A Stranger in Mayfair Read online

  “It’s strange,” he said. “A strange room.”

  “Why?” asked Dallington. “Strikes me as in the normal run of things for a footman.”

  “Does it really? It’s extremely spartan, for one thing. I doubt the other servants’ rooms are as unadorned as this one. Could he possibly have been here four years and left so little a mark?”

  “Perhaps he moved between rooms?”

  “I doubt it. Ludo?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “I think he’s one of those people who lives a life of the mind. Did he often take books of this sort from your library?”

  “Yes, quite regularly according to Collingwood.”

  “Yet contrast that with this ring.” Lenox held it up again. “Why take such a personal bauble for himself? From everything this room has to show, he cared nothing at all for physical comfort or ornament, but this is what he chose to steal?”

  “Worth a damn lot of money,” said Ludo.

  Lenox shook his head. “No. It’s not about the money. He engraved his initials on it. That shows he valued it.”

  Dallington said, “Of course.”

  “Something odd was happening in this young man’s life. Intelligence combined with menial labor…I wonder, is it possible he had found his way into crime?”

  “Of course he had,” said Ludo. “My ring.”

  “Not that, no. Think: a well-tailored suit, a signet ring…it looks to me as if he might have been playing the young aristocrat. Some scam or other, couldn’t it be?”

  “Perhaps that’s why he reads,” added Dallington excitedly. “To impress people—to seem like a varsity man!”

  “I say, could I have that ring back?” said Ludo.

  “Of course, here it is.”

  After handing Starling the ring, Lenox stood in the doorway of the room for a long time, thinking. Nobody spoke. The rhythmic sound of washing—what must have been the sound of Frederick Clarke’s life—wore on like the blank, unvarying noise of an ocean.

  “Something deep is happening here,” said Lenox. “Deeper than I realized at first.”

  Chapter Ten

  An interview with Jenny Rogers left Dallington perhaps half in love—she was extremely soft-spoken, with an endearing way of furrowing her forehead to show how intently she was listening—but yielded little helpful information. What was most interesting to Lenox was that she seemed genuinely sad to have lost her friend. It made Frederick Clarke more real, made his death seem graver, when she talked with a smile on her face about him.

  She had been working at the Starlinghouse for a year. “I’ll never forget,” she said, “at the end of my first week he took a piece of the cake they was having upstairs—Mr. Starling’s cake,” she added, remembering he was there, “and put a candle in it for me. ‘Happy first week,’ he said.”

  As far as she could recall, she had never seen him wear a gray suit or a gold ring, or indeed anything other than his footman’s livery. He always had his nose in a book.

  She had oberved occasionally in the past that he had scrapes on his hands.

  “Occasionally,” murmured Lenox after she had been dismissed down the opposite hallway (the staff were segregated in their sleeping quarters, men down one hall and women down another). “If it was an ongoing condition it means there’s no significance in their directly preceding his death.”

  “They still might be related.”

  “Perhaps.”

  Betsy Mints was even less helpful than Jenny Rogers. A small, thick woman, she had a deeply stupid face that was red from the constant heat of cooking over fire. In conversation, however, she was witty enough, in a voluble northern way. Her experiences with Frederick Clarke were extremely limited. She thought he was quite handsome, very efficient, and rather rum—quiet, inward, that is to say—but that was the extent of her analysis of his character.

  Lenox had higher hopes for Jack Collingwood, the young butler. For one thing he directly supervised Clarke. Lenox and Dallington sat at a table with him while Ludo hovered anxiously behind.

  “I apologize for the lateness of our meeting,” said Lenox.

  “Not at all, sir.”

  “It’s nearly ten o’clock. You must be off soon.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “From what I understand, Frederick Clarke was a good footman?”

  “Entirely blameless in the conduct of his professional duties, sir.”

  “Did you like him?”

  “Like him, sir?”

  “Were you friends?”

  “No, sir.”

  “What was your impression of his character?”

  “Mr. Clarke was quiet and studious. He preferred to be in his room, reading, if he had spare time. He spoke to me once or twice about going back to school. I dissuaded him from it, of course. He was excellent in his work and could have risen to be a butler in due time.” This said as if there could be no higher conceivable ambition.

  “Who do you think killed him?”

  “I have no idea whatsoever, sir. A vagrant, I might venture.”

  “But to what end? Did he carry money?”

  “No, sir. He and I both have our wages deposited in Mr. Starling’s bank, and I never saw Mr. Clarke spend his on anything. As for household money, that is my province exclusively.”

  “What was his day off?”

  “Thursday, sir.”

  “That’s all?”

  “The family eats a cold collation after church services, following which the servants have Sunday afternoon to themselves.”

  “Did he leave the house or stay in?”

  “Left, sir, invariably. That’s quite usual, however.”

  “Did you ever see him wear a gray suit?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Or wearing a gold ring?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Did you ever celebrate his birthday?”

  “No, sir.”

  “And you saw cuts or scabs on his hands?”

  “Yes, sir. I reprimanded him once—his only reprimand—for having unsuitable hands. Of course under his white gloves it didn’t matter, but then it’s the principle of the thing, I believe.”

