The September Society Read online

  Lady Annabelle was a West, and her brother, John, was the current patriarch of the family. John West was a kind, stolid, churchgoing, and thoroughly countryish man who loved his sister and hated London nearly as much as she did. He had tried to make up for her unpleasant marriage by making her widowhood comfortable, if not happy. As a result, she and Lenox were bumping along the road away from Hampden Lane in a beautiful six-horse carriage of the very best sort, with blue plush seats and a warm little fire in a steel grate at their feet. They hadn’t spoken about the case yet. Once Lenox had heard that her son was missing, he had grabbed an overcoat and the small valise that Graham always left at the ready by the door for occasions like this, and been off. A packet of the cook’s toasted tomato sandwiches served as a makeshift breakfast. As he opened them, the carriage was pulling away from London, moving quickly in those early hours that found the streets abandoned, and he said, “Now, will you please tell me the full details of the matter?”

  “Yes, certainly. Where shall I begin? Today?”

  “Tell me a bit about your son, if you would.”

  Tears came into Lady Annabelle’s eyes. “George is a student at Lincoln College, where he is in his second year reading modern history. He is my only child, and I scarcely need to add that I value every breath he takes as much as my own life.

  “The trip from my brother’s house to Oxford takes only an hour, and though George is very busy with his work and his friends, I visit him whenever I can, sometimes as often as three times a week. I don’t always see him, but sometimes I do, and occasionally I have lunch with the master there.

  “But one meeting of ours is firm, and that is tea on Saturday in his rooms. Saturday was yesterday, as you know, and I set out earlier in the morning than I usually do, planning to spend an hour in the Christ Church Picture Gallery before I went to see him. But I was so excited when I arrived in Oxford that I went straight to Lincoln and asked the porter, who knows me by now, to let me into my son’s rooms.”

  “His rooms?”

  “George has a sitting room with a desk and a few chairs, and a smaller bedroom behind it, looking out onto the Front Quad.”

  “Are there also windows in the sitting room?”

  “Yes, a short row.”

  “Go on, please.”

  Her hand reached for her necklace, which she clutched and worried. “I knocked on the door to his bedroom, which was shut. Then I looked in and saw it empty, so I sat in one of his chairs to wait with a book. At about noon I was very excited indeed, and stepped out of his room to go look in the quadrangle for his arrival. I saw him the second I walked out—and how I wish I had clung to him then, and not let him out of my sight! He was paler than usual and his hair was disheveled, but when I mentioned that he looked upset, he only said that he had been up late, working in the Bodleian.

  “I asked him if he would like to go out then, and he said very rapidly that he would meet me at the tearoom down Ship Street where we sometimes go, opposite Jesus College. I started back to the doorway for my book, but he said, ’For God’s sakes, go, I’ll bring it!’ and then kissed me on the cheek and told me he loved me.”

  There was silence for a moment, as she cried into her handkerchief.

  “What a terrible mother I am! I went and waited in the tearoom, worrying slightly about how run-down George looked and drinking a cup of black coffee to steady myself. But the minutes dragged on until it had been nearly three-quarters of an hour since he had said he would be right down to meet me.

  “I waited indecisively for another fifteen minutes before I paid and went back to the college. The porter—nice enough, though he seemed puzzled—let me into George’s rooms again. My things were still lying as they had been by the chair, and nothing had changed in the room, though the fire in the hearth had guttered out. I knocked on the door to his bedroom—which was closed, though I had opened it earlier—and there was no answer. Then I plucked up my courage and opened the door.”

  “Was it closed tightly?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it a thick door? Might the wind have closed it?”

  “No.”

  “Had the porter seen George leave college?”

  “No—that was the first thing I asked him.”

  “Please, go on.”

  “It’s a very spare room—just a bed and a chest of drawers. The bed was ruffled, but generally everything looked as usual. Except George wasn’t there, and on the floor of his bedroom there was a white cat, stabbed straight through the neck with my late husband’s letter opener—dead, needless to say.” She shuddered at the thought.

