“Help you?”
“To solve this case. For example, have you heard of the September Society?”
“I haven’t, no, Mr. Lenox.”
“Does the color red mean anything to you?”
“Not in particular.” Her tone was distracted, even faintly annoyed, and Lenox didn’t blame her for it.
“Did George take long walks?”
“Only in the country, he always said.” She laughed in a rather choked way. “Said there was no point walking in Oxford or London, when there was always a pub nearby.”
“I see.”
“He was awfully sweet, my dear George. The funniest person I ever knew.”
“Yes,” said Lenox. A moment’s silence later, he reached for his pocket. “Do these pen lines mean anything to you?”
He handed her the September Society card that was marked with the black and pink X. Taking it from him, her brow furrowed, and she turned it over several times. She studied it closely. She looked slightly puzzled-the only deviation from the wan, downcast mien her face had borne throughout the conversation.
“It rings some vague bell, Mr. Lenox.”
Trying to suppress his eager curiosity, Lenox said, “Can you think of what it might be?”
“Why-I think-only faintly, but I think it resembles the Payson crest.”
“The crest?”
“You know, the coat of arms, whatever you call it.”
“How so?”
“The crest’s a shield in black and pinkish red. George had it on his stationery.”
“Black and pinkish red?”
“A bit darker pink than this, but an X shape, yes-the pink for the blood the Paysons have spilled in battle.” Though Lenox was worried it might, the thought of blood didn’t seem to bother her. “Yes, it looks like a quick, crude rendering of the crest.”
“How odd,” Lenox murmured, his mind quickening
At that moment John West, Lady Annabelle’s brother, came toward them. After introducing himself and again trying to find a few consolatory words for her, Lenox left them. As he went upstairs, his thoughts moved on to the cat on the seal (seals and crests were certainly flying fast and furious now) of the September Society. It must have been related, the dead cat, to the Society. Every bone in Lenox’s body told him that George Payson, or Bill Dabney perhaps-perhaps even someone unknown-had left behind a minefield of clues waiting to be discovered. The cat was one of those clues, like the walking boots, the line of ash, all of it.
Now they were gone, dash it. If only he had thought to make a more thorough catalog of what the room had contained. Perhaps he would go back and look at it again despite the cleaning. The question was why whoever had planted the clues had felt the need to make them obscure, and there was only one answer: The person had known that somebody would search the room after it had been abandoned. The cat was a clever touch, in that case. It would draw the instant focus of anybody who saw it. Perhaps, Lenox mused, that meant that the cat was the least important of the clues-pointing toward the September Society but not in itself the critical puzzle piece. Perhaps it was designed, with the cryptic numbers written on the note underneath it, to seem more significant or baffling than it was.
When he reached his room, Graham was sitting on a chair in the hall.
“There you are, Graham,” said Lenox. “Is this my kip?”
“Just here, sir. I acquired a suite with a bedroom and sitting room. If it does not meet with your approval, sir-”
“Not at all, no. Thanks awfully for coming and figuring it out.”
“Was the Bodleian a fruitful detour, sir?”
“It may have been. I’m not certain.” Lenox related the tangle of uncertainties to Graham as he unpacked the detective’s clothes. “The damned thing about it, Graham, is that it might have been a local criminal or a far-flung one, we can’t know yet.”
“Frustrating, sir. I think you’ll find the navy socks are preferable, sir.”
Lenox discarded the black pair and donned the navy blue.
“McConnell’s meeting me downstairs, then? How much time do I have?”
“Half an hour, sir.”
“I say, Graham, have you started your investigations into Hatch yet?”
“Not yet, sir. I planned to begin in the morning.”
“Could you figure out whether he was in the military? In the East, for obvious reasons? I forgot to look up Who’s Who in the Bod.”
“Yes, sir, I certainly shall. Is he of the correct age, sir?”
“Hard to say. One of these chaps who could be twenty-five or forty-five.”
“Indeed, sir.”
Lenox, dressed now, shot his cuffs in front of the mirror. His black tie was a bit off center, and Graham tended to it.
“I saw Lady Payson downstairs.”
“Yes, sir?”
“It was painful, though that’s nothing. She’s as broken as I’ve ever seen anyone.” Lenox paused. “This may be the first time somebody has come to me before a death.” Another pause. “It’s a pretty bad lookout, Graham.”
“Yes, sir.”
“To put it another way-every effort, don’t you think?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Not that it’s ever otherwise.” Glancing again in the mirror, Lenox said, “I think I’ll have a drink at the bar before I meet McConnell. Steady myself a bit.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Do you have anything planned? Have the night off, of course. I can draw my own bath and that sort of thing.”
“Thank you, sir. I may see one or two of the other footmen from my Balliol days, sir.”
“Our Balliol days, Graham. Which ones are still kicking around?”
“Oh, Mr. Bond, of course, Mr. Middleton, and Mr. Dekker.”
“Will you buy them a round on me? Here’s a couple of shillings.” Lenox reached into his pocket and handed the money over. “Tell them I said hello, won’t you? And tell Dekker I haven’t forgotten him dropping that boiled egg in old Bessborough’s lap, won’t you?”
With a smile, Graham said, “Yes, sir.”
“All right. I’ll wander off, then. Hopefully McConnell’s solved the whole thing and we can go back to London.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
T he next morning, slightly hungover after a merry dinner with McConnell, Lenox woke up to find the soft sun peering through the curtains. The Turf was well and good, but it was nice to sleep on soft sheets and to find his coffee waiting for him on a tray with a vase of nasturtiums. Graham must be awake, he thought. So the careworn detective lay in bed and read for twenty minutes or so, losing himself in the copy of The Praise of Folly that he had bought from Mr. Chaffanbrass. The sharp, warm coffee slowly brought him back to the world. By the time Graham had come into the room, Lenox was alert enough to have his mind on the case again. He would devote this morning to speaking to Rosie Little at Jesus College and looking over Payson’s rooms again. Then he would take the 11:35 train to Paddington and search out Theophilus Butler and the September Society. It was high time he found out more about both of them.
Graham was laying out a blue suit. “Will this do, sir?”
“Yes, thanks,” said Lenox. “Don’t know how I managed without you. Are you going to begin on Hatch today, then?”
“I had planned to, sir.”
“If you want to jaunt off, I can dress myself.”
“As you say, sir. May I inquire after your plans?”
“I daresay I’ll scratch a bite of breakfast together downstairs, then set out for Lincoln to look over the room again. Oh, and Graham, I’ll be returning to London for the night to follow up on a clue.”
“Do you require my company, sir?”
“Don’t even think about shirking-I need you to stay here, of course. Who’s in charge of the house at the moment?”
“Mary, sir.”
“How did Ellie take that?” Lenox’s cook was excellent but tempestuous.
“Equaniminously enough, sir.”
After eating alone (or rather, with his book and the Standard -McConnell had popped back to London that morning), Lenox took a final glance into the mirror by the door and left the Randolph. It was cold but bright, a taste of the autumn ahead, and he regretted leaving his overcoat behind. Fortunately it was only a few minutes until he got to Jesus. It was too early to see Rosie Little, so he turned left toward Lincoln. When he found the porter’s lodge, a strange man was there in place of Red.