A Stranger in Mayfair Read online

  “Perhaps it’s the work of a madman, and we’re looking at it all wrong.”

  “Maybe, maybe…”

  “Here we are.”

  “You’ll go speak with Collingwood?” said Lenox.

  “Directly. Good luck in there,” he added, nodding to the Members’ Entrance.

  Lenox stepped out of the cab. It was turning into a wet, cold day, and the falling rain managed to shiver into his collar before he got inside.

  Once there, he saw the milling mass of Members he had expected. Before he entered the fray he decided to go up a back staircase to his office and find Graham, to discover what his progress had been on the water issue.

  His tiny, drafty office was open, and entering he saw that Frabbs was at one of the two clerk’s desks, his tie loosened and his face cheery.

  “Lenox, my dear sir!” he said, lurching up from his seat. “Shake my hand, you old stiff!”

  “Excuse me?” said Lenox incredulously.

  Just at that moment Graham darted out of the inner office. “Hello, sir,” he said. “Unfortunately I stood the young gentleman a glass of wine for lunch—in celebration, as it were—and he seems still to be feeling the effects.”

  Frabbs grinned and appeared to wobble on his feet.

  “We’ll spare him a flogging, then,” said Lenox. “Graham, come into my office for a moment, will you?”

  “Of course, sir. I was just putting the new blue books on your desk.”

  It was dim, the small mullioned window all but lightless; even on a sunny day it wasn’t very bright. “Is he doing well?” asked Lenox.

  “He’s only fifteen, sir, and as a result is somewhat inexperienced as a clerk. But I can attest that he’s extremely quick-witted, a fast learner.”

  “Well; as long as you don’t give him any more wine we’ll keep him on, then. Really I wanted to hear about your work here.”

  Graham looked grave. “Unfortunately there seems to be very little sentiment in favor of the idea of a new water system in East London, sir. Nearly all of the numerous people I’ve spoken to on the subject pointed to the great planning and expense that went into Mr. Bazalgette’s new system.”

  “What about the flaw in it, though? The risk of a new cholera epidemic?”

  “To a man they have responded with the observation that the new coverage of London is an improvement, and that further changes would be both costly and difficult to win support for on the floor of the House.”

  Lenox laughed bitterly. “In short, I arrive here too late.”

  “For this issue, sir, I fear that may be true.”

  “Did nobody grasp the gravity of our position? One case of cholera in Bethnal Green and people in Piccadilly could be dead tomorrow!”

  “Some think that possibility remote, and if I may speak openly, I agree. Houses in the more affluent sections of London are well enough ventilated, and the new water system is well designed enough, that West London would likely be safe.”

  “Then what about the poor souls on the other side of the city!”

  Graham looked troubled but offered nothing except “I’m sorry to have failed, sir.”

  Lenox moved over to the window and put his palm against its glass, cool from the rain. “It’s not your fault.” He turned. “Did nobody agree to approach the leadership with me?”

  “Your brother, Mr. Lenox. And—well—” Graham looked doubtful. “Mr. Blanchett expressed some interest in the idea.”

  “Just my brother, then.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Blanchett was the House eccentric, a mining baron who thought England should be a strict monarchy and therefore refused to vote. He belonged to no party and supported only ideas that would prove the government’s past foolishness. It was a bad sign that he liked Lenox’s idea.

  “I’m going to go down, then,” said Lenox. “I know a hundred men in this building. One or two of them must listen, mustn’t they?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Graham loyally, though Lenox could see he didn’t believe it at all.

  Downstairs Lenox didn’t speak to any of those hundred men; instead he found his brother, who was only there, rather than in the back rooms with the cabinet, preparing for the debate, because he wanted to see Charles on his first true day in Parliament.

  “There you are,” said Sir Edmund. “Why do you look as if you swallowed a fly?”

  “Graham says there’s no hope.”

  “The water supply? No—no, I wouldn’t have thought so. You must wait, Charles. Wait a year or two, until you have more friends and allies here. Or, though I don’t like to say it, wait until there’s a bit of cholera about and people are walking through Hyde Park with handkerchiefs over their noses again.”

