An Old Betrayal

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Leaving London by train always offered passengers a strange glimpse of the city’s hinterlands, from rambling small railyards full of rusted cars to suburbs of varying gentility. Every mile or so just a little more green appeared between the buildings, until at last one reached the countryside; Kent was almost inexpressibly beautiful at this time of year. On its way to Canterbury the train passed whole fields of delicate pink and purple, thousands of small flowers fluttering with meek bravery toward the uncertain spring sun. To Lenox’s London eyes, familiar with every shade of soot, or perhaps the garish colors that men made, it was restful indeed. He had grown up with more plants than buildings around him. Really they ought to get out to Sussex more, and see his brother; but when was there ever time.

The platform at Paddock Wood was so short that everyone wishing to leave the train there had to crowd onto the first two cars. As the train slowed, Lenox could see the stationmaster waiting for the mail. He was a trim, white-mustached man in a blue uniform, with thick glasses and a stoop. This must be Eustace Wainwright.

Eight or ten people left the train at Paddock Wood, and among them was a family with a very small horse. They had bullied it onto the train at the last stop—“It will only be seven minutes, don’t kick up a fuss”—and the hapless conductor had stared at it despondently for the entire time since then. To the horse’s credit it behaved with admirable decorum throughout its brief ride, standing near the door of the carriage and refusing eye contact with its fellow passengers.

Unfortunately the animal chose precisely the moments of its disembarkation to leave a memento of its gratitude for the conductor’s tolerance. The family (evidently known to Eustace Wainwright, who called their names disapprovingly) hustled away from the platform, speaking loudly to one another to indicate that they hadn’t witnessed their beast’s trespass, leaving the dismayed conductor and stationmaster to confront the problem on their own. On the platform, two small boys in short pants and suspenders, unable to believe their good fortune, were doubled over in an almost impossible posture of mirth.

Lenox thought it best to absent himself from these proceedings and decided to walk into Paddock Wood.

It was a very small town. On one side of the tracks was a wide apple orchard, of the kind for which the county was justly famous — taste aside, tradition said that it had been a Kent apple that fell on Isaac Newton, giving him the idea for his theory of gravity — and on the other a small main street. Lenox strolled toward a small redbrick church, very recent, and as he looked around he realized that most of the buildings were similarly new. None of them looked to his inexpert judgment older than ten or twenty years. Very possibly Paddock Wood was a new town, grown out of not much at all by the flourishing hops industry. Indeed, up the hill that sloped gently above the town he could see field after field of hops, a becoming light green color. At the end of the summer, when the little clusters were ready for harvest, many London families of modest means would take a hop-picking vacation, father, mother, and children spending their days under the sun and making a bit of money for their trouble. It had always sounded idyllic as Lenox heard it described, especially because hop pickers were in such short supply that the wages were rather good. Because the families were paid by the bushel, rather than the hour, the children didn’t have to break their backs.

When he had taken in the width and breadth of Paddock Wood, Lenox made his way back to the station.

The train was gone, the platform empty except for the two boys, who remained on a bench near the entrance, still grinning. Lenox peered down the platform and saw a brick hut with a low blue door, which he assumed to be the province of the stationmaster. It was also, a sign announced, the place to buy train tickets.

Lenox went past the two boys toward the hut and knocked on the door. “Round here!” a voice called.

The sound of a shutter going up on the other side of the edifice confirmed what the voice had said. Lenox went around; there was Eustace Wainwright, sitting on a stool, a book facedown on the brass countertop between them.

“How do you do?” Lenox asked.

“Where to?” asked the stationmaster.

“Ah — no, I have a return ticket.” Lenox patted his pocket. “I was hoping to have a word with you. George Padden sends his regards.”

“Padden? Saw him this morning. Don’t know why he would send his regards again, unless he means to propose.”

Lenox took out his card. “I had a few questions about one of his passengers, and he wished you to know that you could trust me.”

“Well, he can have my regards back, if it pleases him.”

“Would you be willing to give me a few moments of your time?”

“Nothing else to say. I expect I’ll see him tomorrow. If I don’t I won’t lose sleep over it.”

“I’m a detective.”

“I’ve no doubt of it at all.”

It was hard to say if Wainwright, peering obstinately forward through his glasses, was unintelligent or merely had that deep country unwillingness (Lenox knew it well) to hear anybody else’s business, unless he was absolutely forced to do so. “I’m concerned that one of your passengers is in danger, Mr. Wainwright. A young woman who alights here at least once a month, quite possibly more often, on the 8:38 from London. Or I suppose you would consider it the 9:25 from London. She’s fair and usually carries a black-and-white striped umbrella. Her first name is Grace.”

Wainwright frowned. “You say you’re a detective?”

“I am.”

“Who’s hired you?”

“The young woman herself, after a fashion.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, do you know her?”

It was clear from his face that he did. “Perhaps. How do you mean, she might have hired you?”

Lenox explained the encounter he’d had with his client in Gilbert’s and then described his efforts to find the woman, beginning with LeMaire and Audley and concluding more recently with Padden, who had directed him to Paddock Wood. “I would like to help her.”

“I have one question.”

“Yes?” said Lenox.

“How can I be sure that you aren’t the man who came into the restaurant and frightened her?”

Lenox sighed. It was a fair question. “You have my card.”

Wainwright looked down. “Yes. It says nothing about you being a detective.”

“Yes, but you have my name and my address. I am at your mercy. And here.” On Lenox’s watch chain there was a small, heavy pen, made of gold and with his initials inscribed along its side. “Take this. It was given me by my wife, and I don’t readily part with it, but I trust you to return it. You see that it has the same initials as the name upon the card. Keep it for a day or two as a token of my goodwill — indeed, take it to the police in London and ask them about me if you wish — and then return it by the post when you can. Here’s three shillings to send it.”

Wainwright looked down at this rather poor bit of proof. Lenox reckoned that if the man was venal he could keep it — a small loss — and that if he was honest it might persuade him of Lenox’s own honesty.

Which perhaps it did. “Her name is Grace Ammons,” said the stationmaster. “Once in a while she picks up mail left for her here.”

Only now did Lenox notice the small wall of pigeonholes behind Wainwright in the hut. He evidently ran a postal clearinghouse of sorts, in addition to his railway tasks. It wasn’t uncommon in the smaller country stations.

“Thank you very, very much,” said Lenox. He pulled out his pad of paper and then reached down to his watch chain for his pen — only to find it wasn’t there. With a smile he took the pen back up and wrote down the name, asking Wainwright to spell it. Then he returned the pen to the counter. “Do you know why she comes to Paddock Wood, or how often?”

“Once a month, as you said. I imagine she has some acquaintance here.”

“And do you know where she’s from?”

“All of her letters come from the West End of London.”

Lenox noticed that the next London-bound train was approaching on the other side of the station. If he moved quickly he could make it, and spare himself another hour in Paddock Wood. “Do you remember an address?”

“No. Although her outgoing mail I do remember — if she’s really in trouble, this young woman.”

This felt like an intrusion, but it might prove useful. “Where did she write?” asked Lenox.

“It was only twice, but I remember because she addressed the letters to herself, and then of course because it was such an uncommon address. She mailed them to Buckingham Palace.”