  “Did you ask him where he got them?”

  “No, sir.”

  Lenox sighed. “I take it you’ve spoken to Inspector Fowler?”

  “He has,” interjected Ludo.

  “I can find out more from him, but what were you doing at the time of his murder?”

  “I was here, sir, with Jenny and Betsy.”

  “So I understood. Why did he go out?”

  “To fetch the bootblack.”

  “Did he speak of meeting anybody?”

  “As I told Mr. Fowler, no.”

  “Is it normal for one of you to leave so soon before dinner?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. There are always last-moment tasks.”

  “Well, thank you, Mr. Collingwood.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  When Collingwood had walked down Frederick Clarke’s old hall, Ludo motioned Dallington and Lenox up the narrow staircase to the ground floor of the house.

  “Mr. Starling, is your family about?” asked Dallington.

  “Why do you ask?” said Ludo.

  “It would be useful to speak to them.”

  “The boys are out. They generally are at night. Elizabeth will have been retired this hour or more.”

  “Perhaps tomorrow,” said Lenox. “Would you mind if Dallington attended the funeral?”

  “No,” said Ludo, though looking as if he rather would. “You can’t attend?”

  “Meetings.”

  Ludo looked relieved. “Shall we just let the Yard handle it, after all?”

  “With your permission, I would like to keep an eye on it,” said Lenox. “Grayson Fowler is an excellent detective. Still. I can’t quite identify what bothers me so much, but it’s there.”

  “Well—all right.” They were now in the entrance hall. “Good night.”

  Just
as Lenox and Dallington said good night, however, a voice stopped them. “Who’s there?” rang out from the drawing room in a cranky old tone.

  “Only a couple of friends, Uncle Tiberius,” said Ludo in an agitated way. “We’re on our way out.” He added in a confidential tone, “I’ll come along and go to my club. I rather fancy a hand of whist.”

  “Wait!” cried the old man. He appeared in the doorway, holding a candle and dressed in a rumpled suit. “Is it the inspector again? I want to speak to the inspector!”

  “No—only my friends,” said Ludo. He looked irritated. “John Dallington, Charles Lenox, may I please introduce you to my father’s uncle, Tiberius Starling.”

  “How do you do?” the two visitors asked.

  “I remembered something to tell the inspector.”

  “It can wait until tomorrow.”

  “We’re acting as inspectors, too,” said Dallington mildly, earning for his troubles a look of pure vexation from Ludo, who was almost physically harrying them out. They paused by the door.

  “Good, good,” said the old man. “I remembered something about Clarke. The packets.”

  “What packets, blast them?” asked Ludo.

  “Under the servants’ door,” said Tiberius. He looked at Dallington. “I sit down there, you see, because they have that cooks’ fire. It warms up these old bones. One day I was alone down there—it was Sunday morning—and a packet came under the door. I hobbled over to fetch it for ’em, and it was unsigned. I opened it, and what do you think was inside?”

  “What?” asked Dallington.

  “A note! A white note, worth a pound! Not even a coin!”

  Money. All notes issued by the Bank of England were printed in black on one side and blank on the reverse and were called white notes.

  “Oh?” said Lenox.

  “I thought it was empty—that’s why I opened it—but down marched Frederick Clarke, who by rights should have been out on a Sunday, and he told me it was his, he was expecting it. I asked what was inside, to test him, you see, and he told me. Well, I had no choice but to give it to him then.”

  “You said packets, plural.”

  “It happened again two Sundays later, but he was there to scoop it up before I did.”

  “Why did you never tell me this, Uncle?” said Ludo.

  “Forgot. But now he’s dead—rich as he would please.”

  “How much did you pay him a year, may I ask, Ludo?” said Lenox.

  “Twenty pounds.”

  Dallington was shocked. “My God, how dismal!”

  “It’s on the lower side, yes, but that includes room and board, of course,” said Ludo, bristling.

  “I’m sorry—quite sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. I haven’t any idea what any servant earns.”

  Lenox ignored this all, deep in thought. At last he said, “Five percent of his yearly wage, slipped under the door so nonchalantly. What was that young man doing with his life, I wonder?”

  Chapter Eleven

  Lenox and Dallington walked very slowly through the pristine, vacant streets of Mayfair, moonlight and lamplight enough to make it rather bright. They discussed the case and arrived at one essential conclusion: Ludo Starling’s behavior was odd. Neither of them knew whether it was significant, but they concurred upon that fact. As for the packet, or packets, that Frederick Clarke had received, Lenox was inclined to believe that Clarke had been the participant in some variety of fraud or chicanery.

  They stood at the corner of Hampden Lane discussing it until they were neither content nor unhappy, then parted. It was past midnight. They agreed that Dallington would attend the funeral and then report in to Lenox.

  When he went inside his house, Lenox was surprised to find a figure on the small chair in the hallway. It was Jane.

  “Hullo,” he said, cheerfully enough.

  “Hello, Charles.”

  “You sound upset.”

  She stood. “I am.”

  “What’s the matter?” Dread struck his heart. “Is it Toto?”

