The September Society

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

S upper with Radley was interesting, and better still it was distracting. A professor of biological sciences at Worcester, he had great enthusiasm for McConnell’s work as an amateur biologist. His own passion was birds. For much of the meal he had laid out the objections to the theories of evolution that Charles Darwin and Alfred Russel Wallace had proposed a few years ago and that were still widely debated in the scientific community. Probably impossible, though very clever, was his conclusion. “The best we’ll say of Wallace and Darwin is that they gave us new ways of thinking about animal growth, which could spur on other, more plausible theories.” He appeared to be in a diminishing majority, however, and Lenox reminded himself to ask McConnell his thoughts on the matter. In all, though, Radley was a genial, undeniably good sort, and their conversation was pleasant, if heavy on birds.

After supper Lenox had gone for a long, thoughtful stroll around Addison’s Walk, the path that wound narrowly around a small island within the grounds of Magdalen College. It was a beautiful ring that led away from and then back to the college, the ground level and only inches away from the quiet, rolling Cherwell River. He remembered its pristine beauty under fresh snow from his undergraduate days; once, despondent over some long-forgotten exam, he had gone to the Walk at dawn and come out feeling better, slightly better. This evening he had smoked his pipe and thought about the case, the cool air clearing the wine from his head, a don passing now and then, the view of Magdalen Tower up in the middle distance…

Just back in his rooms now and removing his coat, he said to his butler, “Well, Graham, if you have any questions about the blue chaffinch or the gray-rumped swallow, I imagine I can answer them for you pretty exhaustively by now.”

“Thank you, sir. Perhaps some other time.”

“Sensible. Swallows and chaffinches are good in their way, of course, but too much of them is inadvisable.”

Graham had given him a glass of brandy, and Lenox was sitting in his shirttails in a blue high-backed chair near the fire. He invited the butler to sit down opposite him and take a glass; Graham assented to the first offer but declined the second.

“Hatch, then,” Lenox said.

“Yes, sir.”

“I hope you’ve found something interesting out?”

“I think I have, yes, sir.”

“Go on.”

Graham looked at the notes in his lap. “The gentleman is called John Braithwaite Hatch, sir, Bingham Professor of Chemistry. Aged thirty-eight. Born and grew up in North London, a rural area near Ashburton Grove. Educated at Westminster College, having earned a scholarship. On to Lincoln, Oxford, after that. Stayed as a fellow after finishing his undergraduate coursework, and soon became a don.”

“Much distinguished as a scholar?” Lenox asked, cradling his brandy in his hand.

“He was, sir, yes, though he hasn’t published anything in two years.”

“I see.”

“His servants universally ascribe his current stagnation to his love of drink, sir.”

“I’m not wholly surprised.”

“What I have to report otherwise is concise but I hope useful, sir. You told me that you thought Mr. Hatch had lied to you twice, about George Payson’s cat and about the last time he had seen the missing gentlemen. I can add to your statement two extremely suspicious facts. The first is that he saw George Payson on the morning of his disappearance.”

“Good Lord!”

“Yes, sir, I was as surprised as you are.”

“Where did they meet?”

“At a coffee shop about halfway between Worcester College and the Ashmolean Museum, sir, a place called Shotter’s.”

“Shotter’s? What sort of name is that?”

“After the proprietor, sir, one Peter Shotter.”

“Ah. How did you find this out?”

“Mr. Hatch spends most mornings in the Lincoln College senior common room, according to a gentleman I met who works there, sir.”

Every college’s professors had a senior common room, the graduate students a middle common room, and the undergraduates a junior common room. They were all similar, filled with couches, fireplaces, and always something to eat. Usually the senior room, though, held the college’s treasures-its single Michelangelo cartoon or notable Greek vase.

“But that morning he didn’t?”

“No, sir, he did not. I asked a maid in Mr. Hatch’s house where he had gone, and all she knew was that he had gone down Beaumont Street. I inquired at the shops on that road and struck lucky, sir.”

“You’re a marvel, Graham. How long did they talk? How do you know it was Payson?”

