“Any luck?” Lenox asked.
“Perhaps, sir,” said Graham. “I thought I might organize my thoughts while you were at supper.”
Having waited so eagerly for information about Hatch, Lenox was suddenly unconcerned. “Of course,” he said, waving a hand. What was this Society devoted to a long-forgotten battle? Why was anybody but an old codger or two at the Army and Navy Club worried about it? Above all, how was it related to Payson and Dabney? Dabney-there was the lead to follow, now that none of the others seemed to have panned out. He would speak to Goodson about it in the morning. Were Dabney’s parents even in Oxford at the moment?
“Have you heard of Daniel Maran, Graham?”
“No, sir, I don’t think I have.”
“I just read up on him. A thoroughly undistinguished military career, followed by an unexpected and unexpectedly well funded stand for Parliament.” Putting a cufflink in, Lenox went on, “He’s a government official now. Works at the War Office Building on Whitehall Place, just by Scotland Yard. Do you know it? Opposite the Horse Guards building, if you’ve been down there. I imagine that he reports directly to the minister there.”
“How did you hear of him, sir?”
“He’s a member of the September Society. And the master-general of the Ordnance.”
“If I may ask, sir-”
“The master-general of the Ordnance is a Member of Parliament, usually in the cabinet, in fact-and the only member of the British military who doesn’t have to report to the commander in chief. It’s a tremendously powerful and influential position. He arranges for the procurement of artillery and supplies, manages our fortifications… millions of pounds pass through his hands every year. It used to be Baron Raglan, you recall.”
This was a famous general who had done well in the Crimean War, and whose name was a byword for military integrity throughout the Isles. It disturbed Lenox that the quality of the man occupying the position had fallen off so precipitously. Maran had done little of note besides finding himself in Parliament before attaining the position.
“My goodness, sir,” said Graham-for him as violent as language could become.
“Yes, I’d reckon he knows every secret about the British government that’s worth the having. My brother described him to me once as the most dangerous man to cross in all of Whitehall.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
S upper with Radley was interesting, and better still it was distracting. A professor of biological sciences at Worcester, he had great enthusiasm for McConnell’s work as an amateur biologist. His own passion was birds. For much of the meal he had laid out the objections to the theories of evolution that Charles Darwin and Alfred Russel Wallace had proposed a few years ago and that were still widely debated in the scientific community. Probably impossible, though very clever, was his conclusion. “The best we’ll say of Wallace and Darwin is that they gave us new ways of thinking about animal growth, which could spur on other, more plausible theories.” He appeared to be in a diminishing majority, however, and Lenox reminded himself to ask McConnell his thoughts on the matter. In all, though, Radley was a genial, undeniably good sort, and their conversation was pleasant, if heavy on birds.
After supper Lenox had gone for a long, thoughtful stroll around Addison’s Walk, the path that wound narrowly around a small island within the grounds of Magdalen College. It was a beautiful ring that led away from and then back to the college, the ground level and only inches away from the quiet, rolling Cherwell River. He remembered its pristine beauty under fresh snow from his undergraduate days; once, despondent over some long-forgotten exam, he had gone to the Walk at dawn and come out feeling better, slightly better. This evening he had smoked his pipe and thought about the case, the cool air clearing the wine from his head, a don passing now and then, the view of Magdalen Tower up in the middle distance…
Just back in his rooms now and removing his coat, he said to his butler, “Well, Graham, if you have any questions about the blue chaffinch or the gray-rumped swallow, I imagine I can answer them for you pretty exhaustively by now.”
“Thank you, sir. Perhaps some other time.”
“Sensible. Swallows and chaffinches are good in their way, of course, but too much of them is inadvisable.”
Graham had given him a glass of brandy, and Lenox was sitting in his shirttails in a blue high-backed chair near the fire. He invited the butler to sit down opposite him and take a glass; Graham assented to the first offer but declined the second.
“Hatch, then,” Lenox said.
“Yes, sir.”
“I hope you’ve found something interesting out?”
“I think I have, yes, sir.”
“Go on.”
Graham looked at the notes in his lap. “The gentleman is called John Braithwaite Hatch, sir, Bingham Professor of Chemistry. Aged thirty-eight. Born and grew up in North London, a rural area near Ashburton Grove. Educated at Westminster College, having earned a scholarship. On to Lincoln, Oxford, after that. Stayed as a fellow after finishing his undergraduate coursework, and soon became a don.”
“Much distinguished as a scholar?” Lenox asked, cradling his brandy in his hand.
“He was, sir, yes, though he hasn’t published anything in two years.”
“I see.”
“His servants universally ascribe his current stagnation to his love of drink, sir.”
“I’m not wholly surprised.”
“What I have to report otherwise is concise but I hope useful, sir. You told me that you thought Mr. Hatch had lied to you twice, about George Payson’s cat and about the last time he had seen the missing gentlemen. I can add to your statement two extremely suspicious facts. The first is that he saw George Payson on the morning of his disappearance.”
“Good Lord!”
“Yes, sir, I was as surprised as you are.”
“Where did they meet?”
“At a coffee shop about halfway between Worcester College and the Ashmolean Museum, sir, a place called Shotter’s.”
“Shotter’s? What sort of name is that?”
“After the proprietor, sir, one Peter Shotter.”
“Ah. How did you find this out?”
“Mr. Hatch spends most mornings in the Lincoln College senior common room, according to a gentleman I met who works there, sir.”
Every college’s professors had a senior common room, the graduate students a middle common room, and the undergraduates a junior common room. They were all similar, filled with couches, fireplaces, and always something to eat. Usually the senior room, though, held the college’s treasures-its single Michelangelo cartoon or notable Greek vase.
“But that morning he didn’t?”
“No, sir, he did not. I asked a maid in Mr. Hatch’s house where he had gone, and all she knew was that he had gone down Beaumont Street. I inquired at the shops on that road and struck lucky, sir.”
“You’re a marvel, Graham. How long did they talk? How do you know it was Payson?”
“According to Mr. Shotter, the two spoke for about fifteen minutes. He knew Mr. Payson, sir, and identified Mr. Hatch from my description, though he couldn’t say that he had ever seen him before that morning.”
“It sounds almost as if Payson instigated the meeting. A spot he was accustomed to, where his face was known, I mean.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you find out anything about a connection between Hatch and the September Society, by any chance?”
Graham shook his head. “No, sir, I’m afraid I didn’t.”
“No fault of yours. What clubs does he belong to?”
“Only the Oxford and Cambridge, sir.”
“Never served in the military, I take it?”
“No, sir.”
“Did you find out anything about his relatives?”
“Yes, sir, though nothing which might help the case, I fear. His mother is living, father dead. He is an only child and has two living aunts in Yorkshire, both childless.”