  “Did you recognize the cat?”

  “I thought I might have. I know that George and his friends shared a cat.”

  “Shared it?”

  “They each had it for a few days at a time, if you see what I mean. At any rate, I’m not sure.”

  “What did you do after you saw the cat?”

  “I fainted. After a few minutes—perhaps even a few seconds—I woke up and nothing had changed. I felt very weak. The problem was that my brother is in Newcastle on business, or I would have gone straight home and told him everything. As it is I waited very miserably in the sitting room for about an hour, sipping at a glass of the brandy George keeps on hand. Then I checked back in the teashop to see if George had come in—they know him there—and he hadn’t. By then I was at the end of my wits. I went home and sent a telegram to my brother, who wrote back that he would be at Lincoln by midday today—Sunday, that is. Then last night I had the idea to fetch you. Emily Foal speaks so highly of your skill.”

  “Yes, those emeralds. What time was it exactly when you last saw George?” said Lenox.

  “Five minutes past twelve.”

  “Did you speak to his friends before you came to London?”

  “No, I thought it best to seek you out right away.”

  ““Did you consult with the porter or master?”

  “No.”

  “What else do you know about this cat?”

  “Nothing, really. I know that they’ve had him for a while now.”

  “Well, you’ve been awfully brave,” said Lenox.

  “I don’t think it will be enough,” she said.

  “We shall see; I am certainly hopeful,” he said.

  “Are you?” This in a tone of despair.

  “It seems telling to me that he saw you when he knew something was wrong—and didn’t stop and run off with you.”

  “You’re quite right,” she said. “I suppose I hadn’t thought of it that way. So you think he’s alive, at the very least?”

  “I hope and believe he is, yes, Lady Annabelle—but I shouldn’t like to draw any conclusions until we arrive.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  They were ten miles outside of Oxford and Lady Payson had fallen asleep, perhaps unburdened to have told her story. Through the window on his side of the coach, Lenox was looking out at the farmland of Oxfordshire; herds of sheep grazed in the golden swales where dawn was swelling. They reminded him of the trips he had taken to and from Oxford during vacations from term.

  For Lenox himself was an Oxonian. He had been at Balliol. It had been, oh, five years since he had returned to Broad Street and walked through the college’s gate. This would be the first case to bring him back to Oxford, and even as he ran over Lady Payson’s story from half a dozen angles in his mind, the carriage knocking down the road, he was thinking about having a pint at the Bear and going through the low arches into the Bodleian courtyard.

  Before he had left London he had hastily written two notes. One was to Jane, telling her that he would be gone for a day or two. The other was to Thomas McConnell, who had by now settled into the firm role of medical examiner on Lenox’s cases. To McConnell Lenox had written, Not sure what there is for you to do (beyond examining a dead cat), but if you want to see a real university –McConnell had been at Cambridge— come to Oxford at your convenience. You’ll find me at the Bath Place Hotel above
the Turf Tavern, or else they can direct you on.

  It was now morning, about eight o’clock, and they were a short way outside of Oxford. The carriage was approaching from the south; the Cherwell River wound in and out of view to their left. A number of long, shallow punts were covered and locked on the banks of the river, past their season until spring, and the famous willow trees had begun to scatter their leaves across the water. The yellowish light of morning appeared over the dreaming spires that Lenox knew so well—Tom Tower at Christ Church, the shining dome of the Radcliffe Camera, the ridged flutes rising from the towers of All Souls. It would only be a moment until Magdalen Bridge.

  A dead cat! Well, but who knew.

  Lady Payson stirred. “You’ve no idea how lovely it was to shut my eyes. Do please excuse me, though.”

  “I’m happy you could rest.”

  “Do you have children, Mr. Lenox? I don’t think you do.”

  “No, I don’t—not yet.”

