“Yes,” said Lenox.
“To give you this would be to break a hard and fast rule, you know. You have no claim to that file.”
“I understand.”
Arlington turned back to him. “But your brother could legally request it.” Lenox was silent. “My rule of thumb here has been total honesty. I’ve been guided entirely by the rules that bind me. I can’t change that now. But I’ll send the file to my friend Edmund Lenox this afternoon.” He put the file back in his top drawer, and with a firm nod the subject was closed. “Now, have I heard correctly that Toto wants to name the child Malory?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
W hen Lenox returned to Hampden Lane he found Dallington, carnation firmly established in his buttonhole, his feet up near the fire in Lenox’s favorite armchair, evidently feeling quite at home. He was smoking a cigarette and reading Punch with a small grin on his face.
“Entertaining?” said Lenox.
Dallington turned to him. “Oh-your maid put me in here. Hope that’s all right. Yes, it is, rather,” he added, gesturing toward the magazine. “What’s that parcel you’ve got?”
There was a rectangular package under Lenox’s arm, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. “Oh,” he said vaguely, “just something.”
“Your powers of description would put Wordsworth to shame.” The small grin had grown wider by now. “At any rate, I didn’t come here to josh you.”
“Didn’t you?” Lenox sat down opposite his pupil. “What a lovely surprise.”
“I wanted to ask about the servant who got shot.”
“Oh-yes, it worked out as fortunately as it could have.”
“I’m glad of that.”
“The wound wasn’t serious at all.”
“I saw the bobbies outside. They looked at me as if I might be returning to the scene of the crime when I sidled up here. By the way, you got my note about Theophilus Butler?”
“I did-and about the 12th Suffolk 2nd, thanks. Both a big help. In fact, I’m glad you’re here. I wanted to talk about another assignment.”
Dallington’s eyebrows arched inquisitively. “At your service, of course. Everything’s gone well enough so far, give or take.”
“This task might be a bit more delicate-closer to the heart of the case.”
“May I ask what it is?”
“Do you remember I told you about Lysander?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I think perhaps he murdered George Payson.”
“What!”
“Yes. At any rate, I think he met with Payson before Payson disappeared. Who knows what they talked about.”
“Why? What would his motive have been?”
Lenox laid out the trail of clues connecting the younger George Payson, his father, and the September Society. “So you see, you’ve asked the precise question Goodson and I have been asking ourselves… motive.”
“What can I do?”
“You can put together as accurate a record as possible-you really can’t be too meticulous-of this last week of Lysander’s life. We know, or at least I think I know, that he was in Oxford this weekend, and we know that he and I met two days ago. The rest will need to be sketched in.”
“Any advice?”
“Only that it would be much better that you fail miserably than that you succeed and at the same time tip Lysander off.”
Dallington nodded, his face grave, transformed since only a moment ago. Lenox recognized a flicker of that fire of curiosity and-well, anger that he felt in himself when he worked on cases like this.
“I understand.”
“I hope you do. Please don’t speak to his servants, or anything like that. Hard evidence, his name in the club register-you don’t belong to the Army and Navy, of course? No, well, you’ll know somebody who does. Ask the conductors on the Oxford train, speak to the man who sits on the bench in Green Park all day and watches that row of houses Wilson and Lysander live in-you know they live two doors away from each other?”
“Yes, of course. What man, though? In Green Park?”
“I was speaking figuratively. I mean-be imaginative.”
Dallington nodded again, though less certainly. “Yes, I see what you mean. I’ll do my level best at any rate.”
“Lovely. Oh-and look Lysander up in Who’s Who for a bit of background information. Do you have it? Because it’s somewhere on these shelves…” Lenox peered around the bookcases.
“Father has it, I’ll ask him.”
“All right. And remember-caution. The case’s demands have to be more important than anybody’s ego, yours or mine. It’s no use trapping him dead in a lie if he’s already on a train to Moscow by the time you have.”
“Thanks, Charles. Your trust means the world to me.”
Dallington took up his copy of Punch as he said this, and suddenly Lenox saw the young lord for what he was: a boy. Not five years out of school, and already the misery of his parents, a notorious failure. His bantering manners and air of worldliness-not to say weariness-somehow masked a truer part of him. A part that had already come to the surface in flashes during his brief working relationship with Lenox. Whether it would stay there was another matter entirely.
Dallington left, and Lenox was alone. He sorted through his post, discarded most of it, and then picked up his parcel and went toward the door. He was going over to Jane’s house.
Kirk greeted him with his usual measure of corpulent politeness, then said, “I am sorry to say that her Ladyship is not at home just now.”
“Oh, I know. I was hoping to see Annie, actually.”
Kirk raised his eyebrows almost imperceptibly. “Yes, sir,” he said.
“If it’s not an inconvenient time for her, that is.”
“No, sir, I’m sure it’s not.”
“She has recovered some, then?”
“Very well, sir, yes.”
“If she’s retired-”
“No, sir, she is situated in the second upper drawing room.”
Kirk led Lenox up a long flight of stairs to a wide, rather drab room, prettily furnished, on the second floor. Lady Jane lived primarily in two places: her morning room, a small, beautifully light square where she wrote letters and took her breakfast, and the drawing room Lenox knew so well. This room was new to him. Annie was perched on a long chaise by the window, facing away from the door, her arm in a sling. She didn’t appear to be doing anything particular and tried to crane her neck to see who had entered. Kirk bowed and left the two of them alone-commenting quietly to himself, no doubt, on the impropriety of the situation.
She was a plump woman, rosy-cheeked, maternal in bearing, with the strong arms and sloped back that a lifetime of labor bestowed on so many women of her class. She wore a cheery bonnet and a long, plain gray dress.
“How do you do, Annie? I’m Charles Lenox.” She made the best curtsy she could from her compromised position, and Lenox sat in a chair that had been left close by. “I recognize you, of course, but I’m not certain we’ve met properly.”
Awkwardly, he took her outstretched hand. Then he handed her the parcel Dallington had asked about, saying, “Oh, this is for you, incidentally-just to pass the time.”
She opened it deliberately and cooed over its contents: a few penny dreadfuls, several women’s magazines Lenox had sent Mary to fetch, an ivory-handled comb, and a wax-paper-wrapped bundle of chocolates he had bought himself.
“Why, thank you, Mr. Lenox. How kind of you!”
“Oh, no-we’ve all been ill,” he said, smiling. “The hours do drag on. I remember receiving just such a parcel from my mother when I was at school. It made all the difference.”
“As this shall, too, sir, I’m quite sure.”
“Really I wanted to come apologize, however, Annie.”
“Oh, Mr. Lenox,” she said skeptically, “please don’t think about it.”
“Really; none of this would have happened if it weren’t for me. I’m sorry. If I can ever do you a good turn, simply say the word, won’t you? I do wish it had happened to me rather than you.”
“Don’t mention that, sir. As my lady pointed out, you had no more control over this madman than I did. And to be honest”-her voice fell to a whisper-“it hasn’t been all that bad, having a vacation. Mind, I’m not saying I’d do it again, but it hasn’t been all that bad.”