A Stranger in Mayfair

Chapter Ten

An interview with Jenny Rogers left Dallington perhaps half in love-she was extremely soft-spoken, with an endearing way of furrowing her forehead to show how intently she was listening-but yielded little helpful information. What was most interesting to Lenox was that she seemed genuinely sad to have lost her friend. It made Frederick Clarke more real, made his death seem graver, when she talked with a smile on her face about him.

She had been working at the Starlinghouse for a year. “I’ll never forget,” she said, “at the end of my first week he took a piece of the cake they was having upstairs-Mr. Starling’s cake,” she added, remembering he was there, “and put a candle in it for me. ‘Happy first week,’ he said.”

As far as she could recall, she had never seen him wear a gray suit or a gold ring, or indeed anything other than his footman’s livery. He always had his nose in a book.

She had oberved occasionally in the past that he had scrapes on his hands.

“Occasionally,” murmured Lenox after she had been dismissed down the opposite hallway (the staff were segregated in their sleeping quarters, men down one hall and women down another). “If it was an ongoing condition it means there’s no significance in their directly preceding his death.”

“They still might be related.”

“Perhaps.”

Betsy Mints was even less helpful than Jenny Rogers. A small, thick woman, she had a deeply stupid face that was red from the constant heat of cooking over fire. In conversation, however, she was witty enough, in a voluble northern way. Her experiences with Frederick Clarke were extremely limited. She thought he was quite handsome, very efficient, and rather rum-quiet, inward, that is to say-but that was the extent of her analysis of his character.

Lenox had higher hopes for Jack Collingwood, the young butler. For one thing he directly supervised Clarke. Lenox and Dallington sat at a table with him while Ludo hovered anxiously behind.

“I apologize for the lateness of our meeting,” said Lenox.

“Not at all, sir.”

“It’s nearly ten o’clock. You must be off soon.”

“Yes, sir.”

“From what I understand, Frederick Clarke was a good footman?”

“Entirely blameless in the conduct of his professional duties, sir.”

“Did you like him?”

“Like him, sir?”

“Were you friends?”

“No, sir.”

“What was your impression of his character?”

“Mr. Clarke was quiet and studious. He preferred to be in his room, reading, if he had spare time. He spoke to me once or twice about going back to school. I dissuaded him from it, of course. He was excellent in his work and could have risen to be a butler in due time.” This said as if there could be no higher conceivable ambition.

“Who do you think killed him?”

“I have no idea whatsoever, sir. A vagrant, I might venture.”

“But to what end? Did he carry money?”

“No, sir. He and I both have our wages deposited in Mr. Starling’s bank, and I never saw Mr. Clarke spend his on anything. As for household money, that is my province exclusively.”

“What was his day off?”

“Thursday, sir.”

“That’s all?”

“The family eats a cold collation after church services, following which the servants have Sunday afternoon to themselves.”

“Did he leave the house or stay in?”

“Left, sir, invariably. That’s quite usual, however.”

“Did you ever see him wear a gray suit?”

“No, sir.”

“Or wearing a gold ring?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you ever celebrate his birthday?”

“No, sir.”

“And you saw cuts or scabs on his hands?”

“Yes, sir. I reprimanded him once-his only reprimand-for having unsuitable hands. Of course under his white gloves it didn’t matter, but then it’s the principle of the thing, I believe.”

“Did you ask him where he got them?”

“No, sir.”

Lenox sighed. “I take it you’ve spoken to Inspector Fowler?”

“He has,” interjected Ludo.

“I can find out more from him, but what were you doing at the time of his murder?”

“I was here, sir, with Jenny and Betsy.”

“So I understood. Why did he go out?”

“To fetch the bootblack.”

“Did he speak of meeting anybody?”

“As I told Mr. Fowler, no.”

“Is it normal for one of you to leave so soon before dinner?”

“Oh, yes, sir. There are always last-moment tasks.”

“Well, thank you, Mr. Collingwood.”

“Yes, sir.”

When Collingwood had walked down Frederick Clarke’s old hall, Ludo motioned Dallington and Lenox up the narrow staircase to the ground floor of the house.

“Mr. Starling, is your family about?” asked Dallington.

“Why do you ask?” said Ludo.

“It would be useful to speak to them.”

“The boys are out. They generally are at night. Elizabeth will have been retired this hour or more.”

“Perhaps tomorrow,” said Lenox. “Would you mind if Dallington attended the funeral?”

“No,” said Ludo, though looking as if he rather would. “You can’t attend?”

“Meetings.”

Ludo looked relieved. “Shall we just let the Yard handle it, after all?”

“With your permission, I would like to keep an eye on it,” said Lenox. “Grayson Fowler is an excellent detective. Still. I can’t quite identify what bothers me so much, but it’s there.”

“Well-all right.” They were now in the entrance hall. “Good night.”

Just as Lenox and Dallington said good night, however, a voice stopped them. “Who’s there?” rang out from the drawing room in a cranky old tone.

“Only a couple of friends, Uncle Tiberius,” said Ludo in an agitated way. “We’re on our way out.” He added in a confidential tone, “I’ll come along and go to my club. I rather fancy a hand of whist.”

“Wait!” cried the old man. He appeared in the doorway, holding a candle and dressed in a rumpled suit. “Is it the inspector again? I want to speak to the inspector!”

“No-only my friends,” said Ludo. He looked irritated. “John Dallington, Charles Lenox, may I please introduce you to my father’s uncle, Tiberius Starling.”

“How do you do?” the two visitors asked.

“I remembered something to tell the inspector.”

“It can wait until tomorrow.”

“We’re acting as inspectors, too,” said Dallington mildly, earning for his troubles a look of pure vexation from Ludo, who was almost physically harrying them out. They paused by the door.

“Good, good,” said the old man. “I remembered something about Clarke. The packets.”

“What packets, blast them?” asked Ludo.

“Under the servants’ door,” said Tiberius. He looked at Dallington. “I sit down there, you see, because they have that cooks’ fire. It warms up these old bones. One day I was alone down there-it was Sunday morning-and a packet came under the door. I hobbled over to fetch it for ’em, and it was unsigned. I opened it, and what do you think was inside?”

“What?” asked Dallington.

“A note! A white note, worth a pound! Not even a coin!”

Money. All notes issued by the Bank of England were printed in black on one side and blank on the reverse and were called white notes.

“Oh?” said Lenox.

“I thought it was empty-that’s why I opened it-but down marched Frederick Clarke, who by rights should have been out on a Sunday, and he told me it was his, he was expecting it. I asked what was inside, to test him, you see, and he told me. Well, I had no choice but to give it to him then.”

“You said packets, plural.”

“It happened again two Sundays later, but he was there to scoop it up before I did.”

“Why did you never tell me this, Uncle?” said Ludo.

“Forgot. But now he’s dead-rich as he would please.”

“How much did you pay him a year, may I ask, Ludo?” said Lenox.

“Twenty pounds.”

Dallington was shocked. “My God, how dismal!”

“It’s on the lower side, yes, but that includes room and board, of course,” said Ludo, bristling.

“I’m sorry-quite sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. I haven’t any idea what any servant earns.”

Lenox ignored this all, deep in thought. At last he said, “Five percent of his yearly wage, slipped under the door so nonchalantly. What was that young man doing with his life, I wonder?”