  There was a haunted pause, and then she steeled herself. “Where do you plan to stay?” she asked.

  “I thought I might look in at the Turf, actually. I probably ought to stay somewhere else, but I can’t help my sentimentality. I spent a number of undergraduate nights there, you see. And you? Shall you return to your brother’s house?”

  She laughed humorlessly. “I certainly couldn’t leave Oxford. I’ll be at the Randolph Hotel.”

  “Sound choice, from all I hear.”

  “My usual one. It opened just before George came up to Oxford.”

  The Randolph was the best hotel in Oxford, and despite being new looked like one of the ancient colleges, made as it was of the same golden stone, covered with the same red and green ivy. It faced the Ashmolean Museum (one of Lenox’s favorite places in the world, full of beautiful paintings, Roman sculpture, and old, strange British treasures) on Beaumont Street.

  Both Lenox and Lady Annabelle were silent. Oxford is a quiet and gentle river town, interrupted at its center by a cluster of buildings that happen to be among the most beautiful mankind has ever produced. They were reaching that center now, passing the botanical gardens and Queen’s College into the very heart of town. Lenox took his satchel from the empty seat opposite and put it on his lap.

  “Shall we meet in an hour, Lady Payson?”

  She seemed more determined and imperial, less wholly fretful, than she had a few hours before in Hampden Lane. “May I ask why we should delay, Mr. Lenox?”

  He smiled gently. “I’m afraid I need a few moments to collect myself, perhaps tackle a cup of tea and a bite of something.”

  “The Turf, as I understand it—never having been, myself—is on Holywell Street? Yes? Well, then, it’s only a few steps from Lincoln. Shall we meet at the college gates in three-quarters of an hour?

  Lenox nodded. “As you please,” he said agreeably. It was a bother. Still, he didn’t envy her the position she was in. “Oh—I say, you can let me out here, driver.”

  “Are you sure, Mr. Lenox?” asked Lady Annabelle.

  “Oh, yes,” he said. They were just by Hertford College. “I’ll go in by the back way.”

  One could reach the Turf by Holywell, or else by a wending little cobblestone alley, probably not wider than an average man’s shoulders. The alley was darkly lit, and even at this hour Lenox had to turn his back to the wall and make way for a thin stream of students. Many of them were wearing the undergraduate subfusc, in various states of dishevelment. Perhaps they had finished their second-year examinations the day before. Passing by the used brown kegs as he approached the door, a smile he couldn’t wipe away on his face, Lenox went inside.

  It was a low-ceilinged place that dated to the 1300s. (Still leaving it a few hundred years shy of being the city’s oldest continuous drinking establishment.) Once it had been a strong-cider bar, and then briefly a pub called the Spotted Cow, but even to the oldest gents at the stile it had always been and would always be the Turf, hidden away from all but those who really knew Oxford. The wood on the walls was darkened by smoke and time, though the beams holding the roof up were freshly painted white. There was a bar in the front room—above it was the famous first menu of the Turf, a wooden plank with DUCK OR GROUSE written on it—and another in the back room, just by a staircase leading to the rooms above. It was by the staircase that Lenox found himself confronted by a lad of perhaps twelve. He was plump with fiery red hair and a freckly face.

  “Go on, sir,” he said, rather rudely.

  “Hello there—I was hoping I might have a room?”

  “Full up, compliments.”

  “No rooms at all?”

  “How about a beer instead?”

  Lenox laughed. “I don’t think so.”

  “Tom Tate, what d’you reckon you’re doing!” A strong, very short woman emerged from the front bar, looking at the boy. Lenox smiled at her in recognition.

  Her eyes focused on him after she had dealt the lad a cuff and told him to see to the tables in front. “Is that … is that Mr. Lenox, there?” she said. “Not Edmund, but Charles?”

  “Too right, Mrs. Tate.”

  “Mr. Lenox!” She called back Tom, who was in high dudgeon with the world at having been cuffed, and told him to look out for Lenox’s bag.

