A Stranger in Mayfair

Chapter Twelve

What was the proper form for a servant’s funeral? In general one attended, but then in general the deceased was old and respectable. What if there was the strong prospect of a title, which only scandal could preclude?

The moment Lenox laid eyes on Ludo Starling it was clear the man had been mulling over these questions all morning. In the event Ludo and his wife were present, but Tiberius and the Starling boys weren’t. Jack Collingwood, Jenny Rogers, and Betsy Mints sat in the second row. Alone in the first row was a large, thin woman, perhaps fifty years old but still well-looking, horsey and countryish. She wore a straw mourning bonnet, black, with a deep black crepe ribbon, a soft black gown, and a dark veil. When she turned back Lenox saw that she was rather plain-faced, but somehow still attractive.

“That must be the boy’s mother,” he whispered to Dallington as they took their seats several rows back. “The place of honor.”

“Don’t you feel a bit dodgy here?” asked the young lord. “We didn’t know him.”

Lenox nodded gravely. “Even so, we owe him our best, and this is a singular opportunity to see who he knew and what he was like.”

The funeral took place in a small, appealing Mayfair church, St. George’s, which Lenox knew the Starling family had generously endowed over the years. It was a distinguished building with tall white columns in front, steep stairs to the front door, and a high bell tower overhead, part of the Fifty Churches Act that Parliament had passed in the early eighteenth century at the behest of Queen Anne, to keep up with London’s expansion in population. A pious woman, Anne had wanted to ensure that all of her subjects were close to a church. In the end the project fell well short of its target-a dozen churches or so had gone up-but they had left their mark. The great architect Nicholas Hawksmoor had built many of them, and even the ones he didn’t build (like this) were in his style. They were called Queen Anne’s Churches now-all much of a piece, beautiful, high, very white, and somewhat severe. Given Ludo’s newfound affinity for discretion, it was surprising to find the service held in a firmly aristocratic church.

The most striking occurrence at the funeral happened just before the service began. With the church already full, six footmen in identical livery marched somberly down the center aisle and took an empty pew. They made for an arresting picture.

“I’d like to speak to them,” said Dallington.

“Perhaps they were his real friends. It wouldn’t surprise me. He couldn’t have been proper friends with either of the women in his house or Collingwood, his superior among the staff.”

“True, and he lived along that row of houses. All the footmen would have been in the alley constantly.”

“Precisely.”

The service was a modest one, without music save for Bach’s St. Matthew Passion at the recession. Funerals in London tended to be grandiose (at one last year, Lenox had seen a procession of mutes and jugglers before the coffin), but this was a plain old English service-rather touching in its simplicity.

One rather strange absence was that of Inspector Grayson Fowler of Scotland Yard. Perhaps the feeling of propriety that had nettled Dallington kept him away, but Lenox doubted it. Fowler was a particular type-old, grizzled, disagreeable to most people, and extremely sharp-witted. He was well past fifty years of age, and in his many years on the force had been one of the few people at the Yard of whom Lenox had entirely approved. In turn he had always liked Lenox, who had talked over cases with him many a time, interpreting clues and prodding theories to find their soft spots. Lenox decided that he would visit Scotland Yard that night, despite the curt note he had received when he tried to contact Fowler before. Perhaps it had been a bad day.

As they stood on the steps of the church after the funeral, nobody seemed quite sure what to do. A reception would have been appropriate, but Ludo hadn’t mentioned one, and the boy’s mother was from out of town-and an old family servant! It was shabby of Ludo, actually, and thus it made Lenox doubly glad when one of the six footmen did something gallant. He was a red-haired, freckled, very young-looking man.

To the group he said, “Since we appear to be at loose ends, may my friends and I invite you all to the second floor of the Bricklayers’ Arms? It’s one street down, and Freddie often enjoyed a pint there. Mrs. Clarke, may I take your arm?”

“Oh-yes,” stammered Ludo. “Here, I insist upon buying a round.” He fumbled through his pockets and came up with a note, which the footman had the good manners to accept.

“Freddie,” murmured Lenox to Dallington.

“Maybe I’ll buy a round as well. Come along?”

“Graham will murder me if I don’t get back. Come see me tonight though, will you?”

“Yes, of course.”

A ragged procession had already begun down the street, and Dallington ran up to join it. Lenox sidled up to Ludo Starling.

“Where is the boy’s mother staying?” he asked. “With you, I assume?”

“No. We offered.”

“You don’t know where?”

“A hotel in Hammersmith.”

“But that’s miles and miles away.”

Ludo shrugged. “We offered, as I say.”

“Which hotel?”

“It’s called the Tilton. That’s all I know. Listen, Charles-I feel uneasy about you looking into this murder. It’s nearly been a week already. Fowler says we can’t expect to discover who did this horrible thing to Frederick, and I don’t want to detain you for the purposes of a-a fruitless search.”

“Yes,” said Lenox placidly.

“After all, what’s the point? The House sits again soon, and we both have work to do before then.”

“True.”

“Will you drop it?”

“My priorities are certainly at the House, but if you don’t mind I’ll have Dallington look around a little more.”

“Oh?” said Ludo. His face was difficult to read. “If he has the time, by all means. I just want to be sure you don’t waste any time that would be otherwise spent productively.”

“Thank you,” said Lenox.

As he walked away down Brook Street toward New Bond, Lenox pondered this exchange with Ludo. There was no possibility whatsoever that Grayson Fowler had said the Yard couldn’t expect to solve the case. For one thing it was against policy, and for another Fowler was an irascible, tenacious man, not given to accepting failure gracefully. What could be happening between Ludo’s ears? Why ask Lenox onto the case and then try to kick him off? The title?

He was walking in the direction of Grosvenor Square. He was already late to see Graham, but it had occurred to him during the service that he hadn’t seen Thomas and Toto McConnell in nearly a week, and he decided to go visit them.

It was Toto herself, big as a house, who answered the door. Her funereal butler, Shreve, stood behind her with a dismayed downturn at the corners of his mouth.

“Oh, Charles, how wonderful! Look at the size of me, will you? I’m not supposed to be on my feet, but I saw it was you through the window.”

“Shreve could have gotten it.”

The butler coughed a muted agreement.

“Oh, bother that, I wanted to stand up anyway. Thomas was reading one of his scientific papers to me, something or other about dolphins, I can’t keep up and it’s dreadfully boring. I do like his voice, though, don’t you? It’s very soothing.”

McConnell was standing before the sofa, beaming-still tall, still exceedingly handsome with his shaggy hair.

“How are you?” he said.

“Excellent, thank you. Any day now?”

“Yes,” he said. “I think it’s a girl.”

“I do want a girl,” said Toto, heaving herself onto the couch with an unladylike grunt, “but of course a boy would be lovely, too.”

“Anything happening about the murder?” asked McConnell.

“Don’t talk about that nonsense,” said Toto crossly, her pretty face flushed. “I want to hear happy chatter, not about murders and blood. Just this once. After the baby comes the five of us can have a symposium on the subject, but right now I want to talk about nice subjects. How is Jane’s garden, Charles?”