Home by Nightfall

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

It was a few hours later when Mrs. Appleby, highly professional representative that she was of the Royal Mail, came to find Lenox in the jailhouse near the Bell and Horns.

“You have three wires addressed to you at Lenox House,” she said, “but I thought you might prefer to have them now.”

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Appleby,” said Lenox.

“I heard that you were here, you see.”

She needn’t have added that; the entire village had known within seconds, it seemed to Lenox, that Mad Calloway had been arrested for the violent assault upon the person of Stevens Stevens. This, even though they had tried their hardest to transport him to the jailhouse anonymously. It hadn’t mattered. The word had run up Clifton Street faster than their horses, then perhaps north to Pilot Street over a back fence, then probably down Pig Lane with the washing-woman — and now here they were, with half the people of Markethouse again gathered in the square, and half of them convinced that Calloway had killed Arthur Hadley, too.

Clavering had a little desk outside of the single jail cell. Edmund, Lenox, and he were seated in chairs around it, staring at Calloway, who was asleep upon the low straw-filled bed in the cell. Atherton had gone home at last, taking Toby with him along the way as a favor to Edmund — though not before the dog had been treated to a piece of beefsteak from the public house next door by Lenox, who had strong convictions about fairly rewarding anyone who assisted him in finding a murderer, regardless of the number of legs they might possess.

“Damned awkward,” Clavering said for the dozenth time, after Mrs. Appleby had left. “He was never a bad sort. Even a very good sort, I would have said, before he lost his mind.”

They had tried to question Calloway for hours now; they might as fruitfully have tried to question the wall behind him, or the straw in the bed. He was silent.

“What was his motive?” Edmund muttered, yet again.

Lenox had his own thoughts on that score. Until his mind had worked over the facts, however, he was going to stay quiet.

He tore open the first of the telegrams, read it, and sighed heavily. “What is it, sir?” asked Clavering.

“The case began with Arthur Hadley coming to us,” he said, “and his problem, at least, I think we have solved.”

“We have?” said Edmund doubtfully.

Lenox passed across the telegram, which was from the Dover Limited Fire and Life Assurance Company. “I believe so.”

Edmund read it out loud:

Clavering took it from him and read it again, frowning. Edmund, looking at Charles, said, “I still cannot see the thread.”

Lenox explained. “As soon as Atherton told us that Hadley lived in Stevens’s old house in Potbelly Lane, the pieces fell into place. My first thought was of the sherry.”

“The sherry,” Edmund said slowly, still in the dark.

“According to Miss Harville, Stevens Stevens drank sherry several times a day without fail.”

“Usually with an egg in it,” Clavering said.

“Yes, with an egg in it. Now: think of Hadley’s house, which someone broke into on consecutive days.”

“Presumably Calloway.”

They all looked into the cell, where the old man slumbered on. “Why twice?” Lenox said. “Looking back on it, the crucial break-in is the second one. To whoever did it — Calloway, let’s assume — it was important enough to break in again that the person sent in a false report of a fire at the corn exchange in Chichester, which guaranteed that Hadley would be drawn away from home.

“But why? The person had already been in the house the day before! They had chalked their strange image on the steps. Why risk being seen to get inside the house again?”

“I confess I still don’t know the answer,” Edmund said.

“Because they had made a mistake,” said Lenox. “What was changed by the second break-in? Only one thing. The sherry.”

Clavering frowned. “Hm.”

“My belief is that Stevens Stevens was the sole target of this series of crimes. The intruder at Hadley’s house actually believed they were entering the house of Stevens. In the course of the break-in, this intruder poisoned the bottle of sherry, counting on the mayor to drink it that very night. A reasonable presumption, given that Stevens always did drink sherry throughout the day. But soon enough—”

“The intruder learned of his mistake,” Edmund said, finally comprehending it, “and had to figure out a way to get the sherry out of there before killing an innocent person.”

“Precisely right,” said Lenox, with a feeling of satisfaction. “Hence the false telegram about the fire in Chichester. And hence the necessity for a second, more direct attack on Stevens — and the second figure chalked upon the wall.”

Clavering’s eyes were wide. “I’ll be blowed,” he said. “In Markethouse, no less.”

“The difficulty is that it puts us no closer to knowing why Calloway attacked Stevens,” said Edmund.

“Mm. Calloway,” said Lenox.

“What?”

“Oh, nothing.”

Edmund thought for a moment. “Hadley is simply gone on business, then, not vanished. But what about the safe, the gemstones?” he asked.

“He has no family, no close connections,” Lenox responded. “Those gemstones are what he cares about most passionately in life. I believe he heeded our advice and removed them from his house. It may also be why he chose to stay away from Markethouse the past two nights.”

“Yes.”

Edmund sighed then — and Lenox understood the sigh. There was still so much to reconcile in all this. For his part, he kept returning to Harville and the Watson sisters, the two charwomen.

“Tell me, Clavering,” he said, “do you know how Stevens is faring?”

“No. I’ve been intending to run over to the Horns and get Bunce to fetch a report back to us. Shall I do it now?”

They all glanced over at Calloway, who was still asleep. “Yes, why not?” said Lenox. “Who knows — he might have awoken.”

When Clavering had gone, Edmund stood up and began to pace the small room, hands in pockets, face pensive. Lenox took the moment to reach for the second telegram.

It was from Jane — and if Dallington was profligate in his style, Jane, in hers, was positively reckless, at least when she got into stride.

Lenox read through this twice, and only when he glanced up did he see that Edmund was looking at him intently.

And in that look, Lenox for a flash of an instant experienced the full force of what Edmund was suffering. The case fell away; Muller, too. He imagined himself without Jane.

The feeling lasted a second — less than a second — but it left him shocked, a buzzing in his ears. He had believed that he was being kind and empathetic to his brother. Only now did he perceive how inadequate his understanding had been.

He said the one thing he could think to say. “Listen, Ed, I’m so terribly sorry that I lectured you about teaching that family.”

Edmund shook his head. “No, no, it is I who should be sorry — very high and mighty. And I said that thing to you about trade.”

“Oh, that. Anyhow, listen, I think it’s a very fine thing to do. Molly would have been happy. She always saw everything through — a very determined person.”

“Do you think so?” Edmund glanced at the door. “Well, perhaps, perhaps not. But I am sorry, Charles, for saying that. Forgive me.”

“You’re my brother, you oaf. You never have to ask my forgiveness for anything, in this life or the next. Ah, there’s the door — that will be Clavering back. Let’s see what he says about Stevens.”