  “You do have a room, then, Mrs. Tate?”

  “Have a room! Bless you, of course we have a room!”

  She led him up the staircase, behind her disgruntled employee and son. “Breakfast, then?” she said, looking back.

  “That might do me well, thanks.”

  She led him down to the end of the hallway—to his old room. Clearing Tom out and promising that breakfast would arrive soon, she left, saying only, “Excellent to see you, Mr. Lenox! You must excuse me, we’re busier than bees at the moment!” on her way out. Her brusqueness put Lenox in an affectionate mood; it meant nothing had changed.

  It was a room small in proportions but comfortably arranged. There were two windows with a lovely view of New College, a large bed in one corner, a nicked and blackened desk that had seen many first letters to home, and by the window a round, rickety table with a comfortable armchair alongside it and a fireplace behind it in the corner. There would have been a better turned-out (and perhaps even more comfortable) room in one of the nice hotels on Beaumont Street or the High, but he wouldn’t have been happy at either, knowing his room above the kitchen at the Turf was still available. He had spent so many nights here just before term started—that first, nervous night of his fresher year, in fact, waiting for his brother, Edmund, a third-year, to come fetch him for supper. Edmund—he would have understood. He would have stayed here too, as their father had, and his father, and his father.

  A moment later the chastised Tom staggered in under a tray about as big as him. Lenox slipped him a sixpence and smiled conspiratorially. “Not a word to Mum, eh?” he said.

  Then he slipped the window open to feel the breeze and poured himself a cup of coffee. There was a plate loaded down with toast, eggs, kippers, rashers, fried tomatoes, baked beans, and sausages on the tray, and he tucked into them with his mind on anything but a dead cat, smiling.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Lenox washed his face, changed his clothes, had a final gulp of coffee, and at the appointed time stood at the gates of Lincoln College.

  Oxford was made up of about twenty constituent colleges. Each of these had its own traditions, its own library, its own chapel, its own dining hall, its own professors, and its own buildings (though most of the colleges were in the same Gothic style, which gave Oxford its medieval look). United, along with the structures that belonged to Oxford as a university, like the Bodleian Library and the Sheldonian Theater, one of Wren’s most beautiful buildings, they formed Oxford. Against Cambridge every student from every college was an Oxonian, but within the university there were these other minor allegiances, though there was a great deal of exchange and friendship across their fluid boundaries.

  Lincoln was a middling sort of college,
full of young men more amiable and athletic than scholarly, young men who would rather drink at the pub than debate at the Union. Both it and its students were well liked around the university. The first rank of colleges—Christ Church, Balliol, Merton—could be less cheerful places, especially when class reared its head too high. Lincoln’s merriness was enduring.

  It was also beautiful, folded into a side lane between Oxford’s two main thoroughfares, Broad Street and the High. It was made from the same quarry of yellowish, ancient stone as the other colleges that dated to the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. In fact, it had been founded in 1427 by the Bishop of Lincoln, and it was often said that it looked more like the colleges of that era had than any other place standing, because it was still only three stories high, cozy rather than grand, a home and a haven rather than an impersonal palace. Nobody was allowed to walk on the quad, of course, and its brilliant color, even at this time of the year, was the result of only about twenty men in four and a half centuries treading on it—each generation’s lawn mower, who in his turn was as famous a character in the college as the junior dean or the head porter.

  One of the most notable members of the college had been John Wesley, the religious reformer, who with his brother had held the first meetings of the infamous Holy Club in college rooms. This had all occurred in the 1720s and ’30s, long ago, but even then religious zealotry couldn’t weigh Lincolnites down—they had made a joke of Wesley, naming him and his followers Methodists because of their dull, methodical ways. It was a light-hearted college. Its alumni were famously devoted to it, the mark of the best places in Oxford, places like Lincoln and the Turf.

  Lady Payson arrived a few minutes late. “Do you think he’s alive?” she said without preamble.