“Father’s profession?”
“A barrister, sir.”
“Successful?”
“Not successful, sir, but not a failure.”
“I see. Well, Graham, thank you.”
“I have one more piece of information, sir.”
“Yes?” Lenox had been poking at the fire, feeling suddenly sleepy, his brandy mostly gone, but now he looked up. “What else did you find out?”
“Professor Hatch has an unassailable alibi for the time frame of the murder of George Payson.”
“Given by?”
“Numerous people, sir-to begin with, his servants.”
“Go on.”
“However, sir, the afternoon before the murder he went for a walk in Christ Church Meadow. It appears, sir, that he went beyond the meadow to the south, where you and Inspector Goodson had speculated the two young gentlemen might be hiding out.”
“That’s right,” said Lenox. His whole attention was on Graham, and he had moved to the edge of the seat, his hands interlocking, his hair untidy, his face intent.
“He reappeared in the meadow after about fifteen minutes, sir, according to a park guard there. When he had left through the lower meadow he had a parcel.”
“And when he returned?”
“He no longer had it.”
Lenox sat back low in his seat, suddenly pensive. He stared at the fire for a minute, perhaps two, Graham silent as well. Then he stood up with sudden energy.
“The question is whether he was taking something to Payson and Dabney, or just to one of them, or to… Geoffrey Canterbury. Or to some other person. The murderer.”
“Precisely my thoughts, sir.”
Lenox, pacing, his face red now from the heat of the fire, said, “Did anything else occur to you? About Hatch, about the case? Is there any other information about him? I feel as if I’m missing some small piece here… some key into the whole thing.”
Graham coughed softly. “I have a little more information, sir, but that’s all, and none of it terribly helpful. Here,” he said, passing a sheet of paper to Lenox, “is a list of the people who usually attended Mr. Hatch’s parties. On its reverse you’ll find the dates of the last several.”
Lenox nodded. “Thanks, Graham. I’ll track them down. That will be useful.” After another moment of silence, still pacing, he suddenly sighed and said, “Well, I suppose I’ll go to bed. Was there any late post, by the way?”
“Only this, from London, sir.”
He passed Lenox a heavy envelope. It was from Dallington. “Excellent. All right, thanks, Graham-first-rate work. Sorry to seem so distracted, you know. This case is bothering me, really bothering me. But you’ve opened up a whole new vista. I mean to tell Goodson straight away tomorrow morning, if you’ll come with me.”
“Of course, sir.”
Lenox paused. “And when we’re done-all our thoughts toward Morocco!”
“Indeed, sir,” said Graham, with the slightest of smiles. “Good night, then.”
After Graham had withdrawn, Lenox sat at the desk by the window. He left the note for a moment and stared out into the sky. A clear night, a crescent moon. Another sigh, and he turned his attention to Dallington. The note was characteristic of Lenox’s new pupil. Good news, then, Lenox-or bad, as you choose-Butler was certainly in town on the evening you asked me about. The chap couldn’t have been more conspicuous if he tried, in fact. Attached find a list of his activities (dry stuff, but to each his own). Thanks for the chance of doing it, really. If there’s anything else I can help with, send word by return-or at your leisure. Cheerio, Dallington. P.S.: No charge for the services, though my mother’s desperate to see me paid. Droll, isn’t it? She sends on her regard.
Lenox laughed at the postscript and scanned the attached list, which seemed to be in order. Admirable quickness on the lad’s part, as well. Perhaps an apprentice would be useful after all.
CHAPTER THIRTY
The next morning, Lenox saw Inspector Goodson. They spent about an hour aligning their knowledge of the case, Goodson working primarily in Oxfordshire, his energy at the moment devoted to finding the man who called himself Geoffrey Canterbury, while Lenox’s interest was now mainly in the September Society.
Lenox wrote a note to Rosie Little, updating her and encouraging her to be brave, then went to see Timothy Stills, Jane’s cousin at Oriel, for a pleasant half hour. As he walked away, his mind turned to his own troubles: Lady Annabelle had reappeared on the scene and was speaking vocally to anybody who would listen about both Goodson’s and Lenox’s incompetence.
Most important, Bill Dabney’s parents had arrived from Birmingham, or rather nearby Kidderminster, a town on the River Stour famous (it was a dubious fame) for its carpet factories. Mr. Dabney, a squat, solid man with a Midlands accent that made every word sound heavy in his mouth, was a farmer. He grazed cattle as well, and did both jobs prosperously from the fashionable look of his fluttery and tiny wife, who spoke in a high-pitched voice. Lenox met with them at their hotel in St. Giles Street at a little after ten thirty.
“Of the Sussex Lenoxes?” were the first words of Mrs. Dabney.
“Yes,” said Lenox.
“A pleasure to meet you,” she said, the appraising look gone from her eye. “I was saying to Mr. Dabney only the other day that a visit to Sussex would be just the thing for us. The air there is clean, very clean indeed, and I’ve heard the parkland is handsome, very handsome indeed. And all the small villages!”
There was a great deal more like this before Lenox was able to turn the conversation to their son, and then it was Mr. Dabney who answered.
“What is he like?” said Lenox.
“Alive, we pray.”
“I should think he is, Mr. and Mrs. Dabney.”
“Do you?” Now it was the farmer’s turn to bestow an appraising glance upon Lenox. “I hope you’re right.”
“It would help to know what he was like-what he looked like, what his personality was like, whether he would go anyplace special besides home in a crisis.”
“For the last question, no, I don’t think so-he loved Oxford and Kidderminster most, always said he’d finish in one of the two places. He was a happy child, Mr. Lenox, loved to play on the farm, he did. Knew every animal by name, plowed every row of seed by my side. Which isn’t to say he neglected his studies, however.”
“Always very bright,” added Mrs. Dabney. “Studied very hard, and earned his place at Oxford quite easily.”
“Did you ever meet Tom Stamp or George Payson?”
“Yes indeed, he brought them to Kidderminster,” said Mrs. Dabney. “We have a house to accommodate a number of guests.”
“How long did they stay there?”
“A week, Mr. Lenox, last year. Then went down to Stratford for two nights. Over winter break.”
“What did you make of George Payson?”
“Lovely manners,” said Mr. Dabney. “A fine young lad. Took an interest in the farm as well.”
A picture was forming in Lenox’s mind of Dabney’s character. Solid, proud, middle class, and above all intelligent-that was the part of his personality that everybody from Hatch to Stamp had mentioned. He decided to move on to a more speculative sort of question.
“Would he be the sort of lad to follow George Payson simply out of loyalty? If this case centered on George, for example, rather than the other way around”-Lenox was thinking of the Jesus ball-“would it be like Bill to drop everything to help a friend?”
“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Dabney-but was halted by her husband’s obvious introspection. All three of them fell into a momentary silence.
“Yes, I think so, Mr. Lenox,” he said finally. “You see, in the Midlands we’re slower to change. My family has been on the same farm for three generations. We don’t tend to flash between London and Oxford and the countryside, really. We like to get used to things. We like to stay put. We’re not changeable”
“I see,” said Lenox.
“So I think the answer is yes. Bill would have been very loyal to his friends. Almost stubbornly so, I’d reckon.” He paused. “But with that said, Mr. Lenox, if in fact this matter was primarily about George Payson, bless his soul, why would Bill still be gone? Wouldn’t he have come back?”