  “No. It’s you.”

  “What have I done?”

  “Are you aware of the time?”

  “Roughly.” He pulled his pocket watch from his waistcoat. “Fourteen minutes past midnight,” he said.

  “I came home at nine o’clock, and Kirk hadn’t the slightest idea where you were, except to say that John Dallington had dragged you off.”

  “I don’t understand what’s wrong, Jane.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me where you would be? Or leave a note! The most threadbare consideration would have satisfied. Instead I have had to worry for three hours, needlessly.”

  “Three hours scarcely seems enough to go into such a panic over,” he said. “I’d have thought you understood the nature of my profession.”

  This raised her ire. “I understand it well enough. You are under the constant threat of getting shot or stabbed or who knows what, while I wait at home and—what, politely wait to hear news of your death?”

  “You’re being absurd,” he said in what he instantly knew, and regretted, to be a haughty fashion.

  “Absurd?” Suddenly her anger had turned into tears. “To worry about you—that’s absurd? Is this what marriage is meant to be like?”

  As she started to cry in earnest, his resentment washed away and was replaced with regret. “I’m terribly sorry, Jane. For so many years I could come and go as I pleased, and now—”

  “I don’t have any interest in that. We’re married now. Do you understand that?”

  He tried to take her hand, but she pulled it away. He sat down. “I hope I do.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Really, I am sorry,” he said. Still she wouldn’t look at him. He sighed. “We never argued once during our honeymoon, did we?”

  “Our honeymoon was lovely, Charles, but it wasn’t real life. This is real life. And it’s not fair on either of us to have you gallivanting around London, putting yourself in danger, over some obscure murder.”

  “Obscure murder? If our friendship had taught you nothing else, I hoped it had taught you that there is no such thing.”

  “It’s past midnight!”

  “When I’m in the House I won’t be home till much later than this on occasion.”

  “That’s different.”

  “How?”

  “It’s your job.”

  “Being a detective is my job, Jane.”

  Lady Jane’s voice rose. “Not any longer!”

  “As long as I live!”

  “You’re in Parliament, Charles!”

  “So that’s worth staying out late for? Are you ashamed to be married to a detective?”

  She looked as if he had slapped her: suddenly still, suddenly silent. Without a further word she swept out of the room and ran up the stairs.

  “Damn,” he said to the empty room.

  He sat down, and as the anger burned out of him and he returned to his right mind he felt a deep anguish. Not only had they not fought on their honeymoon, they hadn’t fought in twenty years, that he could remember. There had been cross words, but never a true battle.

  He worried that he had ruined their friendship, the best thing in his life, by telling her he loved her. “My heart is ever at your service,” Shakespeare had written, and it was the line Lenox always thought of when Jane came to mind. Might it be that he would have served her better by staying silent?

  He went to bed disconsolate, and slept very little.

  The next morning she was gone before he woke, though it was barely half past seven. He breakfasted alone, reading the papers as he munched on eggs and ham and gulped down two cups of coffee. The Emperor of Japan had married, according to the Times. A chap named Meiji, of all things, and his wife was called Shoken. She was three years older than her new husband, which had apparently been the greatest obstacle to their nuptials. Suddenly the problems of the house on Hampden Street seemed a little smaller. He smiled slightly as he finished the article
. It would be all right.

  Walking down to Whitehall before nine o’clock, he knew his mind ought to be on the meetings of the day, the blue books he had to read, lunch with his party leaders at Bellamy’s.

  Instead he was focused entirely on Frederick Clarke’s anonymous money drop-offs.

  What could they mean? He still favored the thought that there was some kind of fraudulence at play, but then why would he have anything delivered under the servants’ door? Wasn’t that a dead giveaway?

  There was good news, however. The case might be perplexing, and domestic bliss elusive, but professional happiness was close at hand.

  In his short time as Lenox’s political secretary, Graham had already proved a marvel. It had only been a few days, but he had filled each of them with furious activity, rarely sleeping longer than a few hours, the commitment he had always shown as a servant transferred to this new work. Aside from organizing the new office to within an inch of its life, he had gone over Lenox’s appointment book, deciphered which meetings were most important, and canceled the rest, something that would save the grateful Lenox several hours a day.

  What was most impressive, though, was his quickly growing acquaintance. It took men years to know the various faces of Parliament, but Graham was a quick pupil. This was an unspoken but important fact of life in the House of Commons, and Lenox hadn’t known anything about it. Now, however, they walked the halls and various men Lenox had never laid eyes on nodded at them both. “The Marquess of Aldington’s secretary,” Graham would say, or “Hector Prime’s chief counselor.” Graham’s principal gift in detective work had always been infiltration—making friends in a pub or a kitchen—and he put that gift to use here now in these more exalted corridors.

  The apotheosis of this talent in its political form came that morning. Graham was waiting at the Members’ Entrance, as he did every day now, when Lenox arrived.

  “Good morning, sir,” he said. “In ten minutes you must sit down with the Board of Agriculture. After that—”

  Here Graham broke off and nodded his head at an enormously tall, thin young man with a giant forehead. “How do you do?” he said.