A Stranger in Mayfair

Chapter Forty

Lenox’s eyes shifted across the room, checking to see if anybody had heard the outburst. In fact someone was nearby, a pretty, rather large girl of twenty named Miranda Murray, red-haired and pale-cheeked. She was one of McConnell’s cousins, distantly. Toto disliked her for being humorless, but Thomas loved her dearly for her intelligence and pride. Dallington had cause to feel more strongly than any of them, because for a brief while they had been engaged. The end of the engagement, some years before, had been the talk of London, and in truth it was he who had jilted her. Quite unreasonably he hated her for it, in particular because she tried to be friends with him, putting a brave face on things.

Approaching them, though, she must have seen something closed in their visages, and veered away as she was about to reach them.

Dallington turned back to Lenox and in a lower voice said again, “Ludo must have killed Frederick Clarke. He needed an alibi from the butcher.”

“I wish it were as simple as that.”

“Why isn’t it?”

“Ludo has flaws, but do you think he would kill his own son? And more perplexing still, come to me within an hour or two of it happening?”

“Why not? What better to make him seem guiltless than to come to you and ask for help? I remember how he acted when we were inside Freddie’s room, as if he had a guilty conscience.”

Lenox sighed. “I don’t know.”

Dallington paused. “I discovered something else, too.”

“What?”

“I hope you don’t think I overstepped my duty. I went to see Collingwood.” He went on in a rush. “I felt he might need a visitor-some company. I should have asked you, I daresay, but it occurred to me while I was on the other side of London-and it was useful, as I say.”

Lenox allowed himself the fleeting thought that perhaps Dallington was ready to work independently. “I think it was an excellent idea. What did he say?”

“He knew about the money.”

“That’s wonderful! What did he say?”

“Starling was slipping him the money.”

“Ludo Starling? Was slipping Frederick Clarke money?”

“His son.”

“Everything comes back to Ludo-the money, the stabbing,” muttered Lenox, almost to himself. “I wonder whether it was he who hid the apron and the knife, too…but can he have been the murderer?” He fell silent and stared intently at the floor, his mind far away from the party.

“Lenox?” said Dallington quietly.

“Sorry-quite sorry. Did he have a story to tell, Collingwood?”

“Indeed he did, and I don’t mind adding that he lives in mortal terror of the gallows. His trial will begin in a week. I told him we would do our best for him.”

“Of course.”

“He didn’t want to talk about the money at first, but I could see he knew something, and I tried to pull it out of him gently.”

“What was the story?”

“His bedroom was close to the door of the servants’ quarters, the one you walk a few steps down from the street to reach. It was the biggest room and always belonged to the butler. According to Collingwood he heard someone stumbling down the steps one night.”

“Starling?”

“He didn’t know. An envelope slid under the door, and he opened it to check what it was.”

“Even though it had Clarke’s name on it.”

Dallington grimaced. “He wasn’t proud to tell me that. He didn’t steal anything-or so he said. At any rate, he didn’t twig what was happening then, but the next time it happened he heard Starling coming in upstairs.”

“Interesting.”

“Nobody else was out of the house-it couldn’t have been anyone but Starling. Then the third time he had confirmation, saw him through the window.”

“I had hoped the trail of money would lead somewhere more conclusive,” said Lenox. “Instead it must draw our focus even tighter on Ludo, I suppose.”

“Another interesting thing-all three times, he bragged to Collingwood afterward about winning at cards the night before.”

“But Ludo’s rich. He could have given Frederick Clarke money whenever he wanted. Or for that matter, stopped him working as a footman!”

Dallington laughed. “Apparently not. Elizabeth Starling keeps the family’s finances under tight control, Collingwood said. There was gossip in the servants’ quarters that Ludo owed more than a few men money for cards, and only paid when he won.”

Lenox pondered this. At last, when he spoke, it was methodically, with determined logic of thought. “Here’s a simple enough story,” he said. “Clarke was tired of having so little money-wanted to be recognized as a gentleman’s son, which his mother had raised him in the knowledge that he was-and threatened to tell Ludo’s family. Ludo killed him to stop that. It’s all the more plausible because he’s so concerned about the title he may get.”

The young man laughed. “Not that mine has done me any good. But Charles, think-if the simplest story makes such sense, mustn’t it be correct? Hasn’t Ludo been behaving strangely all along?”

“It makes sense, I know. Except it doesn’t sit right with me. Look at the facts. Ludo was Frederick Clarke’s father-I think his giving the boy money only confirms what we thought on that subject-yet he allowed Clarke to work as his servant and pretended to me barely to know his name. He had ambivalent feelings, not angry ones. For God’s sake, he took him into his house, at least in some fashion! Yet you say he murdered him? His own son? It doesn’t sit right with me,” he repeated.

“But having himself stabbed by Schott’s cousin makes it seem conclusive to me,” said Dallington. “Not to mention framing Collingwood! And for that matter, implicating his other son, Paul! These are the actions of a man with something to hide.”

Lenox shook his head. “Maybe. Maybe Ludo Starling killed Frederick Clarke. There’s something we’re missing, though. I feel sure of it. Ludo is no mastermind, and I’ve never known him to be violent.”

“Well, what shall we do, then?”

Dallington looked unhappy. Lenox knew the feeling-to feel so sure, and not understand why other people didn’t, too.

“We start over. First of all I think we ought to confirm with Mrs. Clarke what we suspect about her son’s paternity. I’m meant to be in Parliament tomorrow, but I’ll see her early in the morning, out at the Tilton.”

“Then?”

“Then we need to sit down and speak with Ludo, and ask him to describe exactly what his relationship with Frederick Clarke is. I don’t think Inspector Fowler has done it, or is likely to, and we can’t let Collingwood rot in jail.”

“It may not work.”

Lenox looked grim. “It will if we keep trying. The truth wants to come out.”

They had been in a dark corner of the ballroom for so long that Lenox had forgotten there was dancing and merriment nearby. He only recognized it as noise, until a female voice called out to him.

“You must be the two dullest men in London!”

They turned and saw that it was Miranda Murray speaking.

“You don’t want to get caught between us, then. Perhaps you should dance,” Dallington said.

It was abominably rude.

Miranda, who looked wounded, tried a smile. “Perhaps you’re right!” she said.

“Might it be a dance with me, then?” asked Lenox. “I’m not much account, but of course the eyes in the room will be on you.” He held out a hand.

Gratefully she took it and followed him onto the dance floor. “Thank you,” she said as a new song started.

“Now tell me,” said Lenox, smiling mischievously, “do you think that baby looks more like Thomas or Toto?”

“You must know my answer,” she said. “I think Grace favors my cousin, of course. No doubt Toto’s cousins think as I do but in reverse. But look at the child’s strong chin! She’s a McConnell.”

“If you can keep a confidence, I think as you do. Of course I would never dream of saying it to either of them. She would be put out, and he would become terribly vain.”

She laughed gaily and turned with him toward the center of the room.