Home by Nightfall

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Almost involuntarily, both brothers looked around the office, making sure there was nobody about to leap out at them. Nobody was — there was nowhere to hide, no closet to slide into or sofa to crawl under. They turned back to the figure of the schoolgirl. It wasn’t pleasant to look at, even there in the broad light of day.

“Well,” said Lenox, trying to keep his voice steady, “at least our attacker has had the courtesy to link our crimes to each other. That was sporting.”

Edmund, whose face had always been so full of good cheer and country haleness until Molly’s death, now looked sick, as thinned out as Lenox had ever seen him. He shook his head. Here he was, close to death once more. “I don’t know that I like this job of yours,” he said. “I didn’t realize — well, I don’t know.”

Sympathetically, Lenox went and put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Yes, I know,” he said. “Dallington had a terrible time with it at first, I suspect, though he never said a word. But one gets used to it — and then, think, hopefully we may be a help, to all of these frightened people in Markethouse. If the porch of the pub is anything to go by, they’ve lost their wits with worry.”

Edmund nodded. “Yes. I’m only telling you that I don’t like it. I don’t.”

“Would you like to wait outside while I look at the office?”

“No, no. Tell me what we ought to do.”

They looked over the office very carefully together. At one point Lenox asked if anyone had mentioned the figure on the wall before his arrival, and Edmund said no one had, which was odd — Clavering ought to have.

Then again, Edmund pointed out, it had still been near dawn when Miss Harville had found Stevens Stevens, and everyone’s energy had been intent upon moving him safely to Stallings’s house. It was possible they had missed it. And since then, Clavering had been with the town’s leaders, trying to come up with a plan to ensure the calm and safety of the village. Nobody had returned to inspect the office.

That made some sense, and as Lenox looked through the papers on the mayor’s desk he thought about what the drawing might mean. It felt … well, it felt personal, and yet both Hadley and Stevens were men without any strong personal ties, neither married, both childless, each more engaged with his work (or, in Hadley’s case, a hobby, the gemstones) than any individual connection.

Might this lack of connections even be what linked them?

“What do we make of our second Watson sister?” asked Edmund, who was crouched by the armchairs, looking underneath them, at Lenox’s instruction. Two sets of eyes on everything in the room — for it was even odds that the motive behind the attack must be in this room, Lenox had been at pains to insist to his brother. “Small-town coincidence, or more?”

“I wish we knew that it was one or the other,” said Lenox. “Because I don’t like that it might be either. I suppose we must try to speak to Claire Adams.”

Edmund chuckled lowly. He had some of his spirit back. “Hopefully she’s not preoccupied by a child feigning illness.”

“Stallings has real work now, I’m afraid.”

“Too true, alas.”

The office was a disappointment to Lenox — neat as a pin, the drawers mostly empty other than bits of charcoal and nib ends and spare inkstands and SS stationery, no evidence whatsoever of Stevens’s life outside of this room. The papers on the desk were indeed mostly about the budget, along with a few others on village subjects, a report on the refurbishment of the pews in the church, another from the schoolmaster. The closest he found to anything related to the crimes was another report, this one about the thefts at the market from Clavering. It wasn’t even clear the mayor had read it yet, however.

Lenox stood irresolutely at the window, looking down at the town square, which rose up toward the Bell and Horns. It was still packed with people. He stared at the long line of horses standing throughout the alleyway, overflow from the stables.

“Graham may be getting married,” he said to his brother.

Edmund joined him at the window. “Is he never! I say, that’s good news at least.”

“It’s not sealed yet. Don’t congratulate him. He’s still contemplating whether to make the proposal, though I think he will.”

“She’ll need to be a pretty deep file,” said Edmund, shaking his head skeptically. “He’s one of the sharpest fellows I’ve met. Sees twice what other men do. I’ve often told Lord Cabot that I’m glad he isn’t a Tory. Well, my. I’ll send him the fish-slice.”

“I already signed up for that. It will have to be teaspoons for you — nothing more boring than giving teaspoons, ha.”

