An Old Betrayal

CHAPTER EIGHT

“He does not sound like a prepossessing personage,” Dallington observed, chuckling, when Lenox repeated this description to him. “The hearts of the ladies of the Clinkard Meon Valley are safe, unto the most devoted beagler’s daughter.”

“Do you think the fellow at Gilbert’s was having a joke at my expense?” asked Lenox. “Or at Godwin’s?”

“Perhaps both.”

“For my part, I do not.” The Member of Parliament was leaning against the windowsill above Half Moon Street, smoking a small cigar and gazing out at the tree-lined walk below. It was early evening, the light weakening away toward night. He had done his work at the Commons through the late afternoon, and then stolen twenty minutes for himself to tell Dallington of his exertions; he was due back for a debate shortly.

“Why?”

“The woman’s reaction, the impostor’s face. There was something sinister in it. Then, too, the note was so unsettling.”

Dallington shrugged. “Then what do we make of him?”

“He seemed wellborn, and knew enough to use the name of a person not likely to appear at White’s, to embarrass his alibi, in case I should search for him there. He did not count on my making more than a cursory effort.”

“But what if you had written to him, and the letter had gone to this fellow in the country?”

“I’m not sure. Perhaps it was a hoax. Based upon his appearance, he was a gentleman, but the gentlemen of White’s have their own rules. Not many people outside of the club like them.”

Dallington himself was a member at White’s. He smiled. “What more can we do?”

Lenox sighed. “I cannot see what course we have other than to wait. I fear the young woman will not write to you again, because she suspects you to have betrayed her. Although perhaps she will know otherwise and send for you a second time.”

“What about Godwin, the false Godwin?”

“I asked the chap at White’s whether he could identify a taller fair-haired gentleman with a silver-handled cane. Only two or three dozen, he said.”

Dallington laughed hoarsely. He was still ill, but well enough now to have propped himself up by the warmth of the fireplace, lit though it was spring. “It’s no matter. Two more cases have come in, and when I am well enough I shall move on to other matters.”

This reminded Lenox. “Did you know, incidentally, that there is a woman advertising a detective agency in the newspapers?”

“Miss Strickland? Yes, I’ve seen her notices and wish her joy in her undertaking. She can’t guess how many cranks she’ll have knocking at her door. Which means perhaps that fewer will knock at mine.”

“You are not anxious to be bullied off your turf?” asked Lenox.

“I have Jenkins bringing me cases.” This was an inspector from the Yard, who had first been one of Lenox’s allies and now was Dallington’s. “And there seems to have been no abatement in the number of private references I receive.”

“It is true that London is adequately supplied with crime.”

“No sign of a shortage to come, either.”

“Unfortunately, from a civic perspective — fortunately, to someone in your line of work.”

Dallington smiled. “Just so.”

They parted then, agreeing to be in contact if anything fresh came to light. The younger man guessed that he would be well enough to participate in their dinner the next Tuesday; ever since Lenox had passed his practice on, the two had met weekly to discuss Dallington’s work, Lenox bringing his greater experience and knowledge of the history of crime to bear on new cases. Several years before, when Dallington had still been naive, albeit enthusiastic and acute, Lenox had nearly every week managed to shed light on some detail of a case, occasionally solving the thing in a single burst of instinct and reasoning. Now, however, it was more common for them to reach the same conclusions at the same pace — Dallington slightly faster, if anything, though Lenox still had, to his advantage, a native brilliance for causation and motivation. It made this Godwin all the more frustrating to contemplate: The impulse behind his actions was so unclear.

The next day Lenox and McConnell had lunch at the Athenaeum. Funny that the doctor’s jovial mood and healthy face — sometimes so wan and pulled at, by drink or anxiety, now, like the rest of him, fighting fit — should plummet Lenox into sadness.

McConnell seemed to perceive that Lenox’s spirits were low. “Are you quite well?” he asked, just as their soup arrived. Then, hurrying to make a personal question lighter, he added, “Long hours in Parliament, I mean to say?”

