“Did Fontaine speak?”
“Not to me. I tried all of the old tricks you taught me,” said Dallington. “I told him about myself. I misstated a few facts about Paris, where I’ve been — to see if he would correct me.”
“Did you have a pack of cards?”
“Yes, and I dealt out a hand of Beggar-Your-Neighbor, thinking he had to know it. I even started playing for both of us, and he looked down at the cards but he refused to take the bait.”
“That was a dry well, then.”
“Quite so. I had a bit more luck on his background, however.”
Lenox took a sip of his whisky. “How did you proceed?”
“I went out to the farm where he worked. There were half a dozen Frenchmen there, and when I saw them I can tell you that my heart fell, thinking that they would all be mum on their compatriot’s behalf. As it happened, they couldn’t talk quickly enough. His wife was first in line.”
“Why?”
“They dislike Fontaine. He came over because his cousin worked here, a man named Theodore Celine. Celine died last winter of consumption, but Fontaine stayed on. He was a good laborer, apparently, and in the early stages anyhow, a good husband. Lately he’s been cruel to her, however, sullen and violent with the others, and skived his work.”
“But he had a great deal of money when he was arrested, didn’t he?”
“That’s what’s odd,” said Dallington. “Six months’ wages, easily. Some of it was bad coin, some good — that’s one of the charges they have him up on in Bath, in addition to disturbance of the peace, a row with the constable, refusal to pay his bill at a chop house, and public indecency. Apparently he had a prostitute out with him in one of the nicer streets in Bath and was trying to redeem his payment then and there. She was — let me look at my notes—‘quite a decent one, too,’ according to the man in Bath, which I think is a testament to her long standing in town and relative modesty rather than to her professional skill. I laughed at that nevertheless.”
“You went to Bath? Very thoroughly managed, John.”
“Thank you,” said Dallington, with a diffidence that seemed to betray, to Lenox at least, an ardent hope for redemption. “Shall I tell you what they said in Bath, or shall I—”
“No, tell me what they said on the farm.”
“They didn’t know why he had such an unusual amount of money, but they were certain that he came by it foully. He spends his wages the instant he gets them apparently. As do they all, in fairness.”
“None of them had an idea how he got them? His wife?”
“She only said that he was absent more than usual.”
“It’s a wonder he wasn’t fired.”
“It was for-hire work, not a permanent position.”
“Evicted, then?”
“His wife and her two cousins, also French, live in the house. A hovel, really, you would call it. I felt badly for them with the winter coming up. Not a switch of wood to be seen.”
“Who is the landlord?”
“Yates.”
“Yes, I always heard he was a hard man. Did they give you any other information?” Lenox asked.
“I asked whether he could ride a horse. He could.”
“Well done.”
“I also asked whether he spoke of any business in town. He hadn’t. On the other hand they knew that he came into the money on the morning he was arrested, some three weeks ago, because he had been boasting about it for a few days beforehand quite brazenly.”
“So it’s a recent job. How do the dates line up with the vandalisms?”
“He was arrested after the first, before the second two. So he might have been involved, but he wasn’t the chief actor, I suppose you could say.”
“Still, it’s telling.”
“Do you think so?” asked Dallington hopefully.
“Money and crime are rarely cohabitants of the same neighborhood at random. What did they tell you in Bath?”
“Not much, sadly. I asked around at the places he spent his money, too, hoping that the alcohol had loosened his lips, but no such luck.”
“Well, it’s inconclusive, then.”
Dallington mastered a look of disappointment on his face, and said, “I thought so, too. I had hoped it might dovetail with something you learned.”
“It still may. I think it a promising lead, don’t you?”
“I don’t know enough of the case to say. Perhaps you would fill me in.”
Lenox stood up and poured himself another splash of whisky. “Would you like a glass?” he asked.
“Not just at the moment,” said Dallington.
Lenox sat down again and described the stages of the case to his apprentice more comprehensively than he had before. Just as he was reaching Carmody’s account of the horses, his story was cut short by the door of the library flying open.
It was Frederick.
“It’s happened again,” he said.
Lenox and Dallington both rose, alarmed. “Not another murder?” Lenox asked.
“No, no,” said Frederick. “Another vandalism has happened, and they nearly caught the man who did it. Come with me, I’ll tell you on the way.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Lenox realized he hadn’t seen Jane or Sophia since he came back to the house, and as Frederick led them through the front hall he asked for word to be sent up that he had come and gone again already. Part of him — the part that had consumed three fingers of whisky, in all likelihood — yearned to stay in, to stall the adventure by a few hours of sleep. It had been a long day.
Of course he went, though.
“There was a great commotion when I got into town,” said Frederick as the carriage began the short drive. He faced Lenox and Dallington from one of its two plush benches. “I still managed to arrange about the telegrams with Timothy Milton, then I went off to find Fripp—”
“Is it his shop that has been vandalized?” asked the member of Parliament.
“No. It was the police station.”
Lenox’s eyes widened. “Really, though? I was there not an hour ago.”
“I know it. I’m glad you were gone.”
“What did they do?”
“It was the same again, a rock through the window — though this time there was a constable’s helmet tied to it, with a white X painted upon it. Oates isn’t taking it well.”
“You say the culprits were nearly apprehended?” asked Dallington.
“Yes. It was Wells who saw them — as you know his shop is just at the edge of the green, there, where the station is and where Weston was killed. The fellow is distraught because he fears that the men saw his face, and will return to silence him. He and his wife are at the station house with Oates now.”
“What did he see them doing?”
“The whole thing,” said Frederick. “There were two of them, and he raised a cry as soon as he saw them. Dozens of people came flooding out of the King’s Arms, and they gave chase down the Main Street. There were fresh prints from horseshoes there.”
“What was his description of the men?”
Frederick shook his head. “Oates took them down. I don’t know.”
Suddenly, there in the carriage, Lenox did.
The pieces had clicked together in his mind now, the deductions made sense. A stray morsel of information from Dallington, another from Musgrave, one from Wells, one from Fripp, one from Frederick, one from Carmody: these ratcheted into place and he understood it all. Or so he believed.
He thought he knew the murderer’s name.
“When we reach town,” he said, “perhaps I can leave the two of you to interview Wells and Oates. I have a brief errand I would like to run.”
Frederick looked at him queryingly. “If you like,” he said.