“Interesting fellow, isn’t he?” said Jenkins.
“Reliable, though, you think?”
“As I say, I tested him. He seems to be almost perfectly accurate to me. I’ve come to trust him implicitly despite his oddness.”
As they rode back toward Piccadilly and the West End, the two men had a long discussion about the bullet and the September Society, agreeing at the end of it to keep in close contact as they decided on a course of action.
“We have a real interest in this case, as I mentioned,” Jenkins said when they had reached Hampden Lane.
Lenox knew that Jenkins was referring to himself, rather than the Yard, and felt touched. An ally, that was what the young inspector was proving to be. “I’ll write you tomorrow morning,” he promised and said good-bye.
As he climbed the stoop of his house Lenox thought of a long night’s rest. But in the front hallway he found Mary in a state of intense anxiety, pacing and waiting for him.
“Sir, sir!” she said when he came in. “There’s a man here!”
“Who is he?”
“I daren’t say!”
“Where is he?”
“In your study, sir, eating all the food in the house! He insisted, sir!”
“Take a deep breath, Mary. Has Graham not returned?”
“No!”
“Well, let’s see who it is.”
Lenox strode into his library and found a young man, covered in dirt, hair shorn close to his head, clothes disheveled, and eating, as Mary had said, from a massive plate of food. “I’m Charles Lenox. May I help you?” the detective asked.
The young man rose slowly and swallowed his mouthful.
“Perhaps,” he said, in a surprisingly educated voice. “I’m Bill Dabney.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Now,” said Lenox. “May I ask you a few more detailed questions?”
“Of course,” said Dabney. His voice had been polished by Oxford; it lacked the deep melodious quality of the Midlands his father’s voice had, but he was proving just as affable and thoughtful.
Lenox had instantly asked three questions when the two had first faced each other in the library. They were: Do you know who killed George Payson? Does anybody else know where you are? And: What happened? To these Dabney had replied: no, no, and that he wasn’t quite sure. Then Lenox, seeing the pathetic state of the lad’s clothing and the hunted, fearful look in his eyes, had put off his curiosity and asked Mary to draw Dabney a bath and find him some new clothes.
It was about an hour later now, nearing eleven at night, and he looked like a new man in a pair of gray trousers and one of the thick green Scottish sweaters that McConnell’s mother (one of the most charming and eccentric people Lenox had ever met) had sent him for Christmas the year before.
“How did you find me, to begin with?”
“After Payson died I was in Oxfordshire, roaming around the countryside, working toward London. I reckoned that I could disappear more easily here than anywhere else. And I was-I am-terrified by how quickly things went from mysterious to tragic. I have no idea how it happened.”
He seemed to be telling the truth. Inwardly, Lenox sighed. Obviously Payson had taken much of the truth with him when he died. “You made it here, evidently.”
“Yes, I did. I thought of going to Stamp first, but then it occurred to me that everybody knew we were friends, and at any rate I didn’t want to endanger him. So I sent him a card, a September Society card (I had a few, you see, which I nicked off George, just in case-he had been leaving them everywhere), and I wrote on the back of it ’Who can you trust?’ He came straight to you, and I watched you for a day and thought about whether I could trust you. But Stamp had. So I decided to take the risk.”
That explained that mystery. Stamp could probably return to London in peace.
“What is the September Society? How was George involved?”
Dabney threw up his hands. “I don’t know.”
“Why don’t you tell me what happened, then, from the beginning?”
“It all started at the Jesus ball. Stamp, poor chap, had to study for a makeup midyear exam. Collections, they call them at Oxford. So only Payson and I went to Jesus. Stamp and I-we kip together, but you’ll know that-we had noticed George was distracted, wasn’t quite himself. At the ball I confronted him about it.”
“After he met with the middle-aged man out in the quad?”
It was Dabney’s turn to look startled. “Exactly. I asked who the man was.”
“And what did Payson say?”
A look of sadness came into Dabney’s eyes-of deep sadness, of a new, unfamiliar sort that had only just come into his life. He didn’t seem close to breaking down; rather he seemed as if he were just beginning to realize what had happened, now that he had been able to stop running. “Oh, Lord, I wish he weren’t dead. What’s gone wrong?” He buried his face in his hands.
Lenox was silent for a moment, and then said, “Bill?”
“Oh-yes-he only said, ’He knew my father.’ Which was odd, as Payson never spoke about his father.”
“And what then?”
“He said to me, ’Dabs, something has gone wrong’ “-here again the lad paused, devastated-” ’and I may have to vanish for a few weeks.’ I asked him what he meant, and he said that some mystery had arisen about his father and this-this September Society, whatever that is, and then he told me not to worry any more about it. That he had left trail enough in his room if anything went awry.”
Lenox cursed under his breath. “Did he ever mention that trail again? In his room?”
“No.”
“Did he ask you to go with him?”
“On the contrary-I said I was going to go with him and he told me I couldn’t. We had breakfast the morning before he left, and he only said that I shouldn’t worry about him, that I couldn’t go.”
“Then how did you?”
“I caught up just after he had seen his mother. He looked horribly pale and jittery, and I followed him out past Christ Church Meadow.”
Lenox nodded. “South.”
“Precisely. Finally, after the bridge-you know the one, just over the Cherwell down past the lower fields-I simply tapped him on the shoulder. I told him that I was coming whether he liked it or not.”
“Good of you,” said the older man softly.
Dabney shrugged. “It didn’t help. Not in the end.”
“And what did you do?”
“We slept relatively close to town, just past the meadow. He had some food, and I went out and got a bit more at a shop by Magdalen Bridge where not many students go. The next day he went and saw the man again.”
“At the Jesus ball.”
“Lord, you’re omniscient.”
“You didn’t go with him?”
“I did, yes, but George said that I had to hide.”
“What was his attitude like-Payson’s?”
“Hopeful, actually. Jittery, as I say, but he also seemed hopeful. He seemed relieved.” Dabney paused. “Stamp and I always wondered about George’s governor, you see. There were all sorts of rumors. I had the sense that George finally felt proud, for some reason.”
“Proud?”
Dabney nodded firmly. “Yes, proud-and as if it were an adventure, not as if he were afraid. He didn’t seem at all afraid.”
“Can you describe the man he met with?”
“Not well, because I didn’t catch much of his face. Average build, I should say. Dark hair. Whiskers, and perhaps a mustache, though perhaps not. On his throat was-”
“A scar?”
Dabney looked again surprised. “Yes, exactly. A red scar.”
“Lysander,” muttered Lenox. Yet according to Dallington he couldn’t have actually killed Payson. Or could Dallington have missed a trick?
“Who is that?”
“A member of this Society, the September Society.”
“Ah. So.”
“I’m afraid I have to ask you something difficult now, Bill.”
A grim look came onto Dabney’s face. “About his death. Right.”
“Yes,” said Lenox.
“I had gone to get food, you see. We were just running out, and we agreed it was much better that I risk being seen than that he did. It was around nightfall. When I came back with the food, he was-he was dead.”