After that it took a great deal of time to sort everything out, and by then the pain in Lenox’s chest was more and more intense. McConnell gave him a solution in water from his medical kit, which helped slightly. Still, though, he decided that Jenkins could handle the questioning for that evening.
Just then, two constables came clattering up the stairs and into the room. Only one of them spoke, a small, strong-looking chap.
“Inspector Jenkins, sir, begging a moment of your time.”
“Yes, Constable Roland?”
“During our search of the club’s premises, we found something, sir.” Here Roland paused.
“Well?”
“Lawrence and I have brought it-here you are, sir. Among a great lot of treasure hidden in the wall.”
Here the constable, who had probably never seen more than twenty pounds put together in his life, pulled from his pocket a large, sparkling, pristine sapphire, of the darkest blue.
They had all heard James Payson refer to the stone; nevertheless, there was a sharp intake of breath across the room.
It was McConnell who spoke at last. “Not my area,” he said softly, “and I wouldn’t claim any special knowledge-but-but do you think I could hold it, for a moment, Constable? Thank you, thank you.” He accepted it on his handkerchief. “My God, my God! It’s four times the size of the Star of Bombay! Look at this rock! Insoluble, infusible, and above all perfectly faceted! My God!”
The whole room watched the doctor.
“There are only four truly precious stones,” he went on. “Emeralds, diamonds, and rubies-which are only red sapphires-and then these… it would be impossible to put a price on it! I don’t think the headman of that village scavenged this, Mr. Payson… this must have come down through the generations. Look how perfectly it’s cut! Why, there aren’t a dozen people on this planet who can afford this, and only a handful more governments! Well, thank you for letting me see it,” he said, handing the sapphire to Jenkins. “Thank you from the bottom of my heart.”
Everybody in the room took turns examining it until finally Jenkins and the two constables bore it to a waiting brougham with a holy air. (“And you brought it to the heart of Eastcheap, you fathead?” said Jenkins.) Then the group sorted themselves out and arranged their departure.
What a strange matter it had been! Full of mistaken identity and misplaced trust. Even at this early stage Lenox could admit to himself that it had been one of his poorer efforts-marked by minor successes and major lapses. He couldn’t blame himself entirely, though. He had been in love.
In the end it was Dallington who took him back to Hampden Lane. McConnell had freshly dressed his bandages and given him several packets of the pain solution, along with a promise to come by early the next morning, but he had been anxious to go home and check on Toto. They had finally settled on a name that both of them liked: Bella McConnell. It was a beautiful name, Lenox agreed-beautiful enough even to justify all the arguments that came before it.
In the carriage Dallington spoke quietly. “Will you make it through the night, then? Your wound, I mean.”
“Oh, yes, I should say so. For which you deserve a great deal of the credit.”
“I was pretty dashing, wasn’t I?” said the young man with the first sign of his old grin. “Still, I’m sorry to have made it as close as it was.”
As he climbed the stairs of his house, Lenox felt sore, relieved, and exhausted-but on the fringe of those feelings was a sort of affection as well. In this short, fraught time he had come to be truly fond of Dallington.
Graham still hadn’t come home, and so in the front hallway it was Mary who exclaimed over his wound and took his overcoat. A cheerful constable named Addington was there as well and promised to stay the night. Lenox thanked him, asked Mary to find him some food, and then turned up the hallway toward the prospect of a nice smoke and some time alone in his library. It would be paradise, he thought.
But a different kind of paradise awaited him there. When Mary opened the doors Lenox saw that Lady Jane was sitting on the sofa, not even pretending to read.
“Oh, Charles!” she said, rising and rushing to his side. “Come sit next to me. Are you comfortable? Is it true what Addington says, you’ve been shot? Charles, how could you?”
Here she burst into unrestrained tears, which fell down her pale cheeks in little rivers. She clasped his hand tightly in hers. All the awkwardness of their last meeting was forgotten, and their old ease returned.
Laughing a little, Lenox said, “I’m awfully sorry. But it’s not even bleeding any longer, look!”
She laughed, too, in a hiccupping way, her spent nerves spilling over, and dried her eyes with Lenox’s handkerchief. In her plain pink dress and blue shawl, her hair falling in curls behind her ears, her large eyes bright and wet, she had never looked more beautiful to her friend. He wasn’t sure what he saw precisely-simply some light that began in her and radiated out, which made her golden and lovely. Which made her Jane.
“What was it that happened, Charles?” she said.
“I was foolish enough to hide behind some curtains, and a bullet grazed me just here, between my left arm and my side. McConnell says it won’t hurt for more than two or three days, though. More important, did you hear about little Bella?”
She laughed again, and finally her eyes were dry. Still, though, she hadn’t let go of his hand. “I like it, don’t you?”
“I think it’s a perfect name,” he agreed.
“Toto’s so happy, too.”
“And McConnell couldn’t wait to find his way home this evening.”
Then, suddenly, the conversation stopped. They were still looking into each other’s eyes, but for the first time in their long friendship neither of them could say anything. At last Lenox said, “Michael Pierce, the man I met at your house, he was-”
“He asked me to marry him, Charles.”
Lenox managed to say, “He seemed like a decent fellow when we met, though it wasn’t for long. I would-”
“I said no, of course.”
Their hands were still together, their eyes still met.
“Where have you been, Jane? What have you been doing, these past weeks? I feel as if my best friend were a ghost. What were you doing in the Seven Dials?” Preemptively, he added, “I saw you there accidentally, I promise.”
“Of course I believe you, Charles. Of course.” Hesitantly, gingerly, she went on. “As I told you, Michael is my brother’s friend.”
“Yes,” he said, his heart racing.
“It’s simple enough. He was at Eton with my brother, and they became friends on the rugby pitch-but Michael was always wild, never a very good student. After his classmates went to university, he came to London and became a dilettante, a wastrel. He drank in low and high company alike. He even”-she shuddered-“he behaved badly. Until one night outside a public house in the Seven Dials, when a man named Peter Puddle tried to rob him at knifepoint. Michael was carrying a loaded blackjack and dealt him a blow to the head and-and killed him, Charles.”
There was utter silence in the room.
“Michael’s uncle, Lord Holdernesse, and my brother were the only two men who knew the secret. Lord Holdernesse arranged his transit to the colonies, and paid Peter Puddle’s wife and children a weekly remittance and bought them a small house in the Dials. When he died, my brother began to pay the remittance and took me into his confidence; and for years now, three years I suppose, I’ve visited them one morning each week.
“At first they were sullenly respectful toward me-then friendlier-and finally a real friendship has sprung up between us. But then Michael returned, last month.”
It was all so clear now, Lenox thought.
“He was rich, and wanted to make amends; and since he returned I’ve been visiting them not in my spare morning hours but nearly every day, trying to broker some kind of peace-to give Michael, whom my brother loves, some sort of redemption.”
“You needn’t say another word,” Lenox answered, “and if I’ve been rude enough and unkind enough to question you, or make you feel accountable to me-I’m so sorry.”