For a diverting half hour McConnell explained his various endeavors. His face brightened, and soon he was lost in the world of his work. It wasn’t the same as surgery to him-Lenox had known him then-but it had its own merits.
After that Lenox acceded to the inevitable drink, a gin with tonic water, and he and McConnell sat, sometimes talking easily, sometimes silent. At one thirty Lady Jane came in and told them, very hurriedly, that all was well. Perhaps fifteen minutes later one of the doctors strode in with a quick step, causing McConnell to gasp and rise to his feet, but the news was the same. At two o’clock they had a plate of cold chicken and a bottle of white wine sent up and ate. After that, time seemed to slow down. Each had a book, but neither read much.
At three Lenox nodded off. McConnell coughed softly, and Lenox startled awake. It had been an hour since they had seen anyone and half an hour since they had spoken to each other.
“What names have you thought of?” asked Lenox.
McConnell smiled privately. “Oh, that’s Toto’s bailiwick.”
There was a pause. “Are you very anxious?”
It was a personal question, but the doctor merely shrugged. “My nerves have lived in a state of high tension for nine months now. Every morning when I wake up I’m afraid until I check that all’s well, and every night I lie in bed worrying. At school, were you nervous during the examinations? I was always worse off the day before.”
“From all Jane says, things have gone well. My one regret about the summer is that we couldn’t be here with you and Toto.”
“We saw very few people-it was nice, very nice.” Unsaid was that they had grown more comfortable with each other, that the pregnancy had consecrated their rapprochement. “Her parents have been wonderful.”
“Did you let them know?”
“This evening? Yes, I telegrammed them straight away, same to my father and mother. Her parents are on their way, and my father sent back his felicitations. Really I desire it to be two days from now and all well. What a terrible thought, to wish time away when life has so little of it anyway…”
“Why don’t I step out and find a doctor?”
Just as Lenox said this, though, there was a wail at a far corner of the enormous house. Both men rose to their feet by instinct, and McConnell took a few steps to the door, pain and worry fresh again in his eyes.
“I’ve no doubt all is well,” said Lenox.
There was another wail, long and loud. “One day men will be in the birthing room,” said McConnell.
Lenox was shocked but said only, “Mm.”
“I’ve seen a birth.”
“It’s better to let the doctors and the women handle it.”
“Don’t be retrogade, Charles.”
Don’t be radical, Lenox wanted to say. “Perhaps I am,” was all he uttered in the event.
There was a third wail, and then a fourth some seconds later. McConnell paced to and fro as Lenox sat down again.
“The noises are quite normal,” the doctor said, “but I never cared when I heard them before. It’s awful to say-these women were patients of mine-but it’s true.”
A fifth wail, and then an even more terrifying sound: footsteps in the stairwell.
McConnell rushed to the door and flung it open. In his mind Lenox said a short prayer.
Outside of McConnell’s study was a wide, rarely used salon, covered with eighteenth-century paintings in the bold Continental style. The doctor striding across it seemed like a figure out of myth, his loud steps and white robe in the dark room somehow laden with meaning.
“I congratulate you!” he called when he was close enough to be heard. His voice echoed across the vast empty room. “It’s a girl!”
Chapter Fifteen
By the time Lenox left at 6:00 A.M. several things had happened. McConnell had burst out of the room and gone to see his wife and child, and come back fifteen minutes later positively beaming (“An angel! Both of them, two angels!”). Lady Jane, eyes rimmed with red, had come down to see Lenox and tell him all about the child, and then the two had agreed, in a hushed embrace, never to fight again. At last Lenox himself had seen the baby, a rosy-skinned, warm-bodied dab of human life.
Most importantly, the child had a name: Grace Georgianna McConnell. Already they were all calling her George (“Though we must never let the child think it’s because you wanted a boy,” admonished Jane). Her father seemed ready to burst with pride, happiness, and, perhaps most powerfully, relief, while her mother was (apparently) a composed, albeit slightly shaken, picture of maternal bliss. Lenox himself was immensely happy.
He left early to try to get home so that he could sneak a few hours’ sleep. There were important meetings to attend that morning. As he went, Lady Jane was curled up in the second bed in Toto’s room, sleeping across from the new mother, the crib in between them. Toto’s hand was draped into it. As for McConnell, he had let the women sleep and been full of action. He gave the servants the day off, handed each of them a double florin, and ordered a crate of Pol Roger for them from the shop down the street, then sent eight telegrams to his friends and family. After that he ordered his horses up (apparently forgetting the day off-but nobody minded) with the plan of calling on these friends and family before the telegram could. It was as this plan was hatching that Lenox left.
Behind his heavy curtains at Hampden Lane the detective slept for two or three untroubled hours. When he woke his first thought was of some obscure worry, and then he remembered the happy conclusion of the night and it vanished. All would be well now, he thought. He hoped.
Meanwhile the uncaring world marched on, taking extremely little notice of George McConnell’s birth, and Lenox had to dress hastily to make a meeting at eleven with several frontbenchers who were concerned about the strength of the pound.
“Kirk,” he called from his study just before he left, “have you settled with Chaffanbrass?”
The butler looked blank. “Sir?”
“The bookseller across the way.”
“I’m familiar with the gentleman, sir, but I don’t understand your question.”
A wave of irritation passed through Lenox before he realized how stupidly reliant on servants-on Graham-he was. “I could probably take care of it. Graham didn’t brief you on that?”
“Mr. Graham has been so busy in Whitehall, sir, that I see very little of him.”
“I generally pop over there and pick up books, and Chaffanbrass puts me down for them in his ledger. Graham goes over to pay.”
“With what funds, sir, might I inquire?”
“Do you not have any ready money?”
“Enough to pay the deliverymen, of course, sir.”
“I’d forgotten Graham went to my bank and withdrew cash for himself.”
Kirk looked shocked to his core. “Oh, sir?” was all he managed.
“We developed our own little ways, as you can tell.” Lenox smiled. “There’s money on my dresser-would you settle with Mr. Chaffanbrass today, and explain why it’s late? He counts on Graham coming in.”
“Of course, sir.”
“I hope I don’t ask too much of you. I’ve rather forgotten what’s usual.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You heard about the baby?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well-excellent, excellent.” They stood awkwardly for a moment.
“Yes, sir. Will that be all?”
“Of course, go.”
Lenox went down to Whitehall and had his meeting, though after the long night he had trouble keeping his eyes open-and trouble, truth be told, caring much about the taxation concerns of the rich, blustery bankers who were speaking.
After it was over he intended to go straight to the McConnells’ house. Instead he found himself walking, almost involuntarily, toward Scotland Yard.
It was only a few steps away. Whitehall, the imposing avenue between Trafalgar Square and the Houses of Parliament, contained all the most important buildings of government (and was indeed now a word in Lenox’s mind that conjured not a street but an entire small world and its structure, rather like Wall Street in America), including Scotland Yard. The Yard stood originally in two rather modest houses along Whitehall Place, which were constantly stretched to include new property in all directions around them as the Metropolitan Police expanded in size. It was an untidy warren of rooms, with its own smell-dusty paper, old wood floors, wet coats that had never been aired out, dormant fireplaces.