The September Society

CHAPTER SEVEN

The bedroom was narrow and dark, with only a diamond-shaped window letting any light in. Like the sitting room it was plain, and like the sitting room it was untouched by the scout-the bed unmade, books strewn on the floor by an armchair that stood under the window, and clothes on the floor by the wardrobe. Still, the room retained the amiable hominess that was recognizable in the sitting room. Lenox liked George Payson, no mistaking it.

Lady Payson was sitting by the grate, which McConnell had lit.

“Much too chilly in here,” he had said. “No evidence in it, is there?”

Now he and Lenox were walking gingerly through the room. Its only remarkable point was the dead cat lying in the center of it.

“Will you tell me what I ought to know?” McConnell said.

The doctor hadn’t looked better in years; not since before he began to drink. He was a tall, handsome Scot, with wry and caring eyes. A talented surgeon, he had let his practice lapse after making a brilliant marriage to a young, charming, beautiful, rich, and high-strung woman called Toto. The marriage had been a rocky one, however, at some points even on the verge of divorce. The sorrow of those first years had driven McConnell to drink. Recently, though, as the doctor had unbended and Toto had grown, things had been better. The secrets of a marriage are impenetrable, but the secrets of a man are not: McConnell was happier, especially when he worked with Lenox. Toto was, too. Both were older and sadder, but they had made it to the other side. Or so their friends ardently hoped. McConnell still had the sunken eyes of the flask, yet there was some jolliness in his face that Lenox could only ascribe to the partial reconciliation with Toto.

Lenox briefly explained the outline of the case. “Hope I haven’t called you here for naught,” he said.

“I daresay the cat will be as interesting as anything else that comes my way this week. Animal, vegetable, mineral, you know-I’m not a real doctor any longer, I’ll take them all.”

He smiled as he said this, though Lenox detected in the smile a customarily wan aspect.

The cat itself was white and glossy, well taken care of, without any markings at first glance. It was stabbed once through the neck. Turning on a lamp, Lenox leaned down to verify that the weapon was indeed a letter opener. It was of the old-fashioned kind, he saw, broad and silver, inscribed with a cursive P. McConnell stooped down with Lenox and ran his hand through the cat’s fur.

“Only the one wound,” he said. “Odd, that.”

“Why?”

McConnell stroked his chin. “Have you ever tried to stab a cat?”

“Oh, dozens of times.”

He laughed. “But really, cats aren’t docile, you know. They squirm and dash about. I love dogs, myself-a good Scottish terrier.”

“In a murderous mood, you mean?”

“Don’t joke, there’s a good fellow.”

“You’re right, though, it would have been difficult.”

“Even for a strong man-it wouldn’t matter. There would be more than one mark, as the person tried to hit the right spot. In fact, there would probably be seven or eight lighter ones, I’d guess. Here there’s a single deep one.”

“So either two people did it,” said Lenox, “or the cat was drugged.”

“I’ll find out for you.”

“Let’s lift it.”

McConnell gingerly worked the letter opener out (it was plunged straight through to the floor) and dropped it into the pocket of a cloth bag he had brought. Rigor mortis had set in, and the body was stiff. He picked the cat up and dropped it into the main pouch of the bag.

“What’s this?” said Lenox.

In the blood on the floor was a damp red note, which had been stabbed through at its center by the letter opener. He picked it up and examined it. One corner was untouched by blood, and he saw a blue edging on it. Writing paper. It was folded in half, and he opened it.

“It says… it says, ’x12/43 21 31 25/x2.’ “Lenox looked at McConnell, puzzled. “Any meaning you can gather?”

“That’s your area.” The doctor held out a little bag, and Lenox, after making sure there were no markings anywhere else on it, placed it inside.

“What kind of code could it be?” Lenox muttered. “I wonder.”

He walked across the room, stooping here and there to look. He found little of interest, and nothing so singular as the collection of objects on the Indian rug. Still, he left with one thing: On the bedside table was an empty dance card for a ball that had apparently taken place the night before at Jesus College, with a note on the reverse that said, Yes, sir, that will be fine, and was signed Roland Light. According to Lady Annabelle, this was the hallway’s scout, who cleaned the rooms, lit the fires, and made meals. Otherwise, their inspection yielded nothing.

“Bit of lunch?” McConnell whispered.

“I shall have to look after Lady Annabelle.”

“See what she means to do.”

“Yes, all right,” said Lenox.

She was sitting by the coals, warming her hands. There was a dazed look in her eyes.

“Shall I ever see my son again?” She felt for her necklace.

“I certainly hope you shall, Lady Payson.”

She turned to him. “Can I trust you?” she said. “Are you a good enough detective?”

“Fair enough, yes. If you would like to go to the police, I recommend it wholeheartedly.”

“Oh, the police,” she said with a wave of her hand.

“At any rate, I think the best thing now would be rest. Perhaps you should withdraw to your brother’s house.”

“Perhaps,” she said tiredly. “What do you mean to do?”

“This afternoon I shall interview whomever I’m able to find. This evening I’ll consider all that I’ve learned. Tomorrow morning, I think, I shall return to London. I have plenty to work on.”

“Leave Oxford!”

“Only for a day, possibly two, Lady Payson. And I will not leave without an ally in place here.”

“Who?”

“I cannot answer that, I’m afraid.”

Gradually it was settled that she would leave, and with a great deal of trouble Lenox managed to send her off in her handsome, dejected carriage, with a promise of keeping in close touch.

McConnell was waiting in the courtyard of Lincoln eating an apple, his cloth bag at his side.

“Saw her off?” he said.

“Yes,” said Lenox thoughtfully. “Poor woman.”

“She barely seems to be holding on.”

They set off up the High and turned onto Cornmarket Street, then into St. Giles. A little ways up St. Giles at number 12, Lenox led McConnell into the familiar doors of the Lamb and Flag-one of his favorite pubs in Oxford, companion to the Turf in that respect. (Inevitably a tour of Oxford becomes a tour of its pubs.) It was an old coaching inn, the kind that had been so important to British travel in the eighteenth century but had only just straggled into modern times, where horses could be fed and stabled, groups could meet and stay the night before traveling north, and there was always a pint and something good to eat available, no matter how late or wet it was. It was still the best place to order a cab or fly in Oxford. St. John’s College had always owned it, since 1695. There was a distinguished look about it-a place where kings had slept and beggars had drunk, all within the six or eight dim rooms, odd shaped and illogical, crammed under their ancient black beams.

Lenox and McConnell sat at a table overlooking a broad field by St. John’s, talking easily. They had been working together more and more frequently in the past few years, and an intimacy had sprung up between them. For half an hour they lingered over a pint of beer before McConnell decided to order lunch.

“What do you reckon is safe?” he asked when they looked over the menu.

“Oh-I’ve eaten all of it in my time,” said Lenox.

He didn’t have anything now, however, having eaten a large breakfast. McConnell ordered the round steak with a fried egg and mashed potatoes, and both of them ordered pints of autumn ale. The fat, red bartender brought it all out, along with a cold chicken sandwich and a bottle of beer that Lenox meant to save for later.

As the two men talked and drank, the detective recalled his undergraduate days in these rooms; but his happiness and nostalgia were tinged with anxiety over George Payson, whom he knew he would like.