An Old Betrayal

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The next morning it was Saturday, and Lenox lingered in his bedroom until nearly ten, reading the weekend papers and sipping at a sweet cup of tea. Jane was away from the house early, out with Toto at a meeting for the Humane Society. (This was Toto’s influence. Jane liked dogs and cats, but she had grown up among the rougher folkways of the country, and therefore perhaps didn’t have her friend’s total and consuming sympathy toward their plight. She also couldn’t especially spare the hours it required once a month to pin her focus to them, when there was so much else to do, and she was reluctant to wear the gruesome large yellow ribbon that indicated her membership in the women’s circle of the society. Still, friendship.) Finally he dressed and went downstairs to eat a small breakfast, a hot egg upon a piece of brown toast.

When he was finished, he set out to find Laurel Wheeler. The area in which he intended to search for her was small indeed: He planned to find her within his study, if she was there. A name, a city. This was as close to pure detective work as one could approach. As he ate he asked the new footman, a gawky Leicestershire lad by the name of Silas, to lay a fire in his study, and when Lenox had finished his egg he padded down the softly lit front hall to take a seat at his desk, the fire now crackling warmly at the far end of the room. He settled down into his chair with an exhale of pleasure, ready to lose himself in the hours of the day.

The first question, as he saw it, was where Laurel Wheeler might live. That she took the train once a month from Charing Cross suggested that she lived in London to him — though now that he thought of it, he would like to know from Padden, or one of his colleagues, whether she took a return in the evening. She could also have been connecting at Charing Cross; hence the wait at Gilbert’s. It was often faster to go through London even if it meant many miles more travel.

For some reason Lenox doubted it. The early hour of her departure suggested a day trip to him, to the country to see a parent or sister. As for Gilbert’s, she might simply have been a nervous traveler, inclined to arrive at the station early. Lenox himself had that trait. So did his brother, Edmund — both men ascribed it to the bells of their boyhood school, Harrow, which had for years harried them from one moment of the day to the next.

Lenox turned in his chair toward the tall windows behind him, wet with rain, that looked out over the houses and small shops of Hampden Lane. Though it was Saturday men were out upon their city business, dressed darkly, umbrellas high, leaning forward into their stride.

“Kirk!” he called.

A moment later the house’s butler appeared at the door, a large, good-natured soul, black hair thinned almost to the point of becoming theoretical. “Sir?”

Lenox pointed at a carved walnut bookstand by the fireplace, next to an overstuffed red armchair. “Where did the footmen take those books off to, Kirk? They were here yesterday.”

“I believe they were taken down to the storage room in the cellar, sir.” Kirk coughed discreetly. “Eight or nine months ago, sir.”

Irritably, Lenox said, “Well, I need them.”

“I was instructed at the time to clear the space for your blue books, sir.”

Both men glanced toward the bookstand, which was full of the parliamentary reports. “Can this Silas fellow read?” asked Lenox.

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell him I need Kelly’s for London, Essex, and Kent.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And he might as well bring up the clerical directories for the same.”

“Yes, sir. I will oversee him in the task myself, sir.”

“Well, hurry about it, please. Don’t wait until you have them all, bring them up piecemeal,” said Lenox.

“Yes, sir.”

When he had gone, Lenox muttered, “Damn your eyes,” and went back to looking out of the window.

There was no truly great directory to the people of England. The Normans had made a good start with the Domesday Book, about eight hundred years before, but no census taker since had matched their enthusiasm or perseverance. In Lenox’s youth there was Pigot’s, a meretricious series of directories, all flash and little substance, in the form of classified advertisements. Pigot’s still existed but had been superseded everywhere except the north (Pigot was a Manchester engraver) by the directories of Mr. Frederic Kelly. Kelly was the chief inspector of all Britain’s inland letter carriers, and after buying the rights to Crichett’s directory of London, he had used his position — over some objection — to compile an excellent series of books.

There were also trade directories, but Lenox felt strongly that the young woman he had seen in Gilbert’s was not the scion of a tradesman. Her appearance, her handwriting, the diction of her letter, all militated against that possibility. He would consult the trade directories only if he grew desperate.

Soon Kirk came with the first of the books Lenox had requested. It was a guide to Essex. Trains from Charing Cross went to Kent and Sussex, but Laurel Wheeler might have transferred along the line to go somewhere in Essex, north of Kent along the eastern coast of England. She wouldn’t have been on the 8:38 if she wanted to go anywhere in Sussex, even by transfer. Lenox, who had grown up in that county, felt sure of that.

It would help if Padden could just tell him the stop at which she left the train — but he had waited the entire afternoon for some word of the conductor and hadn’t heard from him.

Wheeler was a popular surname in Essex, apparently. Lenox took down his Bradshaw’s and, through a little investigation, eliminated about half of the county, deciding that she wouldn’t have practically chosen to take the 8:38 to reach those parts.

Still, this left him with about thirty-five Wheelers. None of them were named Laurel, but there was one tantalizing subentry for L. Wheeler, daughter, 22, in a town (he had never heard of it, and smiled at the name) called Mucking. He copied out the address, as well as three others that listed only the fathers’ names but indicated the presence of adult children.

Soon after Kirk had brought up the guide to Essex, he followed with the ones for London and Kent, as well as the clerical guides for the same counties. These last were a waste, unfortunately, but in both the London and Kent directories Lenox found addresses to copy out upon his pad of paper. In Canterbury — destination of the 8:38, a train he was coming to loathe — there was even a Miss Laurel Wheeler, but she was aged 61 and, distressingly, according to Mr. Kelly, possibly dead. Well.

Several of the London addresses were more promising and required investigation in person. He didn’t have the time to do it himself, and so he began to write a letter with the appropriate information to a man named Skaggs, to whom he had once contracted out such work — a tradition Dallington now carried on — asking him to help.

Just as he was signing his name to the foot of the letter, there was a knock at the front door.

Lenox heard Kirk’s footsteps in the hall but went out himself to see who was visiting. Someone hearty — the rain had gotten quite thick.

“It’s Mr. Frabbs, sir,” said Kirk, turning back into the house. “With another gentleman.”

“Well, bring them in.”

Frabbs required no such invitation, however. He was already charging ahead into the hall, pulling along his companion.

It was Padden. Lenox’s heart leapt up. “Mr. Padden, you came by Parliament?”

Padden, in civilian clothes, shook some of the rain off. “I sent a note, and Mr. Frabbs was around my house what seemed six minutes later.”

“I say, well done, Frabbs. Kirk, give him the run of the larder, make him something hot. Padden, will you take tea or coffee while we speak?”

“Tea, please, sir, strong as you like.”

As Kirk handed each of the new guests a towel, Lenox led the train conductor into his study. “I’m very grateful to you for coming,” he said, “though I reckon I’ve outrun your help on at least one small piece of information.”

“Sir?” said Padden.

“The young woman’s name — it’s Laurel Wheeler, isn’t it?”

To his surprise, Padden laughed. “Laurel Wheeler?”

“Is that not her name?”

They had come down to the end of the room with the fire, and Lenox gestured for his guest to sit. The tall conductor did, tolerably dry now, shed of his hat and overcoat. “No, it’s not.”

Lenox felt a wave of vexation. “Well, a reliable man informed me it was.” Even as he said this, however, he realized that it was a falsehood. Audley was not a reliable man.

“You might not have heard it before,” said Padden. “There are names we give — people like me, you see — to keep the police out of our business. Who knocked over the bobby? John Shawcross. What was the name of the child’s mother? Laurel Wheeler. Someone was having a joke at your expense, unfortunately, Mr. Lenox.”