“No,” said North. Then he turned and called loudly to the rest of the people in the room, “These men are here for whoever killed Freddie!”
There was a low chuckle at this. “It was me!” called out a joking voice.
Then, to the perfect astonishment of everyone there, a short man with light hair separated from the group and sprinted for the door as fast as he could. By the time Lenox and Dallington had reached the door he was gone.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“Who was that?” shouted Dallington at the crowd of people who all stood together now, mute and stunned. Lenox, who had run down the street to see which way the man had turned-a futile attempt-returned.
There was a long silence.
“I’ve never seen him before in my life,” said Willard North at last. “Have any of you lads?”
There were murmurs in the negative and much headshaking. Lenox couldn’t tell if they were protecting one of their own or if their mystification was genuine.
But then another voice chimed in.
“I know him. Fella who sometimes comes to see me fight.” It was the losing boxer, the large one without much science. He spoke in the accent of the West Indies, but with a disconcerting cockney tinge mixed into it. “Butcher. I know because he bring me a steak if my eye is swelled up.”
Dallington and Lenox looked at each other: a butcher. The piece of evidence incriminating Collingwood had been a butcher’s apron.
“Where is his shop? Where does he live?”
The big man shrugged. “Don’t know.”
“Did you catch his name?”
“He told me, but I can’t remember it.” He looked exhausted and took a gulp of water. “S’all I know.”
“Thank you.”
Out on the pavement Lenox and Dallington both started to speak at once. “You first,” said the older man.
“I was only going to say-this man, this butcher, may have come with Clarke.”
“It could be,” said Lenox thoughtfully, “but what about his disguise? Would Frederick Clarke the ‘gentleman’s son’ want to introduce a butcher as his particular friend?”
“You’re right.”
“Did you get a good look at the man?”
“I didn’t, unfortunately.”
“Nor did I,” said Lenox. “Still, I think I could choose him from a group of three if I had to. The next step is to go to all the butchers’ shops around the alley. I’ll do that.”
“What if he’s hiding?”
“We’ll see.”
“And what shall I do?”
“It’s time we split up, I think. I have two tasks in mind for you: First, you can see whether you do any better with Fowler than I have. He may have imagined some slight against him from me, or some condescension. Otherwise I can’t explain his behavior.”
“Second?”
“We haven’t spoken to Mrs. Clarke since Collingwood was arrested.”
Dallington whistled sharply between two fingers. A cab started to pull up to them, its horse an old plodder. “Anything else?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Fowler-Mrs. Clarke-excellent.” He swung up a leg into the taxi and soon was on his way.
Lenox soon was on his way, too, back to Curzon Street. In truth he had always disliked butcher shops; it might perhaps have been because his family had never on either side been great hunters, or because Lenox House, while it had a working farm on its land, was set at a distance from its own barns. He went into the first butcher’s that he saw near Ludo’s house, and there were the familiar sights-two deer, their eyes glassed, skinned and slung up on the wall. A jar of pigs’ hooves, being slowly cured on the countertop. The tidiness of the red-checked curtains and the large roll of wax paper in counterpoint to the bloody hunks of cow and pig everywhere. He could eat what came from these carcasses readily enough, but he didn’t care to look at them.
“Does another gentleman work here?” Lenox asked the man behind the counter, who looked about 150 years old and could no more have attacked Ludo Starling than he could have swum the Channel.
“My son,” answered the man.
“Is he here?”
“He’s in York for the week, which he’s visiting his wife’s parents there.”
“I see-thank you.”
Then it occurred to Lenox that he might easily ask Ludo who the family butcher was-perhaps that would be the man.
He knocked at the front door, and as Elizabeth Starling opened it he remembered that of course their butler was gone.
“Hello, Charles,” she said. “I would have had the housemaid open the door for you, but she’s busy in the kitchen, I’m afraid. At any rate Ludo is out.”
“Perhaps you can answer my question, in that case.”
“Oh?”
“Do you know what butcher Collingwood employed?”
With a deep, sorrowful sigh, she said, “Does your meddling reach no end? Would you not leave us to our lives? Our footman is dead-our butler in prison-my husband attacked-and still you annoy us with your impertinences! Have you heard nothing of the honor which may shortly be bestowed upon my husband, and the very real danger of losing it by indiscretion?” Again she sighed. “I’m not a hard-worded woman, you know. It pains me to be so vehement. Please forgive me.”
Lenox felt unchivalrous. “I’m exceedingly sorry,” he said. “Your son Paul-whom I met accidentally-was insistent that Mr. Collingwood must be innocent.”
“Paul’s no longer here.”
“Excuse me? Where has he gone? To Cambridge, so early?”
“He has gone to Africa for a year, it pains me to say. Downing College insisted upon a year’s deferral because he was so inebriated at the visitors’ weekend.”
“My goodness.”
“He left this morning.”
“So quickly!”
“I have a cousin very well placed within a large shipping concern. Paul will make his fortune and be at a perfectly normal age to enter Cambridge as a fresher; since of course the Starling money will go to Alfred, it will do Paul good to have a foundation when eventually he begins in the world.”
This was frankly specious; to have gone into business before Cambridge was unheard of. Her anger had seemed to subside, however, so Lenox ventured another question. “Are you sure you cannot tell me who does your butchery, which shop?”
“I don’t know that information, no. Good day, Mr. Lenox.”
As he walked away, what surprised him most was how instantly Paul was gone. Lenox had seen him two days ago. Elizabeth Starling had by Ludo’s own account been a doting, even smothering parent, sorrowful to see her children leave for university, much less the other side of the world. What on earth was happening in that family?
“Psst! Chappie!”
Lenox whirled around. He was some four houses down the block now. He saw that it was Tiberius Starling, the old uncle. The cat was in his arms.
“Hello,” said Lenox.
“It’s Schott and Son. That’s our butcher. He’s up a couple of streets, green building. Always leaves too much fat on, if you ask me, the blighter. Try that on your stomach when you’re as old as I am.”
“Thank you-thanks extremely.”
Tiberius swatted an invisible fly and said grumpily, “I don’t know what in damnation is happening. That Collingwood was as decent a chap as I ever met.”
“So people seem to believe.”
“Eh? Say it again, I’m a bit deaf.”
“I’d heard the same, I said!”
“Ah, yes.” He grew conspiratorial. “One more thing.”
“Oh?”
“Look up as you pass by our house again.”
“Up?”
“Just look up! There’s something worth seeing.”
He hustled away, slipping through a side door of the house (which was set ten feet apart from its neighbor). Lenox waited a few beats to let Tiberius get indoors.
As he passed the house he did look up, and there was something worth seeing. Pressed against the glass of a fourth-floor window was Paul’s unhappy face.
Chapter Thirty
His mind swarming with doubts and possibilities, Lenox decided to seek relief. He knew that perhaps he should worry about the butcher flying from London; on the other hand, the butcher would probably have known that nobody in the boxing club could identify him by name. There was perhaps little to gain from haste. In any event it was nearly time for lunch, and he hadn’t seen for several days any of the (now expanded) McConnell clan.