A Stranger in Mayfair

Chapter Forty-Six

It was time to go confront Ludo once and for all, he decided. The die was cast. He would wait for Dallington-it was the case in which the lad had had the most involvement, and it was his due to be there at the end-and then go. Whether the murderer was Paul or, as he now suspected, Ludo himself (but why?), the truth would have to come out soon.

When Dallington arrived back some hours later he looked tired. “I’ve been all over this blasted city,” he said, “without finding a trace of Paul Starling.”

“No? Perhaps he really did leave from Norfolk, as Elizabeth said. I didn’t think it possible.”

“No, I don’t think he did. He was booked into a first-class berth on a ship called the Bruce, which carries indentured servants from Trinidad to other colonies and ends here. It makes port in three cities along the way.”

“Has it left?”

“It has-yesterday-but I couldn’t establish whether he was on it.” Dallington, who had been in the doorway, strode over and mixed himself a rum with tonic water. “The chap who books passengers on the Bruce gets paid when the ship leaves, and apparently he drinks himself half to death every time. I didn’t have the heart to visit forty different taverns in the Dials, so I came back.”

“Nobody else might have seen him?”

“They might have, quite easily. Whether they did or not-well, it’s a busy dock, of course, and none of them were impressed by my vague questions about Paul Starling.”

Lenox nodded. “Thank you for trying,” he said. “It was well done to find out that he was booked on the Bruce.”

“I daresay he’s on board, having a whale of a time playing cards with these poor indentured fellows,” said Dallington. “But where does that leave us?”

Lenox stood up and, despite a wave of lightheadedness, said, “At the end. We must go and confront Ludo.”

Dallington looked impressed. “Fair enough. Let me finish my drink and we’ll go. Won’t he be at Parliament, though?”

“We’re not sitting tonight-tomorrow is the great debate about home rule.”

It was dark out, the days shortening, and still there was a threat of drizzle in the air. Lenox, impatient, didn’t bother waiting the fifteen minutes for his own horses to be rubbed down and his carriage to be readied, and instead hailed a cab. The drive was a short one.

They arrived at the Starling mansion in time to hear Elizabeth Starling’s usually gentle voice saying, “Now polish it again!”

“Yes, ma’am,” came the tearful reply.

Dallington reddened and clicked his tongue indignantly-the girl was Jenny Rogers, as they could both hear.

It wasn’t Elizabeth who answered, however; they heard her footsteps (or someone else’s) walking briskly away from the entrance after they had knocked.

It was Tiberius Starling who opened the door for them. “No damn butler,” he said moodily.

“That will be fixed soon enough,” answered Lenox with a broad smile. Then he noticed a fresh red welt on the old uncle’s cheek.

He didn’t say anything, of course-manners forbore it-but Tiberius must have seen his glance. With the occasionally excessive frankness and confidentiality of old gentlemen, he leaned into them and said, “That devil woman did it. Threw a book at me, one I had left lying on the table. She’s in a fearful temper. About Paul, I expect.”

“I’m extremely sorry to hear it,” said Lenox.

“Come in-Ludo’s at his desk.”

Elizabeth Starling was indeed in a fearful temper. It was no wonder, of course. Her son was gone, in all likelihood off to the colonies, and either the boy or his father was a murderer.

Ludo’s face again fell when he saw who his visitors were, and he started to say what he had before. “A damn intrusion” was his greeting to them, “a nuisance of the first order and-”

Lenox interrupted him. “I had an interesting discussion with Inspector Fowler. About your friendship.”

Ludo, nonplussed, stopped talking for a few seconds. “Oh?” he said at last, in an attempt to be brazen. “At least he’s competent enough to be employed as an inspector. A pair of bumbling amateurs, you two.”

Lenox shook his head gently. “It’s no good, Ludo.”

“What do you mean?”

“We know far more than we did-enough, I should say.”

“What do you mean?” he said again. He was seated at his desk still, not having risen to greet them, and Lenox could see the stress in his visage-of lying, of guilt, of sleepless nights.

“You’ve reached an agreement with an inspector of Scotland Yard. You paid him money in order to conceal a crime. Both of you will appear before the bench for it. Your trial will be in the House of Lords, yes”-this was customary for all members of Parliament and the nobility-“though I don’t know that it will matter. What sickens me is that you’ve let Jack Collingwood sit in Newgate Prison, wondering whether he’ll be hanged by the neck until he’s dead.”

“No!”

“Even though he’s an innocent man.”

“How do you-how do you think you know this?” asked Ludo.

“It’s no use bluffing. Between this and Frederick Clarke’s true identity-as your son-I thought it was time to consult with Scotland Yard. Because we’re acquaintances I wanted to give you the chance to confess first.”

At last now Ludo broke down. “I didn’t kill the boy,” he said. “I gave him money, for heaven’s sake! I looked after him! We were-well, friends, you might say! I only paid Fowler because I was trying to protect someone I love.”

“Was it-”

Lenox silenced Dallington’s question with a look. It was always best to let them ramble on.

“You must believe me, Charles.” A pleading look came into his eyes. “You must. I didn’t kill him. I wouldn’t have, never.”

Very gently, still not wanting to intrude upon the confession, Lenox said, “Paul? Did you want to protect Paul?”

“Paul’s gone,” was all Ludo said.

“He isn’t,” bluffed Dallington. “I checked at the docks.”

Ludo shook his head. “He’s gone. Collingwood can come out of jail.”

“I checked the docks!”

Lenox quietly said, “He’s in Wiltshire, isn’t he. Starling Hall. I imagine Elizabeth couldn’t bear to see him go overseas.”

Ludo nodded just perceptibly. “Yes.”

“Ludo inherited it last year,” said Lenox to Dallington. “It’s empty, other than staff, of course. I imagine Paul could stay well concealed there for some time.”

It was all clear enough. Paul Starling had killed Frederick Clarke. Since that awful moment Ludo had scrambled to protect his younger son, shifting the blame to anyone he could, paying out money to whomever he could.

There were two things Lenox didn’t understand, still. The first was motive. It had seemed so clear: Ludo killed Clarke because the sudden appearance of a bastard son would have destroyed his plans for a title to pass on to Alfred-perhaps for a title at all. Paul, though-what did Paul care? Whether Frederick Clarke or Alfred Starling was next in line surely was irrelevant to the youngest son, wasn’t it?

The second point was even more puzzling: Who had attacked him, Charles Lenox? The plan to steal Paul away to Starling Hall had already been set in motion. Had Ludo wanted to clear his own name, too?

“Who attacked me?” Lenox asked. “Were you trying to give yourself an alibi? But no,” he said to himself, “that doesn’t make sense. You already had an alibi from the butcher attack.”

“I didn’t know anybody was going to attack you,” said Ludo mournfully. He sank back into his chair and put his face in his hands. “There’s so much I would take back if I could-I should never have protected-”

There was a sound outside the door, a “shush!” in a woman’s voice.

And suddenly Lenox put it all together, what had been invisible for so long. It wasn’t Paul Starling who had killed Freddie Clarke. He was innocent.

I only paid Fowler because I was trying to protect someone I love.

The wound on Tiberius’s face, and a dozen other details.

It was Elizabeth Starling who had attacked Lenox.

It was she who had killed Frederick Clarke.