“Will I be noticed if I give it a miss?”
“Oh, yes, certainly,” said Edmund. “Without a doubt.”
“Very well.”
“What do you say to visiting the chapel before we go?”
The Lenox family chapel had been built sixty years after the house itself. It was a small round building with a fine ivory dome, situated on a hillside beyond the pond, where you could reach it by a series of stone steps laid into the ground.
Inside was a single room, full of natural light from the series of windows ringed just above eye level. There was an altar at one end. Along the walls were busts and statues of previous baronets, as well as flat marble stones inscribed with the names, dates, and achievements of various second sons, cousins, wives. Two large medieval swords were crossed under one window.
There was a fresh bust now — on a plinth near the door, Molly’s face. The sculptor had captured something of the ease with which she laughed. Edmund went instead toward the busts of their parents, saying, “Mother, Father,” with a dry smile, which seemed at once to indicate the absurdity of such a greeting, and therefore apologize for it, while also allowing him to deliver it — for he paid his respects sincerely, Lenox did not doubt that. He did, too. He touched the figures with a feeling of loss. He had loved them both. They would meet Sophia in the next life; indeed, perhaps they already knew that the pretty, sharp-eyed Houghton girl had become his wife, the love of his life.
Edmund was sitting with one leg crossed over the other, an arm along the back of the bench, staring at the altar. At last, he said, “They didn’t do the beard very well on Jesus.”
“Have it touched up.”
“Are you mad? It’s three hundred years old.”
Lenox smiled. “Leave it, then. I suppose we could light a candle?”
“Yes, certainly,” said Edmund, and he stood up. “Where are they? I know for a fact they were in this room the last time I was, so they can’t have gone. I think they’re in this little box.” He tried to open the box, but it was locked. “Who on earth would have locked this?”
“Waller, of course.”
“That seems like an excess of caution,” Edmund muttered, patting his pockets. “I can’t think where the key is — unless—”
He hopped onto the bench and reached behind a carved wooden scroll on the wall, which bore the Lenox coat of arms and the family motto, Non sibi, “Not for one’s self.” Had he lived by that? Here and there — nobody could do it comprehensively, nobody but a saint, and they weren’t very common in Lenox’s experience.
Apparently there was a small latched cubby concealed behind the wooden fanwork, because Edmund opened it and came out triumphantly with a key.
When they were young, they had come to the chapel very infrequently — two or three times a year, on special holidays, to light a candle. Otherwise they’d gone to St. James’s in Markethouse, sitting in their pew there. Of course, when a family member died, the service was held in this small chapel. It was a matter of understanding within the family that no matter how far the person had strayed, no matter how many years it had been since he or she had come to Lenox House, no matter what enmities had existed in life, no matter the person’s character, a Lenox was entitled to a service here.
Lenox’s mother had also spent a fair amount of time in the chapel, particularly after her own parents died, it seemed to him now, as he watched Edmund take a candle from the box he had unlocked, light it, and place it in front of the altar. She had treated the chapel very casually, bringing a book up to read there, or even her sewing.
They sat in silence for some time, until Edmund said, “Shall we go down into town, then?”
“Yes, all right,” said Lenox. “I suppose after the service we could call on Clavering and see if he’s made any headway.”
“By all means.”
The two brothers went to church and listened to the sermon, stood on the steps afterward and shook a great many hands, and then walked over to the station house, where Clavering was filling paperwork.
His one jail cell was occupied, but he said he hadn’t made any progress.
“Who is this, then?” asked Edmund. “Not related to—”
“No, no, it’s young Adams, sir, that’s all. He got himself black drunk and fetched up a brawl. Thirty days in jug, I reckon.” Adams’s punishment sounded as if it had already begun — he was groaning. “I took him in some water. Not a bad sort before his eighth pint, you know.”
“Have you been to Snow’s cottage?”
Clavering nodded grimly. “Bunce and I went this morning. Exactly as you described it, sir. We brought back all of the stolen objects and left the rest. I’m waiting to hear if they’re the church’s blankets, but I reckon they are. Bunce is over checking with Reverend Perse now.
“As for Sandy, the springer spaniel, I saw his owner last night at the Bell and Horns, Mickelson. He said he would keep an eye out for the pup. Didn’t reckon he would find his way home, though. Not a smart creature, he said.”
“Mickelson. Why do I know that name?” asked Lenox.
Edmund shook his head. “He was involved in a bad business a few years ago. He’s a farmer in these parts. He was at a coaching inn near Whitson and quarreled with a fellow, a gambling debt—”
“I believe it was over a woman, if you’ll allow me, sir,” said Clavering.
“Was it, though? I certainly heard it was a gambling debt, but these stories get distorted. Anyhow, he struck the man with a cane and blinded him in one eye. He only avoided prison very narrowly, if I recall.”
Clavering nodded. “Not a friendly fellow.”
Edmund frowned. “Could he be involved?”
“Anybody could be involved, unfortunately,” said Lenox.
“Could he have been the one staying at the cottage, though?” said Edmund. “With his dog?”
“But why would he, if he’s local?”
“There you’ve got me.”
Pondering that, Charles and Edmund bade good-bye to Clavering and then returned to Lenox House, planning to ride out again to see the gamekeeper’s cottage; Lenox wasn’t satisfied with the thoroughness of their inspection the evening before.
When they returned, however, there was a telegram from Dallington that caused him to forget Markethouse’s problems, at least momentarily.
Dreadful news STOP three clients gone over to LeMaire STOP somehow has gotten our client list Polly thinks STOP planned assault STOP lower fees and now name in every paper STOP all in a jumble here STOP please advise STOP best Dallington
Lenox read over this twice. Then a third time, as if upon rereading it might give up some secret he hadn’t spotted yet.
Three clients! This was cataclysmic news. They kept their list of clients jealously guarded, knowing that LeMaire and his ruthless backer, Lord Monomark, would be willing to operate at a loss to put them out of business.
He showed Edmund the telegram, and Edmund shook his head. “That’s very unfortunate.”
How unfortunate his brother didn’t quite understand. The ground that had felt so firm under Lenox’s feet two days before — their new detectives, their new clerks — was all at once shifting. If they lost three more clients, they might have to let someone go. Three more than that, they might have to let two more go. Three more than that, they might have to close. And Monomark’s pockets were very, very deep.
Lenox forgot about the trip back to the gamekeeper’s cottage; he sat in the long room brooding on the problem, wondering whether he ought to go back to London. There was no solution that came to him, though. If LeMaire had the agency’s list (and how had it gotten out?) and was willing to undercut them on prices, he would be able to pick off their clients one by one. It was as simple as that. A few might remain out of loyalty, but they were mostly businessmen, accustomed to the exigencies of competition, used to seeking out the lowest prices for the best services.