The September Society

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

I n the lobby of the Randolph, Lenox stopped at the front desk for his key, but just as he was going to speak to the manager, he saw Lady Annabelle Payson. With a heavy heart he changed direction and walked toward her.

She was sitting in the far corner of the room, half hidden in the shade and all on her own. Lenox saw as he drew closer to her that her eyes were red-rimmed and that her cheeks had grown paler since he had last seen her. The air of utter defeat in her face was easy for Lenox to take as a personal rebuke.

“Lady Annabelle?” he said.

It took her a moment to look up. “Ah,” she said, bowing her head with great dignity, “how do you do, Mr. Lenox?”

“Lady Annabelle, is anybody here with you?”

“My brother is speaking to the police at the moment, but yes, he has kept me company.”

“I wanted to apologize, Lady Annabelle. For failing, and of course for George’s death.”

She didn’t contradict him. “Tell me, Mr. Lenox, do you still plan to work on this case?”

“I do, yes.” He didn’t add: until I drop dead myself, if need be.

“Good,” she said, though her eyes were still dull and lifeless, lacking even the fieriness of revenge that Lenox had so often seen in the grieving.

“Perhaps it will be some solace when we find out who did it,” said Lenox. “I hope so, at any rate.”

After a long, almost reproving pause, she went on, “What I cannot forgive myself for is letting him leave when I met him at Lincoln College, Mr. Lenox. I keep repeating the scene in my mind, and it’s beyond my comprehension that I could have let my poor George walk away from my embrace when he looked so pale, so… so vulnerable, Mr. Lenox. So vulnerable.”

“You couldn’t have known what would happen, Lady Annabelle.”

“I lost my husband, too, you know.”

“I do,” Lenox answered quietly. “I remember him.”

“But that,” she said, her voice a whisper, “was a walk in the park to this.”

“Perhaps you could help me, Lady Annabelle.”

“Help you?”

“To solve this case. For example, have you heard of the September Society?”

“I haven’t, no, Mr. Lenox.”

“Does the color red mean anything to you?”

“Not in particular.” Her tone was distracted, even faintly annoyed, and Lenox didn’t blame her for it.

“Did George take long walks?”

“Only in the country, he always said.” She laughed in a rather choked way. “Said there was no point walking in Oxford or London, when there was always a pub nearby.”

“I see.”

“He was awfully sweet, my dear George. The funniest person I ever knew.”

“Yes,” said Lenox. A moment’s silence later, he reached for his pocket. “Do these pen lines mean anything to you?”

He handed her the September Society card that was marked with the black and pink X. Taking it from him, her brow furrowed, and she turned it over several times. She studied it closely. She looked slightly puzzled-the only deviation from the wan, downcast mien her face had borne throughout the conversation.

“It rings some vague bell, Mr. Lenox.”

Trying to suppress his eager curiosity, Lenox said, “Can you think of what it might be?”

“Why-I think-only faintly, but I think it resembles the Payson crest.”

“The crest?”

“You know, the coat of arms, whatever you call it.”

“How so?”

“The crest’s a shield in black and pinkish red. George had it on his stationery.”

“Black and pinkish red?”

“A bit darker pink than this, but an X shape, yes-the pink for the blood the Paysons have spilled in battle.” Though Lenox was worried it might, the thought of blood didn’t seem to bother her. “Yes, it looks like a quick, crude rendering of the crest.”

“How odd,” Lenox murmured, his mind quickening

At that moment John West, Lady Annabelle’s brother, came toward them. After introducing himself and again trying to find a few consolatory words for her, Lenox left them. As he went upstairs, his thoughts moved on to the cat on the seal (seals and crests were certainly flying fast and furious now) of the September Society. It must have been related, the dead cat, to the Society. Every bone in Lenox’s body told him that George Payson, or Bill Dabney perhaps-perhaps even someone unknown-had left behind a minefield of clues waiting to be discovered. The cat was one of those clues, like the walking boots, the line of ash, all of it.

Now they were gone, dash it. If only he had thought to make a more thorough catalog of what the room had contained. Perhaps he would go back and look at it again despite the cleaning. The question was why whoever had planted the clues had felt the need to make them obscure, and there was only one answer: The person had known that somebody would search the room after it had been abandoned. The cat was a clever touch, in that case. It would draw the instant focus of anybody who saw it. Perhaps, Lenox mused, that meant that the cat was the least important of the clues-pointing toward the September Society but not in itself the critical puzzle piece. Perhaps it was designed, with the cryptic numbers written on the note underneath it, to seem more significant or baffling than it was.

When he reached his room, Graham was sitting on a chair in the hall.

“There you are, Graham,” said Lenox. “Is this my kip?”

“Just here, sir. I acquired a suite with a bedroom and sitting room. If it does not meet with your approval, sir-”

“Not at all, no. Thanks awfully for coming and figuring it out.”

“Was the Bodleian a fruitful detour, sir?”

“It may have been. I’m not certain.” Lenox related the tangle of uncertainties to Graham as he unpacked the detective’s clothes. “The damned thing about it, Graham, is that it might have been a local criminal or a far-flung one, we can’t know yet.”

“Frustrating, sir. I think you’ll find the navy socks are preferable, sir.”

Lenox discarded the black pair and donned the navy blue.

“McConnell’s meeting me downstairs, then? How much time do I have?”

“Half an hour, sir.”

“I say, Graham, have you started your investigations into Hatch yet?”

“Not yet, sir. I planned to begin in the morning.”

“Could you figure out whether he was in the military? In the East, for obvious reasons? I forgot to look up Who’s Who in the Bod.”

“Yes, sir, I certainly shall. Is he of the correct age, sir?”

“Hard to say. One of these chaps who could be twenty-five or forty-five.”

“Indeed, sir.”

Lenox, dressed now, shot his cuffs in front of the mirror. His black tie was a bit off center, and Graham tended to it.

“I saw Lady Payson downstairs.”

“Yes, sir?”

“It was painful, though that’s nothing. She’s as broken as I’ve ever seen anyone.” Lenox paused. “This may be the first time somebody has come to me before a death.” Another pause. “It’s a pretty bad lookout, Graham.”

“Yes, sir.”

“To put it another way-every effort, don’t you think?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Not that it’s ever otherwise.” Glancing again in the mirror, Lenox said, “I think I’ll have a drink at the bar before I meet McConnell. Steady myself a bit.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Do you have anything planned? Have the night off, of course. I can draw my own bath and that sort of thing.”

“Thank you, sir. I may see one or two of the other footmen from my Balliol days, sir.”

“Our Balliol days, Graham. Which ones are still kicking around?”

“Oh, Mr. Bond, of course, Mr. Middleton, and Mr. Dekker.”

“Will you buy them a round on me? Here’s a couple of shillings.” Lenox reached into his pocket and handed the money over. “Tell them I said hello, won’t you? And tell Dekker I haven’t forgotten him dropping that boiled egg in old Bessborough’s lap, won’t you?”

With a smile, Graham said, “Yes, sir.”

“All right. I’ll wander off, then. Hopefully McConnell’s solved the whole thing and we can go back to London.”