  “You were right all along—I know that, now.”

  “Come, let’s go into the chamber. The session will begin soon. You must start planning your first speech, at least.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Lenox didn’t get home until past two in the morning, only about half an hour after the session had finished. To his surprise and pleasure, he found Lady Jane waiting up for him.

  “My wife,” he said, and smiled at her with tired eyes.

  She stood up and without speaking gave him a fierce hug, clutching him tightly to her, face buried in his chest. When she looked up at him it was with tears in her eyes. “Since we returned from our honeymoon everything has been…wrong.” Gesturing at the hallways she said, “Even our houses don’t feel right together yet.”

  “I think perhaps it takes time, Jane. We’re not used to being married yet. On the Continent it was all somehow unreal—somehow child’s play. Now we’re back to real life.”

  “It was bad timing, Toto and Thomas having their baby.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked. She was still clutching him, her face just visible in the half-light of the hallway. The house was quiet.

  “I don’t know what I mean,” she said. She started to cry again. “I’m so sorry, Charles.”

  “I love you,” he murmured.

  “I love you more than all the world.”

  “Here—cheer up,” he said. “Come and sit with me. We’ll have a cup of hot chocolate.”

  “We can’t get the servants up.”

  “You forget that I had to fend for myself once upon a time. There was Graham, of course, but I warmed up the odd cup of tea. At Oxford I once even made sandwiches for a young woman I liked.”

  With mock suspicion, Lady Jane said, “Who is she, the harlot?”

  “She wasn’t a harlot, of course. It was you.”

  She looked confused and then laughed with recognition. “That’s right, I did visit you. Those were delicious sandwiches. I remember thinking you must have had a good scout, with salmon and every nice thing to offer me. Well—hot chocolate is just what I’d like.”

  Like disobedient children they crept down the stairs to the basement, which held the servants’ quarters and the oversized, still-warm double kitchen of both their houses. With just a candle to light the way between them, whispering, they went and lit the stove. Jane burrowed through the cabinets until she found a few bars of chocolate, brought back from Paris, and then looked in the iced crate below the cabinets to find the last of the day’s milk.

  Meanwhile Lenox, taking a key from his pocket, opened the silver cabinet and took out that strange hybrid pot, with a short spout and a long wooden handle sticking out of its side (never its back), that it was customary to serve chocolate in. He poured the milk into a saucepan, and then they slowly melted the chocolate bars into it, one by one, until it was rich, dark, and fragrant. At the last he dropped a pinch of salt into the mixture and swirled it in.

  “Isn’t this wonderful?” she whispered. “I forgot what it was like to sneak around—I used to be a terrible little thief as a child.”

  “So did we all, I imagine. My father was in a fearful temper once when he couldn’t have cold steak and kidney pudding for breakfast, the day after we had it for l
unch. I went down and ate it all. I was punished, though—I felt sick for two days, glutton that I was.”

  “You devil!” She kissed him happily on the cheek.

  When the chocolate was ready Lenox carefully poured it from the saucepan on the stovetop into the silver pot. Jane took two teacups down from the hutch by the stove, then two saucers, and, still laughing, they stepped quietly upstairs and back into the study.

  Nothing, they both said after they had finished off the whole pot, had ever tasted better.

  As he fell asleep a little while later, Lenox realized that for the first time in too long he felt content. Gradually he began to think about his day—his afternoon in Parliament, his morning at the boxing club, Collingwood’s confession, all in the drifting, cloudy way of half-consciousness.

  What was missing, he knew, was a clear motive for Collingwood to kill Freddie Clarke. Would such an apparently genial soul—loved by Paul, Alfred, and Tiberius Starling—commit murder over a few coins? No. But then what could the real motive be?

  The next morning he woke up and, just like that, he had it.

