The Laws of Murder

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

When Nicholson’s team had examined Wakefield’s house the day before, they had also interviewed each of the members of the marquess’s staff more extensively. As Lenox and Dallington rode across London in a hansom, on their way toward Mornington Crescent, they looked over the notes.

All five servants agreed on Francis’s appearance, albeit with some minor points of variation. The cook — who likely would have had the least opportunity to see him, as Dallington pointed out — felt passionately sure that the scattering of moles on his face was on his forehead, though the other four placed them on his cheek. (No one was sure whether it was left or right.) This was the most significant physical marker of their suspect. He was of average height and build. All five servants said he had dark hair, and the three women called him “not bad-looking,” “dead handsome,” and “a right Billy boy” in their respective interviews.

“What is a Billy boy?” asked Lenox.

“I’m dismayed that you think I would know,” said Dallington.

Lenox asked one of the servants, for clarification: “a man prettier than a woman” was the elliptical answer, and left him contemplating what it might mean.

Francis was also, apparently, an unusual dresser. It was Smith, the butler, who was best able to articulate this in his interview, perhaps because he had been responsible for dressing Wakefield and therefore understood clothes better than the other four. According to Smith, Francis never wore a tie, but had some sort of bright scarf at his neck generally, and his pants were cut very loose, almost as if for summer lightness, even in the winter. All five servants mentioned that his clothing was odd. The footman used the word “poncey,” which was new to Lenox. It meant effeminate, according to Dallington, and then Lenox recalled that prostitutes sometimes called the idle men they kept with their earnings, their beaux, “ponces.”

The final detail of interest to Lenox was that Francis had, apparently, been a generous tipper. Both maids and the footman recalled as much, and Smith, after an embarrassed refusal to answer at first, had eventually admitted that he received a pound from Francis at Christmas. It indicated money; also exceptional closeness to Wakefield. Lenox occasionally tipped the servants at houses where he spent a great deal of time, but only if they were the employees of very intimate friends. It would have been inappropriate otherwise.

They had arranged to rendezvous with Nicholson at 11:00 A.M. in Carlow Street, just around the corner from Mornington Crescent, thinking it was less conspicuous if two carriages didn’t pull up precisely in front of Francis’s house.

Nicholson was waiting for them in front of the Crowndale Arms. “Gentlemen,” he said, an agreeable look on his thin face. “Shall we make an arrest?”

“Thank you for letting us come along.”

“Of course. You have the order form from the box of port?”

Dallington did. In the addressee box had been Wakefield’s name; in the billing box, however, it had read Andrew H. Francis, 31 Mornington Crescent, London NW1. The H must stand for Hartley, all three men agreed. Perhaps it was the nickname by which Francis went among his friends.

Mornington Crescent, a long curve of houses named for the brother of the Duke of Wellington, was in a nice, quiet part of London, just east of Regent’s Park. It probably wasn’t more than a fifteen-minute walk to Portland Place and Lord Wakefield’s house, though that walk marked the gap between affluence and genuine wealth; this was merely a fine part of the city, not a grand one. Dickens had once lived here, Lenox recalled.

The three men walked down Carlow Street. “I’ve sent men back to confiscate the rest of the port,” said Nicholson. “From what I understand Wakefield’s son is there. I imagine he’ll be eager to assist us.”

“I have a sample, at any rate. It’s off with McConnell right now, though he may not be able to look at it until the evening, since he’s at the hospital.”

“Mm.”

As they emerged onto the crescent itself, a natural silence fell over their small group. It gave Lenox a moment to think about LeMaire.

What was clear to him now was that, above all else, Polly and Dallington must not be punished for their loyalty to him. Or more specifically, that Polly must not be. Dallington would never be worried for money. Polly was a widow, however, and her position was uncertain. By whatever means he had to do it, Lenox would make sure she did not depart the business — should it disband, should she wish to leave — with less money than she had when she arrived. At least he could be sure of that.