“According to Mr. Shotter, the two spoke for about fifteen minutes. He knew Mr. Payson, sir, and identified Mr. Hatch from my description, though he couldn’t say that he had ever seen him before that morning.”

“It sounds almost as if Payson instigated the meeting. A spot he was accustomed to, where his face was known, I mean.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you find out anything about a connection between Hatch and the September Society, by any chance?”

Graham shook his head. “No, sir, I’m afraid I didn’t.”

“No fault of yours. What clubs does he belong to?”

“Only the Oxford and Cambridge, sir.”

“Never served in the military, I take it?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you find out anything about his relatives?”

“Yes, sir, though nothing which might help the case, I fear. His mother is living, father dead. He is an only child and has two living aunts in Yorkshire, both childless.”

“Father’s profession?”

“A barrister, sir.”

“Successful?”

“Not successful, sir, but not a failure.”

“I see. Well, Graham, thank you.”

“I have one more piece of information, sir.”

“Yes?” Lenox had been poking at the fire, feeling suddenly sleepy, his brandy mostly gone, but now he looked up. “What else did you find out?”

“Professor Hatch has an unassailable alibi for the time frame of the murder of George Payson.”

“Given by?”

“Numerous people, sir-to begin with, his servants.”

“Go on.”

“However, sir, the afternoon before the murder he went for a walk in Christ Church Meadow. It appears, sir, that he went beyond the meadow to the south, where you and Inspector Goodson had speculated the two young gentlemen might be hiding out.”

“That’s right,” said Lenox. His whole attention was on Graham, and he had moved to the edge of the seat, his hands interlocking, his hair untidy, his face intent.

“He reappeared in the meadow after about fifteen minutes, sir, according to a park guard there. When he had left through the lower meadow he had a parcel.”

“And when he returned?”

“He no longer had it.”

Lenox sat back low in his seat, suddenly pensive. He stared at the fire for a minute, perhaps two, Graham silent as well. Then he stood up with sudden energy.

“The question is whether he was taking something to Payson and Dabney, or just to one of them, or to… Geoffrey Canterbury. Or to some other person. The murderer.”

“Precisely my thoughts, sir.”

Lenox, pacing, his face red now from the heat of the fire, said, “Did anything else occur to you? About Hatch, about the case? Is there any other information about him? I feel as if I’m missing some small piece here… some key into the whole thing.”

Graham coughed softly. “I have a little more information, sir, but that’s all, and none of it terribly helpful. Here,” he said, passing a sheet of paper to Lenox, “is a list of the people who usually attended Mr. Hatch’s parties. On its reverse you’ll find the dates of the last several.”

Lenox nodded. “Thanks, Graham. I’ll track them down. That will be useful.” After another moment of silence, still pacing, he suddenly sighed and said, “Well, I suppose I’ll go to bed. Was there any late post, by the way?”

“Only this, from London, sir.”

He passed Lenox a heavy envelope. It was from Dallington. “Excellent. All right, thanks, Graham-first-rate work. Sorry to seem so distracted, you know. This case is bothering me, really bothering me. But you’ve opened up a whole new vista. I mean to tell Goodson straight away tomorrow morning, if you’ll come with me.”

“Of course, sir.”

Lenox paused. “And when we’re done-all our thoughts toward Morocco!”

“Indeed, sir,” said Graham, with the slightest of smiles. “Good night, then.”

After Graham had withdrawn, Lenox sat at the desk by the window. He left the note for a moment and stared out into the sky. A clear night, a crescent moon. Another sigh, and he turned his attention to Dallington. The note was characteristic of Lenox’s new pupil. Good news, then, Lenox-or bad, as you choose-Butler was certainly in town on the evening you asked me about. The chap couldn’t have been more conspicuous if he tried, in fact. Attached find a list of his activities (dry stuff, but to each his own). Thanks for the chance of doing it, really. If there’s anything else I can help with, send word by return-or at your leisure. Cheerio, Dallington. P.S.: No charge for the services, though my mother’s desperate to see me paid. Droll, isn’t it? She sends on her regard.

Lenox laughed at the postscript and scanned the attached list, which seemed to be in order. Admirable quickness on the lad’s part, as well. Perhaps an apprentice would be useful after all.