The September Society

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Now, a while later, sitting on a bench in Balliol, Lenox watched the students mill around him. Gossip had long since run wild about Dabney and Payson, and he overheard many students talking about the two now and then, though the majority of conversation was still devoted to boat races and undergraduate plays, rugby and tutorials. His mind was going over and over the few dim personal memories he had of James Payson, smoothing them out like water over rocks; there had been a period of six months or so when their London sets had mingled, and Lenox and Payson had seen each other once or twice a month, a desultory acquaintance springing up between them.

His people were from Worcestershire, near Evesham, where they maintained a dilapidated castle that had been given to the family by George II after some ancient service done to the crown during the War of Jenkins’s Ear. He remembered this because Payson had always made a joke about the absurdity of the war that had founded his family, so to speak. (During a fraught time in the relations between Britain and Spain, a sea captain named Robert Jenkins had been captured by Spaniards and had his ear cut off; when he came back and triumphantly showed it to the Houses of Parliament, the Prime Minister-Walpole?-had declared war. Lenox knew at least that much of the story from his schooldays.) Payson had been the second son and black sheep of his family-fiery tempered, commonly found in low company. It was inevitable that he would find his way to London, given those traits, and having been sent down from Oxford, for public drunkenness, he had somehow acquired a place in-well, in the 12th Suffolk 2nd, as it would seem.

He had been handsome, tall, upright in his bearing, with a mustache and a forthright manner, but his eyes had always looked dangerous. When he had convinced Lady Annabelle West to marry him, people had predicted ill of it-and after six months of hard use she had fled from him, seeking refuge in a small town in Belgium, where her brother moved to protect her. She was three months pregnant, and other than a somewhat startled state of mind had been in decent health. By the time the baby was born in Brussels, six months later, James Payson had gone to India with his battalion. The book had said of that time that the battalion was by and large bored, despite occasional skirmishes with the locals. On their return two years after leaving England, they had left behind twenty men and two officers dead, James Payson one of them. The book didn’t give the reason for his death.

Indeed, if Lenox remembered correctly, the reason had always been somewhat obscure. As he had originally heard the story when at Oxford, Payson had been shot dead for cheating at a card table with his fellow officers, but the regiment’s commander had hushed matters up. Another story had it that Payson had been killed in battle, some skirmish with local rebels on the border between India and that bloody area of Bengal that the British East India Company had just claimed in the Sepoy Mutiny a few years-perhaps a decade-ago.

Whoever shot him, and for whatever reason, he had arrived in England with a bullet lodged just above his heart. Lenox and Edmund, who had known Payson slightly, had been to the memorial service in London, though not to the funeral in Evesham. In death Payson had acquired twice as many friends as in life, and the papers had reported about his death extensively. Perhaps, Lenox thought, he’d ask Dallington to go back and track down their reports.

Trying to align the facts in his mind, he thought: Well, Payson would have been eligible for the September Society-which might mean either that some benefit or some evil would accrue to his son-which might mean that the younger George Payson had been killed out of revenge, perhaps, though surely a long-dead feud wouldn’t have been reason enough-and was this why they hadn’t killed Bill Dabney?

Suddenly he realized that of course George Payson had been leaving him clues all along, because there was the September Society card with black and pink lines on it, the crude image of the Payson arms. It had obviously linked his father, with whom he would have been most likely to associate the crest, to the 12th Suffolk 2nd. Same with the note underneath the cat.

How daft I’ve been, Lenox thought. I have to return to the clues he left, see what they mean.

Then he thought about the man all the undergraduates at Lincoln called Red-James Kelly. For that had been the second shock of the afternoon. After finding James Payson’s name in the officer’s rolls, Lenox had gone back and scanned the name of every man who had served with him. There, listed as a transfer from the Royal Pioneer Corps, was James Kelly.

Red. He had been in India-with Lysander, with Butler, with Payson. What could be more likely than that they would delegate a murder, give the order, and watch it done as they had so many times?

And how had Red ended up at Lincoln at the same time as James Payson?

He thought about these coincidences for a while, until finally, stopping a passing undergraduate with a wave of his hand, Lenox said, “Do you mind if I have a quick word?”