The other thought that had been going through his mind was harder to bear: It was that LeMaire was perhaps correct.

The three of them had talked very little after the Frenchman left, and fortunately the fillip of Pointilleux’s loyalty had made the conversation less strained than it might otherwise have been. Polly had acted as if nothing were changed, at least among the three of them. Dallington, meanwhile, had mentioned in the carriage how sorry LeMaire would be when he was drummed out of the business by their success.

Lenox, for his part, wasn’t as optimistic. “Three cannot carry four,” LeMaire had said, or words to that effect, and it was true. The newspapers were the worst of it. His notability, which he had hoped would be an asset to the firm, had instead proven a disadvantage. Many of the newspapers had scores to settle with him; apparently so did the Yard. It surprised him, he had to admit to himself. He had made more friends than enemies in politics. There was something puzzling in the attacks, something troublingly out of balance with reality. Was some force behind them, some invisible mover? Or was that an unreasonably suspicious thought?

They arrived at 31 Mornington Crescent. Nicholson led the way up the steps and knocked sharply at the door; it was a single-family house, not, like some others along the crescent, divided up into apartments.

“Freshly painted,” Dallington murmured to Lenox, nodding toward the house’s front, and indeed, now that he looked more closely this house did seem to shine more brightly than its neighbors.

“Money again,” said Lenox.

“Yes, indeed.”

There were footsteps audible behind the door. It swung open, and a housemaid appeared, dressed very formally. “May I help you?” she asked.

Nicholson had his identification ready. “I’m Inspector Nicholson of Scotland Yard,” he said. “We would like a word with Andrew Francis, if you don’t mind.”

“Andrew Francis?” she said.

“Yes. Is he in?”

The housemaid shook her head. “You’ve the wrong house, I’m afraid. Did you check the number? This is 31.”

“That’s the house we want. You’re telling me that Andrew Francis doesn’t live here?”

She shook her head again. “No. This house belongs to Mr. and Mrs. David McCaskey.”

“How long have they been here?” asked Lenox.

“Ten years,” she said. “I’ve been here seven of those myself.”

“Does anyone else live here?”

“Three other servants, and Mr. and Mrs. McCaskey’s child, Laurel. She’s six.”

“Nobody by the name of Francis has lived here in the seven years you have?” asked Nicholson, skeptical.

“No,” she said very firmly.

“I hate to be rude, but would you mind if we confirmed that with your mistress?”

On the contrary, the housemaid didn’t mind at all — she seemed eager to prove to them that they were wrong, and led them straight to Mrs. David McCaskey, who was sitting with several friends sipping tea. Nicholson introduced himself, Dallington, and Lenox, and then said he would be happy to speak to Mrs. McCaskey in private. But she was just as happy to have it out in front of her friends. No, she didn’t know anyone named Francis; not Hartley either; her husband’s business address was 141 East India Dock Road, near the wharf — he was an importer — and he would be more than happy to speak to them whenever they pleased.

This was all distressingly convincing. Nicholson apologized for their intrusion, both to Mrs. McCaskey and the now-triumphant housemaid, and bade the women good day.

“You’re not related to Lady Jane Lenox, are you, Mr. Lenox?” asked one of them as the three investigators turned to leave the room.

Lenox turned back. “I have the honor of being married to her, madam,” he said.

The faces of all four women seemed to light up. “Could you possibly pass my card to her?” asked Mrs. McCaskey, which earned her a deathly stare from the person who had first inquired whether Lenox knew his wife. “I feel very sure that she would be interested in my work with the West African Trust — she could come to tea any morning, could name her time.”

Lenox accepted the card as politely as he could, and three more followed it instantly, though he assured them that Jane’s schedule was full, most unfortunately full, with barely room to breathe.

“At least you’ve made Lady Jane some new friends,” said Dallington as they left. “I can only imagine how gratified she’ll be.”

They came out onto the steps. “It’s all very well to joke,” said Lenox. “But if this house is brimming with McCaskeys, where on earth then is Andrew H. Francis?”