A Death in the Small Hours

CHAPTER NINE

From a distant part of the house a cry went up. “Is that the child?” asked Frederick.

“It is, but I must not go to her. Miss Taylor would be fierce with me indeed if I should. Tell me, who do you suspect of these crimes?”

“Still, it’s late, now, and you’ve had a long day’s travel. Shall we go on in the morning?”

“If you prefer it.”

Frederick’s slightly plump, kind face took on again a troubled aspect. “In truth I would like to tell you all now.”

“Are you not tired?”

“Me? It’s the deuce of a thing, getting older, but I will say in its favor that one sleeps less — and no worse. I spend many hours in this particular nook, in fact, when the rest of the house has gone to bed. And d’you know, I find it rather cozy.”

“It’s an eligible sort of room,” said Lenox.

“I could never use my father’s study — the large one. Too much room to think. Here I have my telescope”—he gestured toward the window—“and my books, my papers, and a drop of something to drink. No, I am happy to stay up with you.”

“Perhaps you will give me all the facts now, then.”

Fate intervened, however. There was a soft knock on the door and without was Kirk, who said, “Begging your pardon, sir, Lady Jane would like a word with you.”

“Tell her I’ll light along in a moment,” said Lenox, and when the butler had gone, said to his uncle, “Here, then, quickly tell me—”

Frederick had risen and was tapping out the ash of his pipe. “No, it’s late. Tomorrow I’ll give you luncheon, if you like, and we may talk about it then. Good night. It is pleasant to have you here, though — I say, it is.”

As he mounted the stairs toward the small set of rooms that his cousin had allotted him and his family, in the old, east wing of the house, Lenox felt rather glad that they would leave some until tomorrow. He was tired. Perhaps the port had gone to his head? Or perhaps it was only the swirl of a long day, a quickly planned journey, the still fresh prospect of the speech …

Jane was in a chair by her window, feet tucked under her, a blue shawl of wool wrapped around her shoulders, reading. She smiled when she saw him and put down her book. “There you are.”

“Hello, my dear,” he said, and bent down to affix a kiss to her cheek. For some reason he didn’t feel inclined to tell her that Frederick was giving up the house; tomorrow he would.

She received his kiss very becomingly, and took his hand. “Did I interrupt you?”

“No, or leastwise not in anything significant.”

“Your uncle must be happy to have you here.”

“And I’m happy to be here. I hope you are, too?”

“Oh, yes. I only called you up because I wanted a sort of family reunion.”

“A reunion?”

She pointed. “Look, in the corner.”

Sophia was there, in her bassinet. “You overrode Miss Taylor, then?”

“Yes, I said we would take her in here for the evening. I know it’s self-indulgent, and Miss Taylor began to be cross with me, but in a new place, I thought — and then, she quieted down right away.”

Lenox smiled. “I heard her cry.”

Lady Jane stood up. “She’s asleep, now.”

They spent ten or so minutes, then, in admiring their daughter, the kind of minutes that pass slowly for a stranger introduced to a baby — for even the most precocious infant’s conversation cannot be admitted as very sparkling — but which seems to pass in the instant of a breath for two parents. Her skin, which Lenox brushed with the back of his finger, was so warm, and soft! It reminded him of a warm bed on a wet night, of the sun on a mild summer’s day, out by a lazy stream — of every comforting thing.

At last they left the child alone. Lenox began to take out his cufflinks and Lady Jane returned to her chair and her book.

Soon she was laughing. “What’s that?” asked her husband.

“Only Through the Looking-Glass.” She had undertaken a project of re-reading her favorite children’s books, in order to begin to build a library for little Sophia to hear before bed each evening when she reached a more advanced age. “This part reminds me of us, when Alice and the Queen are running in place.”

He went into the small study adjacent to their bedroom and poured a glass of water from the jug left on his desk. “May I hear it?” he asked as he came back through to the bedroom.

So she read out loud:

Lenox laughed but said, “How does it remind you of us?”

“It reminds me of you, you goose. All of your callers yesterday — was that not running in place? Here you may work properly.”

“Just so,” he said.

“It’s not far different for me. Nothing social — nothing more taxing than a walk with Sophia, you know. It’s lovely.” She put down her book and stifled a yawn. “I think I must go in to sleep, now. Will you be up long?”

“Only a few minutes more.”

“Good.” She stood up. “It’s a funny book, but I think I prefer Wonderland. Sophia will like it better, too — I know she will.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

He kissed her and returned to the small study and sat down. Kirk had laid out his papers, his royal dispatch bag, and his blue books — those slim Parliamentary files on the issues of the day, which each member of the House received in avalanches. There was also a fresh notebook in which he might write.

On its first page he found himself sketching out pictures of the hanging man and the black dog.

Soon he was writing in earnest. He made a small map from memory of the locations of the four vandalisms, deciding he would check it tomorrow — it had been many years since he was resident in Plumbley, after all — and at each location wrote a short list of questions to ask. “What sort of paint?” “Who found and reported each one?” “Connections?”

He was by no means convinced that a schoolboy was not in the end behind it all, despite the efforts of Frederick, of Mr. Kempe, of Dr. Eastwood, and of Mr. Crofts. Yet if an adult had been breaking windows and painting doorways around the town of Plumbley, what could have been his motivation? Did the images convey a message? Or were they only some unhappy soul’s bad-natured purgation?

Lenox’s own black dog was by his feet, at the moment, Bear, along with his golden companion, Rabbit. They had come down with Kirk in the coach. They were gentle creatures, two retrievers, a present from Lady Jane.

“Why would they’ve painted a dog like you?” said Lenox in a soft voice.

Of course in folk tradition a black dog meant death. All of the images were therefore deathly, except perhaps the Roman numeral. It made him wonder whether that was the one upon which he should concentrate.

He decided that after he had had the remainder of the story from his uncle, he would go into town and see Fripp, the victim of the first vandalism, and perhaps the grain merchant, Wells. Fripp anyhow was an old friend, and might have some information.

Upon making that decision Lenox set aside his notepad and endeavored to read a blue book upon the subject of rural education in Scotland. He had been much in the committee rooms that produced the report, and felt very strongly on the issue, yet his mind kept circling back to the Roman numeral and the black dog, wondering what they meant, and the broken windows, too.

But of course it was pointless. He had very little information still. With a sigh he snuffed out his candle, patted the dogs on the head, took a final sip of water, and started out for bed, obscurely dissatisfied.