“Let her accept first and we’ll race.”

They stood in silence for a moment, staring toward the pub — until, out of the blue, Edmund yelped.

“My God, what is it?” said Lenox.

“It’s Cigar!”

“Where?”

“There at the Horns! Third horse back!”

Lenox peered at the alleyway. “Are you quite sure?”

“I would know him from twice the distance, with half my eyesight. I would swear it on your life.”

“Steady on.”

“Come, come, let’s go get him. I had given up hope — I promise you I had altogether given up hope! Hurry, Charles! My goodness, for all we know Daisy may be there, too!”

They ran from the office. Fortunately both Sutherland and Van Leer were back. Sutherland stopped them as they hurried past to say that all the doors and windows were as he had left them the night before, no sign of forced entry.

Edmund didn’t care. He tore up the square, faster even than they had when they were boys. At the Bell and Horns he looked ready to weep with frustration when a mass of men, standing by the porch, blocked his way back to the alley and the stables.

They made it through after ninety seconds or so of very hard pushing. When they reached the first horse they met, Edmund grabbed a young groom. “That horse there, the chestnut! Whose horse is that?”

The boy, alarmed by the vehemence of Edmund’s questioning, said he wasn’t quite sure, but Mr. Wapping would be sure to know. Wapping, brother-in-law of the pub’s owner, was in charge of the stables. Edmund by this time had made his way to Cigar and was at his neck, talking into his ear. Charles said he would go and find Wapping.

Leaving his brother, Lenox waded into the incredible noise of the stables, which were as overcrowded as the pub and twice as pungent. He spotted Mrs. Watson’s older son — one of several boys shoveling the stalls, no doubt hired on just for this busy morning.

“Mr. Wapping?” called Lenox loudly.

A thin, pale-faced, black-haired man turned. “Aye?”

“I believe you’re holding a stolen horse. Will you come with me?”

Wapping, apprehensive, came into the alley. His face calmed slightly when he saw that he knew the claimant of the horse—Sredmund—and said how sorry he was, that he hadn’t known Cigar by sight, but he didn’t doubt for a second that His Highness (he seemed to be confused about the titles of the English aristocracy, and neither brother bothered to correct him) knew his own horse. But still, wasn’t Mr. Flint, who owned this horse, a very respectable wheat trader from Massingstone? And was he likely to have a stolen horse? It was all very puzzling.

It took no time to find this Flint. He was on the porch of the pub, a handsome man with curly dark hair, dressed in riding breeches. Once Wapping had made it clear to him that Charles and Edmund were from Lenox House, he was all civility.

“I very much fear that your horse — the horse you’ve left here — is mine,” said Edmund. “He went missing three days ago.”

Flint was astonished. “My goodness,” he said. “Well, Tattersall’s shall give me my money back. I paid forty-five pounds for him yesterday and thought it a snip. He’s a very fine beast, and not more than ten.”

“He’s eight,” said Edmund shortly. “Who sold him?”

“The house.”

That might mean anything. Tattersall’s was an auctioneer of horses, with a central location in London, regional ones elsewhere.

“Why not resolve it now?” Lenox asked. “Edmund, you could go to Tattersall’s, with Mr. Flint if he will be so good.”

Flint looked doubtful. “I had hoped to stay here and get news of the attack.”

“Will you trust me to take the horse?” asked Edmund. “I’ll ride him to the auction house. One way or another you’ll have your money back, regardless — even if I have to pay it out of my pocket.”

“For your own horse!” cried Flint. “No, please take him. You’ll find me here until about six o’clock this evening. After that time, anybody in Massingstone can tell you where to find Juniper Cottage.”

“How will you get home without your horse?” asked Lenox. “You must allow us to hire you one.”

Flint shook his head firmly. “Out of the question,” he said. “There are a dozen men here who will allow me to hitch on with them. Go, please. I look forward to hearing what they have to say at Tattersall’s.”

“Your servant,” said Edmund, bowing his head. Then he looked at Charles. “I’ll return in a few hours — with a name, I hope.”