  He jumped out of bed and dressed hurriedly, not bothering to shave or comb his hair. Soon he was at Dallington’s flat—a particularly eligible set of rooms in Belgravia. Lenox had never been there. There was only one servant, who looked at Lenox suspiciously.

  “Lord Dallington often sleeps well beyond—”

  “Get him. I’ll answer for it.”

  In the event it took Dallington half an hour to appear in a candy-striped dressing gown, and even then he was groggy. He grabbed at a cup of coffee his valet offered him as if it were the elixir of immortality, and until half the cup was gone he held out a hand to prevent Lenox speaking.

  “Well,” he said at last, “what in all of fiery hell could it be, to get me up so early?”

  “Did you visit Collingwood?”

  “I did. They wouldn’t let me in.”

  “You have to bribe the guard. Didn’t you see? Well, never mind that—yesterday, you remember, you suggested that Paul Starling killed Freddie Clarke, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, and you dismissed the idea.”

  “I was wrong. Listen: Collingwood has only confessed to protect Paul Starling.”

  Dallington looked skeptical. “Paul Starling killed Freddie Clarke?”

  “I’m less sure of that, but I feel certain that Collingwood believes he did. Do you remember when Paul’s name came up at our meeting with him?”

  Slowly, Dallington nodded. “I think I do. He said Paul didn’t have a key to the larder.”

  “I remember his phrasing because I found it awkward at the time…he said, ‘He wasn’t involved.” I was too focused on the green butcher’s apron and knife to notice but I think you’ll agree it was an odd thing to say.”

  Dallington, awake now, nodded. “So he’s facing the gallows to protect one of the family he serves. Bricker, my man, won’t even press my suits.”

  “I don’t think he’s facing the gallows. I think he’ll wait until Paul is out of the country, then tell the truth.”

  “What good does that do Paul, then? He can’t come back to Cambridge.”

  “No, but he’ll be safe from hanging.”

  “I’m confused—do you believe Paul Starling murdered Freddie Clarke or not?”

  Lenox grimaced. “I don’t know. All I know is that it’s what Collingwood believes. I want to go visit him again.”

  In Lenox’s carriage, which had been waiting outside, both men gazed through a window, lost in thought. At last Dallington said, “And Parliament—how has that been?”

  “Do you know that saying about answered prayers? No—but it’s wonderful, in its way. It’s just harder than I imagined it would be.”

  “Personally I wouldn’t go into that House for love or money. Every man you meet is a stuffed shirt or a bore, or one of those chaps at university who look down on fun. You know the kind—half vicar, half self-righteous scholarship student. If you have a glass of punch in front of them they start to tremble.” Dallington suddenly looked more ruminative. “Do you think you’ll continue to do this? To take cases?”

  He sighed. “I don’t know. It’s too difficult to balance them, and I can’t help but wonder whether perhaps my ability in each pursuit has suffered for the other.”

  Dallington’s face, which was usually on the verge of a smile, now looked concerned. “More than just losing a teacher, I worry at London losing you. Many men can sit in a room and talk nonsense, as they seem to do in Parliament, but fewer can go to a prison and phlegmatically sit with a confessed murderer.”

  Lenox’s own face, which he turned again to the window, showed that it was a point he had considered himself.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Money changed hands, there was a brief wait, and then they were led into the same room. What was different in it was Collingwood.

  The butler looked as if his insides had been hollowed out. Whether this was because of some emotion—guilt? sorrow for Paul?—or because the full terror of his situation had alighted on his mind, it was impossible to tell. But something was affecting him powerfully.

  “Sunshine,” he said to them dully. “That’s welcome enough.”

  Lenox glanced up at the small, high window in the room. It was brighter today. “Your cell is dark?”

  “What did you want from me, gentlemen?”

  Dallington and Lenox exchanged a look. “Just the truth,” said Lenox. “I understand you confessed to killing Freddie Clarke?”

  “Yes.”

  “You were lying before, then, when first we visited you?”

  “Yes.”

