CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
M cConnell’s report on the inquest of Peter Wilson arrived at Oxford the next evening. It had been a discouraging day for Lenox. Inspector Goodson’s sergeants had searched to the south of the town past Christ Church Meadow, not quite as far as Faringdon and Didcot, asking in pubs, post offices, and inns, but nobody had seen Dabney or Payson. Lenox’s suggestion had been well reasoned, Goodson said when the two men met, not adding that it had failed nonetheless.
“Did you search the fields?”
“Aye, and asked the locals too. Nothing there.”
“Perhaps it’s best to restrict the search-bring it back in within a quarter mile of the meadow and search that quarter mile very thoroughly.”
Goodson shook his head. “We don’t have the manpower. We’ll have to follow other leads.”
“What has there been?”
“We’re focusing now on the man who met Payson at the Jesus College dance that Saturday evening.”
“Just so. Anything on him?”
“That’s a bit better-but only a bit. We’ve tracked him to an inn at Abingdon, we believe, and he left his name there as Geoffrey Canterbury.”
“A man of at least small literary knowledge, then.”
“Aye, The Canterbury Tales, we thought so, too.”
“Any further description of him?”
“Only that he looked about fifty, dressed well, had very dark hair, a mark on his throat, and carried a heavy pocket watch that looked to the landlady-Mrs. Meade-expensive, perhaps ornamental. He seemed to check it and handle it constantly.”
“Still, better than nothing. What did he leave as a forwarding address?”
“Only a steam liner bound for India-which, it turned out, departed a month ago for Delhi.”
“Was he tan?”
“Pale.”
“And not military by the look of him.”
“No, not according to Mrs. Meade.”
This conversation had taken place at the police station a little after one o’clock. Waiting for Dallington, Graham, and McConnell all to report back, Lenox had no choice but to resume his dull research at the Bodleian. Nothing else had come to light, and he had given it up as a bad job a bit after four. Now it was five, and a bellboy had brought in McConnell’s note with the evening post. Graham was still out on Hatch’s trail, but had assured Lenox he only needed one more day to see what he could find out about the elusive professor.
The parcel contained three things: a short note on yellow writing paper, a more formal letter on long paper, which evidently appraised the coroner’s report, and then the report itself, which Lenox would have to return to Jenkins at Scotland Yard. The short first note turned out to be from Toto. It read: Hallo Charles! I’m with Jane (it’s about 9:00 in the morning here, when shall this get to you?) and she thought we ought to tell you that I’m healthy and that I mean to call the baby Malory if it’s a girl. Isn’t that a sensible and lovely name? Malory McConnell-I think it sounds awfully well. P.S. Do return soon, and stop Thomas poring over reports all day! Affectionately, TM .
Lenox laughed and folded the note back in half. He paused for a moment, then put it in his leather correspondence case. At any rate Lady Jane had been there at its writing, so it deserved preservation. Smiling again at the folly of the mind in love, he turned to McConnell’s more serious note. Hello, Charles. Thanks for letting me have a look at this. I may as well say straight off the bat that I don’t think it’s the kind of thing that will instantly solve your case-in fact the coroner, Bellows, did quite well with a tricky matter . As near as I can tell, Peter Wilson probably did commit suicide. But there’s some room for doubt, which may perhaps be of interest to you. Wilson died in Suffolk, at the country house of a friend, Daniel Maran. It was September of last year, and the two men as well as half a dozen others were evidently escaping from London for the weekend-you can no doubt decipher all of that in the report yourself. Wilson went off on his horse one morning alone, taking his air rifle with him. He would have known how to handle guns himself, of course, having hunted since youth and served in the Suffolk 12th. The gun was a light one, suitable for small game. And in fact he was ultimately found in a thicket of mature woodland that Maran used as a pheasant cover. The horse returned home; Maran formed a search party, and they found Wilson dead. The angle of the gun is the one thing that forced Bellows to the conclusion of suicide, rather than merely accident. The gun was angled up slightly so that the bullet hit his right cheek-from a distance of two feet or so. This seems to mark a clear intent on Wilson’s part. However, a small part of me is uncertain that this was how he would have killed himself-it was a position which would have forced him into an awkward half-kneeling stance, as the gun would have had to rest on the ground. Looking over my files, I find that it’s almost unique as an angle of entry in most suicides by air rifle. On the other hand, murder in the same way would have been relatively easy for somebody in the undergrowth. Weighed against this, though, is the overwhelming fact of the position of Wilson next to the gun when Maran found him-Wilson was lying across the gun with his hand still tightly gripping the weapon that killed him. It would be very difficult to manage a body to make it fall in that way-a shot from the ground would have probably sent Wilson staggering backward. One other thing supporting the theory of suicide: Pheasant hunting doesn’t begin until October, and Maran’s gamekeeper insists he would have found it poor sport. Wilson went out there for a reason other than hunting, it would seem. Sorry this isn’t more helpful-Thomas
Scrawled beneath the doctor’s signature, in less precise handwriting, was the following: Incidentally, you’ll find a note from Toto here-no doubt you’d do well to ignore its entreaties, but I’ll leave that to your discretion. TM.
Lenox was grateful to McConnell for his diligence, but the results were disappointing; the detective felt as if he were reaching for something substantial, only to find himself grasping the air every time. Still, it might be that Dallington could find something useful about Maran.
Maran. Didn’t he know that name? Tossing the letter on his desk, Lenox stood up. Hurriedly he put on his coat and left the room, leaving his candles burning.
He left the Randolph and found himself on Broad Street, ignoring the students let off of their tutorials coming from Balliol and Trinity, striding past them toward the Bodleian. He went straight in and up to the Reading Room, where he pulled out Who’s Who from its spot on the bookshelf where he had left it. He found Maran easily in the book and read over the entry twice, copying it out carefully in his spiral-bound notebook the second time. Well. Daniel Maran was without a doubt a member of the September Society. The most important so far, perhaps. He had served in the 2nd Battalion, 12th Regiment of Foot, Suffolk, just as Wilson and Lysander had-a captain. Unlike them, though, he was no mere retired military man, in and out of his clubs.
Back at the Randolph, Graham had returned. He was in Lenox’s rooms, laying out an evening suit; Lenox was to dine with McConnell’s friend Radley, the one who had telegraphed down to London about Payson’s death.