“Not at all,” said the lad, who had big ears and red cheeks as well as a fiercely cut head of blond hair. “Are you looking for your son?”

“No,” said Lenox, half regretting the word, “no, I used to be here at Balliol, and I’m visiting for a day or two.”

“Having a jolly time, I hope?” said the young man patiently.

“Yes, thanks. Good to see it all again. At the moment I was wondering-if I wanted to take a long walk hereabouts, where would you recommend I go?”

“Well, sir,” he said, “there are two options. You could walk up north, just walk past Wadham and keep on, and then you’ll reach the parks. Beautiful cricket pitch there, though they reckon they’ll build a new one, and a fair amount of meadow to walk about on. I often walk the leas there myself.”

“Sounds charming. What’s the other?”

“Just past Christ Church Meadow is a fair bit of open field and stream, plus of course the Thames-or rather, the Isis, as you’ll remember we call it here.”

“Do students go there often?”

He nodded. “Many students walk there, certainly.”

“Perhaps I’ll try that,” Lenox said. “Thanks very much for your help.”

“Not at all.”

“I’m Charles Lenox, by the way.”

“Hopkins,” the lad said. They shook hands. “Gerard Manley Hopkins. A pleasure to meet you. Have a good walk-I’m off to see my professor.” With a wave he tramped off toward the Balliol lodge.

Lenox was thinking of the muddy boots and walking stick Payson had left in such an oddly prominent spot of his sitting room. What did they indicate? Along with his harried, anxious attitude when he met his mother just before disappearing, perhaps that he already knew the trouble he was facing-that he had already walked past Christ Church Meadow, looking for a place to hide? Even that he had met Geoffrey Canterbury before the ball at Jesus?

Lenox left Balliol and started walking down Broad Street. It was midafternoon by now, and it occurred to him that perhaps he should return to London. Goodson was in charge on this end, and to Lenox’s eyes everything seemed to indicate the participation of the September Society in London. Hatch aside… but then, perhaps he would leave Graham here to keep an eye on Hatch-and, more important, Red. Could he ask Graham to look after the porter, too?

He stopped in to see Goodson and told him about finding George Payson’s father’s name in the rolls. They had a long conversation about its significance.

“Any luck with Canterbury?” Lenox said at last.

“A constable in Didcot may have traced him to that neck of the woods, but I’m not hopeful. He’ll have disappeared already. I’m thinking of taking your advice, doing a closer search behind the Meadow.”

“I don’t think it can hurt,” Lenox said and told him about the walking stick and boots in Payson’s room.

“I confess,” said Goodson, “that I’m a little low in my spirits. Nobody has come forward to say that they saw something; nobody can find this Canterbury fellow.”

“I felt the same.”

“Yes?”

“That’s why I thought I might track back down to London to follow the September Society lead-this Payson lead.”

“As you wish.”

“There’s nothing I can do here?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“You’ll keep an eye on Hatch and Red?”

“Aye.”

The two men shook hands and said good-bye. “For now, anyway,” Lenox said.

“Keep in close contact.”

“I will.”

Outside, Lenox turned his footsteps toward the Randolph. Canterbury, he thought-what could have compelled Payson to meet Canterbury?

Then he stopped.

What had the description of Canterbury been? Dark hair, a big pocket watch, a mark on his throat? Why did that ring a bell? Then he realized: He had just met a dark-haired man with a scar on his neck.

He ran back inside to see Goodson. “Look,” he said, “I think I may know who Geoffrey Canterbury is.”

“Who?”

“John Lysander.”

“The chap you met with?”

“Exactly. I think he convinced Payson to meet him somehow-invoked his father’s name, something like that.”

“Why would he have lingered hereabouts, then, rather than going straight back to London?”

“Because it’s what Geoffrey Canterbury would have done, perhaps? And the opposite of what John Lysander would have.”

“Can you furnish a more exact description of this Lysander?” Lenox did as he was asked. “All right, then,” said Goodson. “I’ll take it to Mrs. Meade.”

“Excellent,” said Lenox.

He returned to his room at the Randolph in a pensive mood and instructed Graham to pack.