An Old Betrayal

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

It was twilight when Lenox arrived back in London. Despite the misdirection of Audley, he had a name, and perhaps even a location. He felt energized.

From Charing Cross he took a cab to Half Moon Street. Mrs. Lucas answered the door. “How do you do, Mr. Lenox?”

“Is the patient receiving visitors?”

“At their own peril. Please, come along inside. Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Badly. If you could run a spoonful of sugar in it I would be in your everlasting debt.”

She smiled. “You know the way up, then. I’ll bring it along shortly.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Lucas.”

Dallington greeted Lenox, ushering him into the room and onto the sofa near the hearth, taking for himself the armchair opposite. Unfortunately it seemed that he had taken a step back in his recovery; he looked pale and clammy, his eyes overbright from the lingering effects of fever.

“Have you managed to leave your rooms at all?” Lenox asked.

“Not yet. I still don’t have the vitality for it, I’m afraid. Rotten bore.”

“At least Mrs. Lucas is here.”

Dallington smiled wryly, as if he were reflecting upon the mixed nature of that blessing, but said, “Yes, she’s a brick.”

“Is there anything Jane or I could bring you?”

“Only news. The dullness of being ill is beyond anything you ever experienced. For a few days one can adopt a posture of statesmanlike gravity, hushed tones, weak broth — but after that it’s simply an inconvenience, unless you attain the dignity of a very serious disease. I don’t recommend it.”

“The good news is that I have found out her name — your client’s, the young girl at Gilbert’s.”

“You haven’t!”

“I have. She’s called Grace Ammons, and she may or may not receive mail at Buckingham Palace.” As he said this Lenox was attempting to break off a loose thread hanging from the pocket of his houndstooth jacket. When he looked up he saw a change in Dallington’s face. “What?”

“Grace Ammons?” the younger detective asked, concerned and alert. “You’re quite sure that was the name?”

“I’m sure. You look as if you know it.”

“Indeed I do. She is one of the Queen’s social secretaries.”

Lenox stared at him for a moment. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not. I’ve seen her once or twice, a very pretty young woman. I know for a fact that Jasper Hartle from the Beargarden was in love with her, until his aunt forced him to marry that aluminum heiress from the States.”

“What is her history?”

“Her grandfather was a butcher in Chicago, as far as I understand it, and—”

“No, Dallington, not Jasper Hartle’s poor wife, you fool, Grace Ammons.”

“Oh, her. She’s nobody much either — by the lights of the palace, I mean, not my own. She came from up north, some small landholding family there. Good stock. She must be very discreet, since she works directly for Mrs. Engel.”

This was the Queen’s forbidding principal social secretary, an iron-willed German woman, thin as a coatrack, of more than seventy years, who traveled with Victoria and kept the grand ledger of her appointments. “This makes the letter to you look rather more significant,” said Lenox.

“Perhaps.”

“Is she well-known?”

“In court circles,” said Dallington. “I haven’t seen her out upon the circuit much, but simply by virtue of her position she is a part of London society. Jane will know her name. Doubtless you’ve been in the same room with her.”

“If she’s not out much, how did Jasper Hartle meet her, or come to fall in love with her?”

“When I discover the private habits and yearnings of Jasper Hartle you will be the first to know them.”

Lenox smiled. “Perish the thought.”

There was a knock at the door. Mrs. Lucas came in, bearing a tea tray. “Here you are, sir,” she said.

“Thank you,” said Lenox gratefully, taking a cup from her. She smiled and withdrew. “This looks like a proper tonic. It’s been a long day. I’ve yet to tell you about my adventures among your peers.”

“My peers?”

Lenox described his visits with LeMaire and Audley. “It was irritating. In the end it caused me only a brief delay, at least. Thanks to Padden.”

“That was foul of Audley.”

“The usual brinksmanship.”

“No, not when he knew that a person’s life might be in danger. I call that more than run-of-the-mill competition.”

Lenox looked down into his steaming tea, which he was stirring with the miniature spoon that Mrs. Lucas had left cradled between the cup and the saucer. “Grace Ammons, then. Can we call upon her?”

“We can leave our calling cards. There’s no mystery about where to find her.”

“At the palace.”

“Yes.” Dallington had stood and gone toward his mantelpiece, where he was shuffling through a thin stack of papers. “I went to a garden party there six or eight months ago and thought I had kept the invitation. I suppose I mislaid it. I think it might have borne her signature upon it, however.”

“She has been there for some time, then.”

“At least three years.”

Lenox had been to the palace several times, in both official and unofficial capacities, though he knew for a certainty that Queen Victoria couldn’t have distinguished him from her chimney sweep. He tried to recall the invitations — he felt sure that Lady Jane, though usually imperturbable in the face of any manner of social honor, would in this instance have been excited enough to show him — but couldn’t.

“The real question,” he said to Dallington, “is whether her troubles are connected to the palace, or the royal family.”

“It would be easier if they were to do with Paddock Wood and the 8:38. I don’t remember hearing of any member of the royal family taking up residence there.”

Lenox remembered the little horse on the train. “No,” he said.

“Shall we meet in the morning and call upon her?” asked Dallington.

“We cannot simply walk up to the front door.”

“You’re a Member of Parliament. Have Graham arrange for you to see Mrs. Engel if you like.”

“Not a bad idea.” Graham’s name returned to Lenox’s mind a faint sense of unease, left behind after his conversation with Baltimore. He would have to attend to that business as quickly as possible — cut it off at the head. “In that case I’ll fetch you here in my carriage at, what, nine o’clock? Are you quite well enough?”

“I can shrug myself into a suit of clothes, yes. You’ll have to do most of the talking. If I faint you can tell her that I’m pining for Jasper Hartle, see if it gets a reaction.”

As it happened, however, this plan was never meant to come to fruition. Just as Lenox was taking his final sip of tea, there was a ring at the front door of the house. On the stairwell they could hear the footsteps of Mrs. Lucas, descending to answer it.

Dallington, curious, went to his window, leaning out over the sill to see who was calling. “A bobby,” he announced. “Could be for me.”

A moment later the housekeeper knocked on the door. “There’s a visitor,” she announced.

“Thank you,” said the bobby. He was clutching a piece of paper. “I come with a note from Inspector Jenkins for Mr. Dallington.”

Lenox could see plainly upon the young bobby’s face, which was shining with excitement, that he could tell them what had happened as easily as the note could. “What is the news?”

“There’s been a murder, sir,” said the bobby, “in Knightsbridge. A single pistol shot to the temple, it was.”

“Who died?” asked Dallington, still holding the unopened note.

“That was why Inspector Jenkins thought you might be interested, you see. It was a gentleman named Archie Godwin, sir.”