, and though of course it is not a certainty I think it unlikely that any of those thirty-two boys did this. For one thing the images are so strange and unlikely, and for another, I know the boys. None of them are a bad sort. Not that we haven’t had those, through the years, but most of them have gone off or grown up.”
“I wonder,” said Lenox, “whether the second pair of crimes, the defacement of the church doors, is connected with the first pair.”
Frederick shook his head firmly. “We might go fifteen years without one incident like any of these,” he said. “When there are four in as many weeks they must be connected.”
“Yes, very likely.”
“The village is trying to pretend that nothing is wrong. Meanwhile all the shops are barring their windows and people are afraid to walk about after dark. It’s a terrible state of affairs. I do wish you would put your mind on it.”
“I shall be rather busy with my speech,” said Lenox, and then, seeing Frederick’s disappointment, added quickly, “But I mean to think it over, perhaps even have a word with one or two people. Yes, you may count on that.”
Though he fooled himself that he made the promise on Frederick’s behalf, in some deeper part of his mind he knew that it was for himself, too; and there swelled up inside him the pleasure of anticipation.
CHAPTER NINE
From a distant part of the house a cry went up. “Is that the child?” asked Frederick.
“It is, but I must not go to her. Miss Taylor would be fierce with me indeed if I should. Tell me, who do you suspect of these crimes?”
“Still, it’s late, now, and you’ve had a long day’s travel. Shall we go on in the morning?”
“If you prefer it.”
Frederick’s slightly plump, kind face took on again a troubled aspect. “In truth I would like to tell you all now.”
“Are you not tired?”
“Me? It’s the deuce of a thing, getting older, but I will say in its favor that one sleeps less — and no worse. I spend many hours in this particular nook, in fact, when the rest of the house has gone to bed. And d’you know, I find it rather cozy.”
“It’s an eligible sort of room,” said Lenox.
“I could never use my father’s study — the large one. Too much room to think. Here I have my telescope”—he gestured toward the window—“and my books, my papers, and a drop of something to drink. No, I am happy to stay up with you.”
“Perhaps you will give me all the facts now, then.”
Fate intervened, however. There was a soft knock on the door and without was Kirk, who said, “Begging your pardon, sir, Lady Jane would like a word with you.”
“Tell her I’ll light along in a moment,” said Lenox, and when the butler had gone, said to his uncle, “Here, then, quickly tell me—”
Frederick had risen and was tapping out the ash of his pipe. “No, it’s late. Tomorrow I’ll give you luncheon, if you like, and we may talk about it then. Good night. It is pleasant to have you here, though — I say, it is.”
As he mounted the stairs toward the small set of rooms that his cousin had allotted him and his family, in the old, east wing of the house, Lenox felt rather glad that they would leave some until tomorrow. He was tired. Perhaps the port had gone to his head? Or perhaps it was only the swirl of a long day, a quickly planned journey, the still fresh prospect of the speech …
Jane was in a chair by her window, feet tucked under her, a blue shawl of wool wrapped around her shoulders, reading. She smiled when she saw him and put down her book. “There you are.”
“Hello, my dear,” he said, and bent down to affix a kiss to her cheek. For some reason he didn’t feel inclined to tell her that Frederick was giving up the house; tomorrow he would.
She received his kiss very becomingly, and took his hand. “Did I interrupt you?”
“No, or leastwise not in anything significant.”
“Your uncle must be happy to have you here.”
“And I’m happy to be here. I hope you are, too?”
“Oh, yes. I only called you up because I wanted a sort of family reunion.”
“A reunion?”
She pointed. “Look, in the corner.”
Sophia was there, in her bassinet. “You overrode Miss Taylor, then?”
“Yes, I said we would take her in here for the evening. I know it’s self-indulgent, and Miss Taylor began to be cross with me, but in a new place, I thought — and then, she quieted down right away.”
Lenox smiled. “I heard her cry.”
Lady Jane stood up. “She’s asleep, now.”
They spent ten or so minutes, then, in admiring their daughter, the kind of minutes that pass slowly for a stranger introduced to a baby — for even the most precocious infant’s conversation cannot be admitted as very sparkling — but which seems to pass in the instant of a breath for two parents. Her skin, which Lenox brushed with the back of his finger, was so warm, and soft! It reminded him of a warm bed on a wet night, of the sun on a mild summer’s day, out by a lazy stream — of every comforting thing.
At last they left the child alone. Lenox began to take out his cufflinks and Lady Jane returned to her chair and her book.
Soon she was laughing. “What’s that?” asked her husband.
“Only Through the Looking-Glass.” She had undertaken a project of re-reading her favorite children’s books, in order to begin to build a library for little Sophia to hear before bed each evening when she reached a more advanced age. “This part reminds me of us, when Alice and the Queen are running in place.”
He went into the small study adjacent to their bedroom and poured a glass of water from the jug left on his desk. “May I hear it?” he asked as he came back through to the bedroom.
So she read out loud:
“Well, in our country,” said Alice, still panting a little, “you’d generally get to somewhere else — if you run very fast for a long time, as we’ve been doing.”