  Dallington looked at him critically. “You were remarkably full of conviction, my dear man. I daresay you could make a living on the stage. The deceiver’s parts—Aaron the Moor, say, or Iago. When this is all over, I mean.”

  “When this is all over?” Collingwood coughed out an astringent chuckle at the thought.

  “Mr. Collingwood, I came to ask you one question: Did you confess to protect Paul Starling?”

  Collingwood could say what he wanted next, but his face gave him away entirely. “No—no—bizarre thought—” he stammered out, barely suppressing his shock.

  “Did you attack Ludo Starling to shift the blame onto yourself, the suspicion? I can think of no other reason why you might have done it.”

  “The God’s honest truth is I don’t know anything about the butcher’s apron or the knife. I was drinking a cup of tea and reading the newspaper when that happened, Mr. Lenox.”

  “I believe you,” said Lenox.

  “And Paul?” asked Dallington.

  “May I return to my cell now?”

  “Your cell! Certainly not.”

  “Then I shall be silent.”

  “Like Iago indeed,” said Lenox. “In that case, let me tell you a story—a drama, if you will. In the days after Frederick Clarke’s death, you had no idea who had killed him.”

  “I did it, for God’s sake!”

  “You didn’t; my dear fellow, you really didn’t. You had no reason to.”

  “I did,” he said tiredly.

  “To continue—only after you had been arrested did you realize—or were you told?—that Paul Starling was guilty. In order to protect him, you confessed. When he’s overseas, you’ll tell the truth and, you hope, go free.”

  “I don’t see why they would believe you, though,” murmured Dallington.

  “That’s true; you may swing either way,” said Lenox.

  Collingwood’s face, so mobile during their conversation, transformed now into a mask of fear. “I can’t hang.”

  “Confessions are valuable in Scotland Yard,” said Lenox. “They don’t question a confession there. My young friend and I have that luxury, however—we may question what we please. Tell me, then: Are you protecting Paul Starling?”

  At last Collingwood relented. “Yes,” he said and then went on, in a desperate tone, “Oh, please! He’s o
nly a boy! You can’t send him to hang! He’ll be out of the country soon—gone from England forever—he has time to change!”

  “You have admirable loyalty,” said Dallington. “‘How well in thee appears the constant service of the antique world,’ and all that. You must love the Starlings.”

  “You can have the Starling family, all of them—but I’ve known Paul since he was an infant. He might as well have been my own child, for all the time we spent together.”

  “Then did you attack Mr. Starling?” asked Lenox.

  “I’ve no reason to lie—I didn’t. I told you before, I was having tea and reading the newspaper when you and Mr. Starling came back into the house.”

  In that bare room, one of its walls darkened by damp, Lenox suddenly felt something strange: a new grief for Frederick Clarke, that extended soon into grief for Collingwood and his irreparably compromised life. Wherever he went he would remember these days in jail, and his loss of faith in Paul Starling—accompanied by no matching loss of love.

  “How did you find out that Paul was guilty?”

  Collingwood sighed. “I didn’t suspect him at the beginning. It was when I came to jail. Mrs. Starling visited me, two days ago. She said Paul had confessed to killing Clarke, and that he was being sent abroad forever.”

  “Did she tell you why Paul killed Clarke?”

  “No.”

  “Yet she persuaded you to confess?”

  “She said Grayson Fowler was beginning to put the clues together, and that it was only a matter of time before he discovered the truth.”

  “So if you offered the police a false trail—”

  “Yes, a confession, which I could then retract—”

  “You could save him from the hangman,” finished Lenox.

  “It was foolish,” said Dallington.

  Agitated, Collingwood said, “Remember, again, I dandled the boy on my knee when he was still spitting up his milk, Mr. Lenox, and I was myself only a tiny boy in first livery. He’s a decade younger than I am and always looked up to me—always asked me to play games, to show him things. Until he went off to school, finally. But I could understand!” he went on hastily. “To be among the sons of nobility, princes from Bavaria, every such thing—I could understand his not having time for me anymore! It didn’t mean I stopped regarding him as my own family.”