The Laws of Murder

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

For the rest of that afternoon, as Lenox and Dallington continued their search for Wakefield’s friend and compatriot Francis (or was it Hartley?), this was the subject they discussed: the missing papers, a mystery that was easy to overlook because it was bookended by two murders. Were they merely hidden somewhere by the inspector, who had evidently been in a mood to take precautions? Or had they been stolen? If they had, was it from Jenkins’s office or from his person? In fact, was it possible that he had been murdered for the papers?

“They might have contained the information that would send Wakefield to prison,” said Dallington. “Or to trial, at any rate.”

“I’m not sure,” said Lenox. “We’ll have to see what McConnell says.”

“About what?”

“Wakefield’s body. I’ll be very curious to learn how long he’s been dead. Whether, for instance, he was dead at seven o’clock last night, when Jenkins was shot — or whether he might have killed Jenkins himself and then been murdered.”

Dallington considered this. “A marquess,” he said. “I cannot imagine he would commit such a crime himself, and so close to his own house.”

“He would if he were desperate,” said Lenox.

Dallington nodded. “Yes. If he were desperate. Which he might have been, after all.”

“Who do you think killed these two men?” asked Lenox.

Dallington smiled. “It was you who taught me the principle of parsimony, Lenox, I believe six or seven years ago now. That the simplest path between events is the most likely.”

“And what is the simplest path between these events?”

“I think it was this Francis fellow, whoever in damnation he might be. That’s why I wish we could find him.”

Unfortunately the afternoon saw this wish go unmet. The two men checked in at the Cardplayers Club in Old Burlington Street, where several exceedingly drunk young men in the front hallways were boasting to each other about old darts victories, but there was no member called Francis or Hartley there. (The porter knew Dallington by sight, though he wasn’t a member.) After that they checked several of the clubs along Pall Mall. They weren’t quite sure how else to proceed. Who’s Who had nothing to offer them, but all that really told them was that Francis wasn’t a Member of Parliament or a bishop, neither of which scenarios had ever seemed particularly likely. It would be a boon to detectives all across England if Who’s Who began to expand its scope, as rumor had it doing. There was also no Francis or Hartley who was contemporary with Wakefield at school or at university, according to a quick scan of the old directories at the Oxford and Cambridge Club in Pall Mall. The business directories of London contained several men named Francis, but none of them were under the age of fifty.

At six, thoroughly frustrated, Lenox and Dallington split apart. Dallington was going to continue the search; Lenox wanted to speak to McConnell. They were due to meet Nicholson at eleven thirty at York’s Gate but wanted to talk over their evening’s work first, and so they agreed to meet again at eleven o’clock at Mitchell’s. This was a restaurant near Regent’s Park, which Lady Jane was fond of saying served the worst food in London. Still, it was handy, staying open until midnight to accommodate the post-theater crowd.

Lenox ran McConnell to ground at the enormous house where he and Toto lived in Grosvenor Square. He was red-eyed, as if he had been squinting, and his tie was off. He answered the door himself.

“I thought it might be you,” he said. “Come in. I’ve been working on Wakefield since you sent word for me.”

“You can’t have his body here?”

McConnell led Lenox up the fine light-filled front staircase, in the direction of his lab. “No, no. I went and consulted on the autopsy. The Yard isn’t usually so rapid with its autopsies, but this time they brought in Dr. Sarver — from Harley Street, you know, very eminent fellow — and it was done in a proper operating theater. They were kind enough to give me some of the stomach tissue.”

“A profound kindness indeed,” said Lenox, though the wryness in his voice was lost on the doctor, who merely agreed. When he was working his absorption was such that he sometimes lost his sense of humor. “Did they decide what killed him?”

“It was certainly poisoning. We all concurred upon that point. After that it is less clear, though I have a theory of which I feel pretty confident.”

“What is it?”

“Come in, and I’ll tell you.”

McConnell conducted his scientific studies in a beautiful two-story library on the east side of the house. Toward the far end of the lower story were several long and wide tables full of faultlessly organized bottles of chemicals, alkalis, acids, rare poisons, the dried leaves of exotic plants. The middle of the room was dominated by a set of armchairs, which were always scattered, when McConnell was working, with leather volumes randomly pulled down from the bookcases.

These bookcases were in the gallery on the second level, which contained row upon row of scientific texts. One reached them by a very narrow winding staircase made of marble, with cherubim cut into its sides.

McConnell’s career had been proof, in its way, of the limits of money. It was Toto’s family’s enormous fortune that had allowed him to stock this laboratory, this library, but for all the years he’d had it, the pleasure he got from his work there had never equaled the pleasure he derived from his work as a practicing physician. This had been his vocation before his marriage, but her family had been too great to welcome a doctor into its midst and had been adamant that he give up his position. In the decade between that forfeiture of his career and the last year, when he had started working at the Great Ormond Street Hospital for Children, McConnell had never seemed quite himself — no matter the luxury of his laboratory. It gave Lenox a sense of relief to know that his friend, who was inclined to drink in low times, was once again content; as for Toto’s family, McConnell now quite sensibly ignored their protests. Toto herself was a willful person but more significantly a loving one. She had come to accept the new job for what it was: the best of outcomes for her husband’s happiness.

McConnell led Lenox to the tables, where a glass bowl was full of a dark red liquid. “This is wine,” he said.

“While you’re working?” asked Lenox.

McConnell smiled. “When I boarded the Gunner and saw that there were no markings on Wakefield’s body, no wounds, the first thing I looked at was—”

“His hands,” said Lenox, who had known the doctor’s methods for a long time.

“A good guess, but no — his gums. They can often tell us something about a poisoning. As they did this time, though not in the way I had expected. On both his upper and lower gums, very near the teeth, there were thin, steel gray lines. It was a textbook example of the Burton line.”

“What is the Burton line? What poison does it mean?”

“That’s what’s so interesting — I would never have expected to find the Burton line on the gums of an aristocrat. It indicates an exposure to lead.”

Lenox frowned. Lead. “Is that so unlikely?”

“Yes, it is. He was not a painter — they will go on using lead in their paints, no matter how they are warned — and he was not a metalworker. Fortunately they gave me this tissue sample.”

“What did you find?”

“Something called litharge of gold. It’s very definite confirmation that Lord Wakefield ingested lead. And I would be surprised if it hadn’t caused his death.”

“Why would he have ingested lead? Doesn’t it taste awful?”

“I told you before that lead poisoning is no longer very common. It is nevertheless famous enough that I’m sure you’ve heard of it. The reason is that for twenty centuries or so, since the Romans began the practice, human beings, idiots that we are, adulterated our wine with lead. More specifically, with this litharge of gold, which is in fact not gold but a brickred color. It sweetens sour wine and makes the flavor of it more even, or at least that’s the conventional belief. Unfortunately it also kills you. Though I should say that first it drives you insane. Nearly every mad Roman emperor was probably suffering in some measure from lead poisoning. It’s only been in the last seventy years or so that we’ve persuaded people to stop using lead in their wine and port. The benefit to the public health has been dramatic, genuinely significant.”

“So he was poisoned by wine?”

“I believe so, based on his stomach tissue. And for the first time in two millennia you can feel fairly sure that it can’t have been accidental.”

“Wouldn’t it have tasted bitter, this wine, if it were full enough of lead to kill him just like that?” asked Lenox.

“Ah, I should have been more clear. The line I described on Wakefield’s gums doesn’t indicate simply that he was exposed to lead. It indicates that he’s suffered from chronic exposure to lead. I believe someone had been poisoning him slowly for many weeks, perhaps even for months.”