“Hello there. I was hoping to find Thomas Hallowell here?”
“He’s not on for another half hour, sir.”
“Isn’t he? That’s too bad. Any idea where he might be at the moment?”
“Probably down the pub, sir, having a bite of breakfast.”
“Which one would that be?”
“The Royal Oak, sir, just through that alley.”
“Thanks very much.”
Like so many pubs in England, the Royal Oak was named for the oak tree in Shropshire in which Charles II had hidden from the Commonwealth troops after a key battle in the Civil War. It was an undistinguished pub, with a brass bar, charred wood tables, and low lamps that were always guttering and shifting, casting a sallow light over the dark room. Lenox found Hallowell eating ham and eggs with a mug of coffee at the bar, a vast napkin spread over his chest to avoid disturbing his neatly turned-out suit of clothes. He looked up at the detective when the barman, who had a massive mustache that was wet with beer, asked what Lenox was drinking.
“A half of mild, then,” said Lenox and put his change on the stile.
“Mr. Lenox?” asked Hallowell, looking disconcerted.
“That’s right. Hope you don’t mind my coming to see you.”
“No, not at all-only I don’t know anything else about the murder, or I would have come to see you.”
“Actually I know a bit more, and I was hoping to ask you a question or two.”
The man looked doubtful.
“Nothing to incriminate anybody at either club-only background, you see. We’re all pushing in the same direction, the members of the club and me and you. But you know them. Like their privacy, don’t they?”
He nodded knowingly. “Aye, that’s right.”
“So they might not recognize quickly enough that we’re all on the same side.”
Thomas nodded again, and Lenox knew that he had license to ask his questions. “What I really want to know about is Peter Wilson, Tom.”
“Major Wilson? He was a nice enough old chap-quite military, you know, very orderly and all.”
“Did he get on well with all the others?”
“In the Society?”
“Right.”
“Yes, he seemed to. He was close with a chap named Allen-Lieutenant Allen, we call him.”
“A regular?”
“No-not a regular, exactly, but came in pretty often with the major.”
“Who are the most regular Society members?”
“Oh, there are seven or eight.”
“Major Butler? Captain Lysander?”
“Yes, certainly.”
“Major Wilson?”
“Not as often-about half as often. Though they all come in for the meetings.”
“Meetings?”
“There’s a Society meeting every month, and they usually get a quorum then-three-quarters of the members. We have to stay late for those. But for the September meeting, we get the night off.”
“Has that just happened? The September meeting?”
Hallowell shook his head. “Not till Monday. I’ve been looking forward to the free night.”
“Do you know anything about the meeting?”
“No-oh, except by courtesy the Biblius don’t come, either. Same way when the Biblius have their meeting, in June. Though we doormen are meant to be there then.”
“How about the cook and the footmen? Do they go to the September meeting?”
“No, sir, only their personal butler, who was in the military with them-a private, I guess, we call him Private Dove.”
“And he’s there for the September meeting?”
“Oh, he’s always there. Lives in the attic.”
Changing tacks, Lenox said, “And Major Wilson, he was sound? More polite than Lysander, for example, or Butler?”
“Yes, sir, I’d say so.”
“Did he ever seem low in his spirits?”
“Oh, no, sir, the opposite-he was the only one who always had a good word for you. About the weather, about the society pages… nice to have a few minutes pass by in conversation, it was. I was sorry to see him go.”
The man obviously had a brightness and quickness that were going to waste in his job. The perfect spy, in other words.
“Would you mind meeting again, Thomas? I can’t say how helpful you’ve been.”
He nodded circumspectly. “Yes, I suppose.”
“Can I generally catch you here around this time?”
“Generally.”
“All right. Good. Excellent. And you must let me buy your breakfast-the least I can do.”
Lenox laid a few more coins in the bartender’s palm, nodded to Hallowell, and walked past the drinking men, slumped low at their tables, and out again into the gray, wet air. It was almost a relief after the dismal and smoke-stained pub.
When he returned home wet, Mary fussed over him, taking his coat and shoes and thrusting him by the fire with a glass of hot wine, which he took a sip of and then ignored.
The fire was bright and lovely, though, and again his thoughts fell to the case, circling and circling around its perimeter, looking for the hidden point of access to its heart. Could it be as simple as a scar on a neck-was Lysander Geoffrey Canterbury, and was Geoffrey Canterbury the murderer? What were they after, these people? How did they all live so comfortably on their army pensions-beyond their army pensions? (For, of course, Green Park Terrace was an exclusive and expensive place.)
Nearing noon, just as he had taken up Felix Holt to read, there was a knock at the front door. He first heard Mary go to the door and then a low, unclear, but obviously urgent conversation that pulled him out of his chair. He stood indecisively, trying to hear the murmurs. After a moment Mary pulled open the double doors of the library, and Lenox saw that the person at the door had been George Payson’s friend and Bill Dabney’s roommate, Tom Stamp.
“Tom, how can I help you? Have a seat, have a seat.”
The young man looked pale. “Mr. Lenox, I couldn’t turn to anybody else.”
“Why, what’s happened?”
Stamp paused and gulped for air; obviously he had made haste in coming. “I think I’m going to be killed-I think they’re after me, whoever they are.”
“Why do you think so?”
“Look at this.”
Stamp produced a September Society card.
“Turn it over,” he said.
On its reverse was written, Who can you trust?
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
D o you recognize the handwriting?” Lenox asked. “I suppose not-perhaps a better way of asking the question is: Do you think the writer was trying to disguise his handwriting?”
It was some minutes later, and Mary had produced a glass of brandy and the dusty bottle for Stamp, who was slumped low in the other armchair by the fireplace. Ashen and dismayed, one of his two best friends recently dead, he seemed worlds away from the jovial and high-spirited young man Lenox had met in Lincoln’s Grove Quad less than a week ago. There was no fight in him-at the moment, anyway.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Stamp. “Who can say?”
“It’s important-could it be Dabney’s handwriting? Hatch’s?”
“No, no, I don’t think either of them. If it is disguised, it’s so the police can’t match it down the road, I bet.”
Well, of course, Lenox thought, for the first time in their unproductive conversation verging on impatience. But would somebody from the September Society be so incredibly brazen? Dallington’s report on Lysander’s whereabouts for the last week would be useful about now.
After another desultory half hour of interrogation, most of it devoted to Lenox reassuring Stamp, the detective left his young friend with a chop and a glass of decent Madeira for a late lunch. They had decided that Stamp would go to an uncle in the north for a few days, if not until the case had been solved. Lenox bade him farewell and left, intending to find his brother.
First, though, he stopped at McConnell’s. He found the doctor, his wife, and Lady Jane in the small anteroom again. Jane was knitting something-a shawl for Toto, as it turned out-and when he heard the familiar, intimate sound of her needles clicking he almost dropped to one knee and asked her to marry him then and there. He didn’t know how many more small moments of her goodness, of her strength and intelligence and well-ordered generosity, he could take.