A Stranger in Mayfair

Chapter Thirteen

That evening Lenox was sitting at his broad mahogany desk, reading a blue book on the subject of England’s commitments to Ireland. It was early September all of the sudden, after the endless warm summer of his honeymoon, and chill on the streets. Lady Jane had been out all evening, and he had stayed home, hoping to speak with her when she returned. He owed her a better apology and in his mind he worked over the words he would say when she came in.

As it happened the sound of the front door opening brought not her but a breathless Dallington.

“Lord John Dallington, sir,” said Kirk, coming in after the young man yet again. “The young gentleman didn’t knock, sir,” he added with opprobrium. Between him and Shreve, it was a bad day to be a fastidious butler in London.

“I was in a rush, wasn’t I? Lenox, it’s about the case.”

“What?”

“I spent the last five hours at the Bricklayers’ Arms. I think we have a suspect.”

Lenox stood up. “Who?”

“Jack Collingwood.”

Lenox whistled. Append another unhappy butler’s name to the growing list. During their interview Collingwood had sounded so very neutral about Clarke, appropriately sad but not, seemingly, very affected.

“What makes you suspect him?”

“I’ll tell you in a moment. Graham, could you scare up a glass of brandy for me? Oh, but of course you’re not Graham-Kirk, is it? Thank you.” He turned to Lenox. “I sipped one glass of porter all afternoon, trying to keep my head clear, even though I bought five rounds. I have a terrible thirst.”

“Make it two, Kirk, and I’ll take mine warm.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ve found out why he had scabbed knuckles. Freddie Clarke. Everyone calls him Freddie, by the way-his friends.”

“Why?”

“It doesn’t help us. He was an amateur boxer, bare knuckles. Apparently they make these footmen of pretty durable material-he fought every other Thursday and trained whenever he could, including early mornings, at a ring in South London.”

Boxing had grown up over the course of Lenox’s lifetime, replacing fencing and the quarterstaff as the city’s most prevalent combat sport. There were both aristocratic sparring rings and back-of-the-pub arenas devoted to it.

“Who did he fight? Was it rough or clean?”

“Clean-a nice place, expensive enough to be a drain on his income. He was great friends with his sparring partners.”

“It’s too bad. I thought the hands might be a clue.”

“I did, too.”

“What about Collingwood?”

“May I tell it chronologically, while it’s fresh in my mind?”

“Of course.”

Kirk arrived with the drinks, and Dallington downed half of his in one gulp. He looked at Lenox. “Oh, don’t put on that irritable face,” he said. “I hardly drink at all anymore.”

Lenox laughed. “I didn’t know I had any particular look on my face.”

Dallington still caroused three or four days a month, out with the lively young things of the West End, with loose women and plentiful champagne in the dim dens lying under unmarked doors, the ones that only true revelers could discover. As a result he saw opprobrium in Lenox’s eyes perhaps more often than it was there.

“Let me think,” said Dallington. “I should begin by saying that the footmen you saw at the funeral were Dallington’s closest friends. They came from various houses along Curzon Street and went to the pub once or twice a week together, in addition to meeting in the alley where he was killed, to smoke and chat.”

“It makes sense-he didn’t have any close friends in the house.”

“On the contrary, he absolutely loathed Jack Collingwood, his superior and apparently a very strict taskmaster. They nearly came to blows three weeks ago when Collingwood called Clarke an idiot. Collingwood withdrew the insult when Clarke challenged him to fight. According to Jenny Rogers, by way of Ginger-that’s the red-haired chap who spoke on the church steps-Freddie said he didn’t care a whit about the job and would quit just so that he could fight Collingwood.”

“That’s why you think Collingwood is a suspect?”

“Partly. There’s a great deal of anecdotal evidence about how little the two men liked each other. Ginger told me several stories-so did his friends-about that. Once Clarke dropped a silver tray as he was coming down the stairs, and even though it was undamaged Collingwood reported the incident to Ludo Starling. Apparently Collingwood was outraged when Starling refused to reprimand him, much less sack him. Suffice to say there was a good deal of animosity between the two men.”

“Go on.”

“What’s far more damning for Collingwood is something that happened about a fortnight ago, four days before Clarke died.”

“What?”

“According to Ginger, Freddie found Collingwood pilfering money from Elizabeth Starling’s desk.”

Lenox turned, his eyes wide with surprise. “Really?”

“Yes. Apparently Collingwood went pale, and Clarke left immediately. Still, they both knew what he had seen.”

“Congratulations, John. It may be the answer.”

“It may be.”

Inside, however, Lenox felt a twinge of disappointment. He told himself it was stupid, but he had found himself drawn further and further into the case as the days went on, and while he hadn’t realized it until now this return to detection had been deeply satisfying. In turn it made him doubt, for a fleeting second, whether he truly belonged in Parliament. If his old career felt so natural, so true, was it right to turn away from it? Was it vanity that made him want a more respectable, prestigious occupation? Partly, perhaps. He had always loved politics, it was true, and he knew he would make a good Member. Nevertheless he felt troubled in his mind. It would be a grave personal loss to give up detection altogether. A grave loss.

“Did Ginger or any of Clarke’s other friends go to Inspector Fowler?”

“No.”

“Or Ludo Starling?”

“No. Clarke himself said he wouldn’t be a tale-teller unless Collingwood tried to get him sacked. Which makes it all the sadder, really.”

“That doesn’t mean Ginger shouldn’t say anything. It’s not telling tales if it’s murder. A few coins is obviously a different matter.”

“Sorry, I wasn’t clear. That was just an additional piece of information. The reason Ginger and his lads won’t tell is that they’re trying to establish where Collingwood was during the half hour when Freddie might have been killed.”

“Why? Surely that’s the work of the Yard.”

“Perhaps, but they feel that the stronger their case is, the more likely they’ll be heard.”

“It may be so.”

“At any rate, that’s what I got out of my afternoon at the Bricklayers’ Arms. That and a hundred stories about Freddie Clarke.”

“Did you talk to the lad’s mother, incidentally?”

Dallington swirled the last sip of his brandy and then drank it down. “No. She only stayed for one drink, and then one of Freddie’s friends chaperoned her back to her hotel. When he came back to the pub he said she was dead tired and of course pretty beaten up. Ginger is going out to see her tomorrow.”

“I may as well see her, too.”

“Oh?”

“I don’t think it can hurt,” said Lenox, “and it may help us discover something new.”

“What about Parliament?”

“I’m in too deep now to give it up. I’ll still ask you to look at things, but I want to be a part of it, too. Besides, Graham has made my life much more efficient. And perhaps it will turn out to be simple, and Collingwood will be the murderer as you say.”

“It seems pretty damning.”

“Indeed. Even if he did murder Frederick Clarke, though, I wonder if there was anything more to it than the change he stole from Elizabeth Starling. A job as a butler and a few shillings-are they worth killing for?”

“Don’t forget his father was the butler, too. It could be a matter of family pride.”

“Yes, that’s true.”