“Quite long at the moment, yes.”

“Be sure to get a tolerable amount of daylight, now that there’s some sun again. It will perk you up no end.”

“Ah, have you been out riding?” asked Lenox.

“Oh, yes, every morning,” answered McConnell blithely. “I find the exercise sets up the day wonderfully.”

“How is the old crowd in Hyde Park?”

“Motley, as usual.” To gain admission to the park one had to be dressed like a gentleman and riding a horse; some thieves hired the requisite suit of clothes and animal for four hours, and practiced upon young gentle ladies who had just arrived for their first season from the country, or the young gentlemen who would make any unscrupulous wager you pushed in their direction. One foolish young baronet, Sir Felix Carbury, had ridden into the park one morning and walked out an hour later, having been gambled off of his horse. “I generally keep to myself.”

“Good,” said Lenox, perhaps rather too sharply.

The next two or three days were exceptionally busy ones for Lenox, who spent most of them on the benches of the House or closeted with Graham and a small host of important politicians. Disraeli’s unexpected willingness to compromise had changed their plans for the new session, and at the same time they were plotting out the map to see where they could gain seats in the next election. They also had to select candidates — or grant approval to those who had selected themselves — for a handful of by-elections, out-of-season contests that occurred when a Member died or, on occasion, inherited a title that pushed him up to the House of Lords. Lenox himself had first won Stirrington at a by-election, though by now he and his old friend Brick had handily won several regular contests.

He told Jane about his lunch with McConnell, but something held him back from informing her, quite yet, of his trip to the Surgeons’ Club and his discovery there that the doctor had deceived him. Perhaps it was because Lady Jane was already so loyal to Toto that he didn’t want to finalize her bias.

“When you look him in the eye it is difficult to imagine him straying,” said Lenox.

It was rather late at night, and Lady Jane had been writing letters at a small table in his study, keeping him company as he sat and worked. Now they were together upon the sofa.

“Everyone I see now mentions it to me.” Her voice was terribly sad.

“What does Toto say?” he asked.

“The fight has gone out of her.”

“Out of Toto?” he asked, skeptical.

“For the moment anyhow. She scarcely leaves the house, I believe. At least George is some consolation to her — but she is redder-eyed than I ever saw her before, that much is certain.”

Gradually the conversation shifted to more cheerful topics. Lady Jane was planning a supper in two weeks, at which Disraeli was to be among the guests, along with James Hilary, Lord Cabot, and several other political figures. Mixed in would be some of her particular friends, selected because they had no political interest whatsoever, and therefore could lift the party beyond the threat of workplace boredom, fizzy as yeast in a loaf of bread. For a long while they debated which of these friends might sit where.

“I cannot see the Prime Minister sitting next to Jemima Faringdon,” said Lady Jane, pursing her lips.

“Is it because she could not tell you whether he was a Tory or a brand of face powder?”

She laughed. “I don’t think she’s as foolish as that. Certainly there is no face powder she could not identify by name, for beginners. But perhaps she would be better going in with Lord Cabot. He admires a lovely woman, and she enjoys flattery.”

“True enough — and yet Disraeli himself is known as an admirer of young women.”

They talked on like this for a while longer, until at last, yawning, she said she thought she would retire. “Can you come up?” she asked.

He sighed and stood up, walking back toward his desk. “No, I must stay awake and review a memorandum Graham has written, I’m afraid, about the Irish question, blast it to hell. Oh, and if you would tell the housemaid I need more candles — I find I’ve run out.”

“Already?” she asked from the sofa. “Have you been eating them?”

“It has been many nights of work,” he said.

Her face turned sympathetic, and she came across the room on soft footsteps, embracing him when she reached him and kissing his cheek. “You poor dear,” she said. “Yes, I’ll have them sent in right now. But don’t be too long coming up to rest.”

“No, I won’t,” he said: just as capable of misleading his wife as McConnell, apparently.