He was a distinctly military man, with a trim mustache and tidy whiskers, a scar on his neck that looked like it had once been painful, quite black hair, and utterly average features. He wasn’t tall, but he stood quite upright, jutting his chest out, and it gave him an authoritative air. His clothes were informal but clean and creased, puttees of the standard postmilitary variety. No doubt he would exchange them for a more proper suit when he went out but felt at ease in them at home. His bearing was neither kind nor unkind, but efficient. Lenox had seen his type a hundred times, both good and bad.
“How do you do, Mr. Lenox? May I offer you some coffee or tea?”
“No, thanks.”
Lysander nodded to his man, who retreated. “Well, how can I help you?”
“You may have heard something of the death of George Payson, Captain Lysander.”
“Indeed I have. Terribly sad. I never went to the ’varsity, of course, and in the military men die at that age many a time, but never so senselessly.”
“I don’t suppose you knew him, did you?”
“No, I didn’t. And I can’t quite see what connection you suppose I might have to the young man.”
“Or Bill Dabney?”
Lysander’s face was blank. “No, nor him.”
“You’re a member of the September Society, aren’t you, Captain Lysander?”
“Indeed I am, and it’s saved many of us returned from the East from losing touch and helped us in making that-well, call it that uneasy transition back to civilian life.”
“Quite a military atmosphere there?”
“Yes, indeed. As we like it.”
“It’s probably nothing,” said Lenox cautiously, “but I have a duty to follow every possible clue.”
“Quite right.”
“And I found in Payson’s belongings several mentions of the September Society.”
“Did you!” If Lysander’s shock was feigned it was done rather well.
“I wondered whether you could think of any connection between the lad and your group.”
“I wish I could help you, but I can’t think of any possible link. We’re only an assembly of twenty-five or thirty, Mr. Lenox-I suppose the exact number, if you want it, is twenty-six-and keep much to ourselves. We have our friendships outside of the Society and inside the Society, and the two rarely meet. Of course, this young man couldn’t possibly have served with us, and it’s most unlikely that an uncle or cousin would even mention such a small organization to a lad who had no prospect of joining. We firmly intend for the Society to die out with us.”
“I see,” Lenox said. He took a different tack. “Major Butler is out of town?”
“Yes, I’m afraid he is.”
“Did you know I had written to him as well?”
Lysander laughed. “I did, but no cause for suspicion. I know that you detectives often interpret every small unknown as guilt, but I only heard of the note you wrote Major Butler because we live in such close proximity and our houses trade a good deal of talk.”
“If it’s not impertinent, Captain Lysander, why do you live so closely together?”
“Ah-well, Major Butler served rather longer than I did. I was injured outside Lahore, you see. When I returned my parents had been dead a year, and I had inherited a comfortable sum from them, and decided to settle down in London, as so many ex-servicemen do. I had a few friends here from my school in Hampshire and a few others from the military, and I belonged to the Army and Navy, and thought I’d get along all right. So I moved into this flat, with its modest few rooms, counting-correctly-upon spending a good deal of time at my clubs and that sort of thing.”
“I see.”
“When Major Butler returned in ’52 he came to see me. He had been my commander in the East, but we were always pretty pally, and when he said he hadn’t anywhere to stay-well, you see. I offered him my spare room here. He declined in favor of a hotel, but through my landlord I put him onto the free rooms a few doors down.”
“Ah-that makes a good deal of sense.”
“It suits us both, as we’re close to our clubs and to Piccadilly. And then, our valets served together as well, both of them, and it’s nice for them to have each other’s company.”
“Awfully considerate, that.”
“Well, as I mentioned, the transition to civilian life can be difficult.”
“Certainly. Could you tell me about Peter Wilson?”
Lysander’s back went up at this. “I don’t see how that question could possibly be relevant to whatever it is you’re investigating, Mr. Lenox.”
In a conciliatory tone, the detective said, “I had hoped to speak to him, you see.”
“Well-he’s dead. He killed himself. It was the damnedest thing that ever happened. I loved old Wilson like a brother.”
“I’m sorry to have brought it up. I only thought you might be able to tell me why he killed himself.”
“I don’t know. And I wish I did.”
“Again, I’m sorry.”
“No, no… in fact, I’m sorry I can’t be of more help with your case,” said Lysander.
“Not at all-it was a dark horse, as I say. Thanks awfully for your time.”
“Don’t mention it,” Lysander said and walked Lenox to the door.
As he said good-bye and walked down the stoop, Lenox wondered about the man. He was personally quite agreeable, not at all volatile, and he seemed honest. He might have been either a banker or a bank robber, from his demeanor. The only thing that seemed clear was that if Lysander was a criminal, he was an exceptionally level-headed one, exceptionally cool. There was little emotion in him. If he was a criminal, Lenox knew, and shuddered to think it, he would be capable of nearly anything.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
G reen Park, a shamrock-colored rectangle that lay behind the Houses of Parliament, was warm and beautiful that afternoon. The willow trees bent toward the lake, their lowest branches just brushing the water, and the park’s lone wanderers and couples alike walked more slowly than they had along the fast city blocks, stopping to watch for a while. Lenox always liked to watch the swans gliding serenely, birds with just the mix of beauty and danger that humans like in wildlife-for a swan, of course, could break a man’s arm.
Another curious fact about them was that every swan in England belonged to Queen Victoria. Not many people knew it, but poaching swans was an offense the crown could punish. The official swan keeper to Her Majesty wrangled the birds in the third week of July every year, when they were served at the Queen’s table and a few others across the isles, in Cambridge, Oxford, York, Edinburgh. The swans were mute, but at their deaths they found voice and sang, and the long line of wranglers always claimed to be haunted by the sound. It was the origin of the term swan song.
Lenox pondered the bizarre customs of his beloved country as he walked toward Toto and McConnell’s house. He had omitted his congratulations from the note he sent to McConnell with the coroner’s report in case the doctor wanted to announce the news himself.
When Lenox arrived at the vast house, McConnell and Toto were in the small anteroom by the door with Lady Jane. They only used the room with their closest friends, preferring its intimacy to the rest of the house’s grandeur. When they invited him in, McConnell stood up.
“Hullo again, Lennox.
I can’t stop beaming, can I? By the way, Toto and I are delighted that you’ll be the godfather. Here, sit down, sit down.”
Lenox laughed and took his place on a highly fashionable blue and white sofa that was Toto’s pride and joy-or had been at any rate, before young Henry or Anna or Elizabeth or whatever the baby would be called. The room smelled buttery, like tea and toast.