A Death in the Small Hours

CHAPTER NINETEEN

When they reached Mr. Carmody in number thirteen, and an upper maid admitted them to a sitting room to wait, Lenox’s heart rose. From the armchair by the window, surrounded by snuffboxes and opened letters, it was clear that Carmody spent a great deal of time here, and the window itself offered a perfect vantage on the town’s green. With luck they might discover the identity of Weston’s murderer in the next ten minutes.

Carmody himself shuffled in, and Oates, Fripp, and Lenox rose to greet him. He was a gray-haired man, taciturn perhaps but not in bad condition, whose shape was rather like that of a snowman, with especial prominence to the roundness of his middle figure. Everything about his personage and this small chamber, with its japanned table of decanters, its piles of books, its soft furniture, indicated a life of ease and comfort.

“Mr. Lenox, I presume!” said the man. “Pleased to meet you, sir.”

“The pleasure is mine.”

“Yes, Oates, I see you. Hello. Tea, gentlemen?”

“No, thank you,” said Lenox. “If you could tell us—”

“Of course it should be sherry, at this hour. Esmeralda, two glasses — no, four, why not, Oates and Fripp, it’s not every day you sit with gentlemen, I know, but—”

“Please,” said Lenox, “I thank you but I would prefer to keep my wits. If you could simply tell us—”

“Nothing sharpens the wits quite like a sip of something at six o’clock, I say. There she is with the glasses. No, not this sweet nonsense, Esmeralda,” he said, taking a bottle from the maid. “Bring me the Oloroso, of course. No, hold that thought, the Fino, yes, I think Mr. Lenox will like the Fino. You may pour for Mr. Oates and Mr. Fripp from the bottle you have in hand, however. Mr. Lenox, you heard from Mr. Fripp of my occupation?”

“No, sir.”

“I imported wine, for many years. Go to Covent Garden and see if they know G. F. Carmody, just you see.”

“I’ve no doubt—”

“Retired fifteen years—”

“If—”

“Or was it sixteen, Fripp? How long have I been coming to your shop?”

“If we could just—” said Lenox, but was again interrupted, as Esmeralda returned with a new bottle of sherry.

Carmody watched its decantation greedily and then, not quite smacking his lips — but not not smacking his lips either, for what sense that makes — raised it to his mouth. The sigh he gave after swallowing a tot of the liquid was one of a man at peace with the world.

Lenox, out of politeness and exigency, took a large gulp, found it burned his throat, and set the wine down. “Thank you. Now—”

“What d’you make of that, Mr. Lenox?”

“Very nice,” he said.

“Very nice! If I told the boys in Covent Garden that you called a twelve-year Fino very nice, one hand-selected by G. F. Carmody, I wonder what they would say.” Carmody chortled at the possibilities. “My, oh my. No, but the palette, sir, consult the palette. Do you not find an oakish taste to it, something that lays off the sweetness of the first impression, something of the old—”

“Oh, yes, rather, just so,” said Lenox desperately. “But about—”

“Yes, yes, the boy. Terrible pity.” Carmody took another sip and then set about prying open a small, mother-of-pearl snuffbox, hideously inlaid with a pink tile outline of what appeared to be a donkey. “Ah, you see my snuffbox, sir? Presented me by Don Pedro Sousa himself, with an image of a Spanish stallion, representative of our mutual strength. Ask the boys in Covent Garden about Don Pedro Sousa.”

Lenox nodded. “As to Weston—”

“Of course, you are all in haste. I understand. Let me just—” He took a moment or two — what seemed to Lenox like several hours — applying snuff to the inside of one nostril and inhaling it, then repeating the procedure on the other side. “Yes. Weston. Sadly I saw nothing of what occurred on the green. I would have been abed for an hour or two, at least, by the time I hear it must have happened.”

This was a disappointment. “But you saw something?”

“Two things, in fact. I am of a rather stout build, you may see, Mr. Lenox, and I find a walk after supper a eupeptic diversion — most salubrious, in fact. Yesterday evening I was dining with a friend, Mr. Hugo Fish.”

Oates, whose sherry had vanished, and Fripp, whose sherry was untouched, both nodded to indicate that they knew the gentleman in question. “Go on,” said Lenox.

“Consequently my evening constitutional began much later than usual. I took the path to Epping Forest, a quarter of a mile east of here—”

“At what time of evening?” said Lenox.

“It must have been past ten thirty.”

“What did you see?”

“I go by there rather often, two or three times a week, and I have never seen what I saw then — to be precise, two horses hitched up against a tree together, chewing from oatbags. Quite alone.”

“You didn’t recognize the horses?”

“No.”

“Were they well saddled?”

“It was dark, you understand, but they appeared to be decently turned out.”

“Were you close to the path, or off it?”

“Oh, I know these woods quite well, Mr. Lenox. I couldn’t possibly get lost in them. And then it was rather a fullish moon. I was off the path.”

So whoever had left the horses there had at least tried to conceal them. It was obvious why, if they had business with Weston, they hadn’t wanted to come to town on the evening coach. It was not a busy route. A coachman upon his reguler route would have remembered two strange faces.

Why had they come so early, if they hadn’t met Weston until well after midnight? What had they been doing away from their horses in the interim?

“You say you saw two things?”

“Yes.”

“And the second?”

“Upon my return, I saw Captain Musgrave, stalking across the green with that great animal of his.”

“Did he see you?”

“No.”

“Was this before or after the pubs had let out?”

“I walked for an hour, or thereabouts.”

“After, then. Did he seem agitated? Was he walking quickly, slowly?”

“There was nothing remarkable about his conduct, as far as I could ascertain,” said Carmody. “He walked as men will walk.”

“Did you see Weston?”

“I did not.”

“Did you look to the corner of the green, next to the church, where he lived?”

“It’s a small green, Mr. Lenox. I would have seen him. Ah, I see you find the sherry to your taste, now.” Lenox had taken another sip, distractedly. “Esmeralda!”

“No, you’re too kind, but I’m afraid we have urgent— Thank you, Mr. Carmody.”

“Would you leave in such haste? Esmeralda! Please, I entreat you, sit, Mr. Lenox,” said Carmody, “for one more glass.”

“I apologize,” said Lenox. “I must be on my way. Oates? Fripp?”

Both touched their caps to Carmody. When they were on his steps, Oates a ways ahead of them, Fripp whispered, “Wanted to tell Mr. Fish he had two glasses of sherry with you, I reckon. More social, less official, like. Does that help?”

“Enormously,” said Lenox. “Thank you. Mr. Oates, which way is it to Dr. Eastwood’s, from here? The light is going and I should still like to see both him and Captain Musgrave.”

“Musgrave, this late in the day?”

“Yes. I should especially like to see him,” said Lenox.