The September Society

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

L enox sat drinking a cup of coffee in the back room at the Turf, wondering whether Goodson had made any progress. Likely they had at least found something that would help establish that Payson had been staying in the fields to the south of Oxford-but, he thought with a sigh, where would that get them? Unless Dabney had left behind a witnessed and notarized description of what had happened, there would probably be little to gather from the site where they had stayed.

Then, just as he found himself sinking into pessimism again, Lenox saw something delightful hovering by the bar, looking respectfully toward him. It was a welcome sight: Graham.

“Graham! Good Lord!”

“I hope I haven’t startled you, sir?”

“A bit, yes. Rather like seeing Banquo’s ghost in gray spats. Why are you here, anyway? Not that it’s not jolly to have you, of course.”

“I took the liberty, sir, of catching the morning train. I thought I might be of some assistance.”

(Graham often helped Lenox with his cases, possessing as he did an uncanny ability to discover information that seemed lost or buried, and understanding intuitively what mattered and did not. It was another example of their unusual friendship, so different than any other in London.)

“Dead right,” said Lenox warmly. “I’ve never needed it more. What of home?”

“Sir?”

“Everything calm there, I mean?”

“Ah-yes, sir. I’ve brought your post as well.”

“Thank you very much, Graham. I really am glad to have you here.”

“There’s not much in it, sir, though you’ve had another visit from John Best.”

“Whose card I had the other morning?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who the devil is he?”

“I cannot say, sir.”

“Odd.”

“Yes, sir. I trust the case is progressing?”

“It’s hard to tell. Hopefully.”

“Yes, sir.”

Lenox thought for a moment. “I say, Graham, why don’t you check us into the Randolph over on Magdalen Street?”

“Sir?”

“I’ve been staying here, but it would be appalling of me to impose my nostalgia on you. I doubt you’d see the charm in the place if you hadn’t been dropped here before every term.”

“I shall attend to it straight away, sir.”

“Mrs. Tate?” Lenox called out, and the Turf’s proprietor popped her head around the corner. “Mrs. Tate, do you mind awfully if I leave for the Randolph?”

“Is everything all right, Mr. Lenox?” she said.

“Oh-perfect, of course. It’s only that my valet here has come up, too, and I think it would rather stretch your hospitality to find a bed for him.”

She gave an understanding nod. “It won’t be too long before we see you again, though, will it?”

“Oh, definitely not,” said Lenox. “It had been too long since I last visited Oxford.”

“Certainly had, sir. Ah-a customer!”

When she was gone, Lenox said, “Can I talk something over with you, Graham?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Have a seat here. Anything to eat?”

“No, thank you, sir.”

“Good enough. The problem is this fellow Hatch, the professor at Lincoln. He’s got his back up about me, I’m sure, because I went around and asked him about the two lads. I think he may be at the bottom of all this somehow, whether he’s the primary mover or not.”

“Indeed, sir?”

Lenox briefly recapitulated his conversation with Hatch, emphasizing the two lies the professor had told. “He’s at 13 Holywell Street, just around the corner. Queer fellow, you know.”

“How so, sir?”

“From what I can gather, he’s better friends with the students than with the other dons, acts somewhat debauched, in fact, as a student might. My impression was that he was unhappy, if that makes sense. I only say so because I’ve found that unhappiness can disguise a multitude of sins.”

“Yes, sir.”

“So I’d like you to get round him, Graham. See if you can discover anything about his relationship with George Payson and Bill Dabney, and see as well what he gets up to-what his daily life is like, whether he would have had the chance to kill somebody in the dead of night, for instance, or whether his servants keep a pretty close watch over him. And of course what he was doing yesterday evening.”

“I shall endeavor to learn all I can of his activities and character, sir.”

“Good of you, Graham, thanks. That’s exactly what I’m after.”

“Not at all, sir.”

“Good as well to see a friendly face, now that I’m over the shock of it.”

“I apologize again, sir,” said Graham with a low laugh.

Lenox waved a hand. “Oh, not at all. This is a baddish problem, and I admit I felt defeated after McConnell got that wire about Payson. Time for all good men to rally round, I mean.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Good enough, then, and you’ll check on the Randolph? I’m going to go up to the Bodleian.”

“Yes, sir. With your consent, sir, I shall send a note up to you at the library confirming that the rooms have been secured.”

“Perfect. I should be there for a few hours, at any rate, and then I’m sure I’ll see McConnell and Inspector Goodson.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Excellent.”

After Graham had gone, Lenox read the Times. News of Payson’s death had made the front page of the paper, underneath a somber headline that read MURDER AT LINCOLN. Lenox pictured all of the proud old Lincoln alumni in the far-flung provinces of the empire reading the news and feeling as shaken as he would have if the case had happened at Balliol. There were only a few things Lenox took special pride in, but as he read the Times he realized that Oxford was one of them, and told himself that if he couldn’t solve this case he might as well retire.