“I’ll send Thomas McConnell to have a look at the body, too. I wouldn’t mind seeing Frederick Clarke’s clothes and possessions myself, either, but it will have to wait for another day.”
There was then a footfall at the end of the alley, and all three men turned their heads to see who it was.
“Eliza!” said Ludo, glancing quickly at Lenox. “How are you, dear?”
“Hello, Ludovic. And who can this be-Charles Lenox?”
Lenox nodded. “How do you do, Mrs. Starling?”
Elizabeth Starling was a pretty, fragile, smallish woman, with a little bit of plumpness and big, soft brown eyes. She looked rather like Marie Antoinette playing a milkmaid at the Petit Trianon.
“Quite well, thank you. But I thought you were still on your-”
“Why have you come into the alley?” said Ludo.
“Don’t interrupt, dear,” she said good-naturedly. “Anyway, I might ask you the same thing. Mr. Lenox, I thought you were still on your honeymoon?”
Lenox looked at Ludo, who was beet red. “No, I told you Charles came back, dear. He was kind enough to come have a look at the scene of poor Frederick’s death.”
“You didn’t tell me anything of the sort.”
“And why have you come into the alley?”
“To see if Constable Johnson needs anything to drink or eat. Constable?”
“No, ma’am,” said the bobby, touching a knuckle to his forehead.
“Well, come round if you do. Mr. Lenox, would you like a cup of tea?”
“I fear I already find myself late for an important meeting, thank you. Ludo, shall I be in touch?”
“Oh-yes, of course.”
“Constable, your whistle?”
Reminded, Johnson whistled for help, and Lenox, doffing his hat, bade everyone good-bye.
As he walked down Curzon Street onto Half Moon Street (his meeting was in Whitehall, and he intended to cut through Green Park to get there) Lenox pondered Ludo Starling’s bizarre behavior. For starters there was his strange, agitated manner throughout their encounter. More significantly, why on earth had he claimed that his wife wanted Lenox on the case so badly when it was plain she had no idea he was in town?
But he put this out of his mind, ready for a different kind of challenge. He was going toward the Cabinet Office, a glorious old building erected on the site of the old Palace of Whitehall, where the Kings and Queens of England had lived until 1698, when they moved to St. James’s Palace on Pall Mall. It now housed hundreds of government workers, but inside, strangely enough, you could still see what remained of Henry the Eighth’s old tennis courts.
The meeting lasted several hours and was of intense interest to Lenox. He took copious notes (in fact he felt embarrassed to be without his personal secretary-all the rest of the dozen men in the room had bright young lads straight from Charterhouse and Cambridge seated just behind them) but never once spoke. At the break for tea he dispatched short notes to Dallington and McConnell, asking them to come by his house later, but otherwise his mind was wholly focused on his work for Parliament. They talked first about Hong Kong, which had been seized some thirty years before, then a sleepy town, now an expanding city; then they discussed the potential purchase from the ruler of Egypt of part of a great canal; and at last they talked at great length about the recent consolidation of several disparate provinces into what was now called (Lenox still had trouble taking the name seriously) the Dominion of Canada. Victorialand had been perhaps too jingoistic a suggestion, but how infinitely preferable it would have been, Lenox thought, had they named it Anglia, as he had heard was proposed at the time.
Exhausted and pleased, he left the room six hours after he had first entered it, feeling firstly that he had a new understanding of the British colonial position (to think that in the last fifty years the empire had added two hundred million souls and five million square miles to its purview! What astonishing numbers, which none of the dustmen and bankers in the street thought about for more than a passing moment!) and secondly that he had a new collegiality with the men who ran the Colonial Office. Lenox had no intention of becoming a backbencher. He would wait his turn, to be sure, and could be patient-but what effort could win him in power and influence, it would.
It was understandable, therefore, that Frederick Clarke and Ludo Starling were far from his mind as he arrived in Hampden Lane. But no sooner had he turned the door handle than he remembered that McConnell and Dallington would likely be there. Supper with Jane would have to wait half an hour.
In fact it was only the younger of the two men who was there; Jane, according to Graham, was still out, but Lenox found John Dallington sitting in one of the comfortable armchairs in the study, feet propped up on the rail of the fireplace, a thin cigar in hand, and a huge smile on his face. This last because he was reading Punch.
“Mr. Punch’s Book of Birthdays,” Dallington said in response to Lenox’s querying look. “But please!” He stood up. “Let me welcome you back from your honeymoon! It was the handsomest wedding I ever attended, I swear. I had to jostle with about a dozen cabinet ministers and fifteen dukes just to get a look at you. They were turning away mere viscounts at the door, the poor devils. Pretty hard on them.”
Lenox grinned. “Was it as pompous as all that?”
“Pompous-never. Justly well attended, I would say. I swallowed two buckets of champagne at the breakfast and asked Lady Jane to elope with me. She said no, which was probably wise of her.”
“She told me. You said something about letting the better detective win?” Lenox chuckled. “Have you surpassed me already?”
“Never. Still, I was intrigued by your note.”
“Yes, thanks for coming. Drink?”
“Rum and soda if you’ve got it.”
Lenox went to the drinks table and poured them each a tumbler. “It happened down by Curzon Street. Did you ever hear of someone called Ludovic Starling?”
“I don’t think so.”
“He’s in Parliament, a genial cove, quite sociable. One of his footmen went missing last night.”
“I call that careless of Starling.”
Lenox frowned. “It would be funnier if this unfortunate lad, Frederick Clarke, hadn’t been found dead in a nearby alley.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Quite. I was just over at the scene.”
“Oh?”
Lenox described Constable Johnson, Ludo’s strange behavior, and finding the murder weapon.
“Well spotted,” said Dallington at the conclusion of the story. “The brick, I mean. Does it really help us, though?”
“In a sense, yes. As I just said, I believe it means the murderer is local. Impatient, too-or in hot temper, though that’s a debatable point. It also means that the Yard won’t waste time searching for a weapon.”
There was a knock at the door, and Graham entered, followed by Thomas McConnell.
“Hullo, Charles!” said the doctor. “Welcome back to England. And Dallington, excellent to see you.”
“The baby is imminent?” Lenox asked.
“It’s all very close,” answered McConnell. He looked, as ever, slightly worn, with his battered heather coat and lined eyes, but he seemed happy as well. The two worst moods of his past-manic amiability and morose depression-were neither of them to be seen.
“Do you have time to look at something for me? It’s why I wrote you.”
“With all the pleasure in the world.”
Lenox ran over the details of the case for McConnell’s benefit, and then the three men sat and discussed how to handle things. In the end they concluded that Dallington would delve into matters on Curzon Street and McConnell would go have a look at the body. This left Lenox with the rather dry task of sending a note to Grayson Fowler and asking him to share information, always a tricky business. They agreed to reconvene the next evening with their findings.
Though Lenox had a day full of meetings tomorrow to look forward to, he felt a slight pang. Was this as close as he would get, from now on? What about the midnight chase and the hot trail? Were they left to Dallington now?