A Stranger in Mayfair (16 page)

Dallington went on, “Did you play cards with Starling recently?”

“Yes, strangely enough. He usually plays with an older set, doesn’t like the university crowd down here on the second floor. But he wanted a game and got one, by God. I took him for eight pounds and a halfpenny.”

The impeccable memory of the gambler,
thought Lenox. “How long did you play for?” he asked. “Ten hours, was it?”

Derbyshire snorted, and then something from the snort caught in his throat and he coughed horribly on his cigar smoke, hacking for what seemed like an entire minute. At last, eyes watery, he gasped out, “Never!”

“How long, then?”

He was still hoarse. “Couldn’t have been more than four hours.”

“What day?”

“Would have been about a week ago. It was eight days, in fact, I remember.”

The day of the murder.

“What happened?”

Derbyshire looked at Lenox strangely. “What happened? Nothing unusual. I took the eight pounds and bought as much wine as I could carry to take over to the old Rugbeian match. We drank ’em all. I still have the halfpenny.” He grinned.

“You’re sure about the day?”

“Yes!”

“What time of day was it? This is important. Late? Afternoon?”

“Early evening.”

“You’re sure?”

“You can stop asking me that. I’m certain.”

They let Derbyshire go, amid a variety of hacks, coughs, and eructations, back into his card room. As he turned he invited Dallington to play that night and shrugged at his decline.

“Inconclusive,” said the younger man to Lenox, hands in pockets, a disappointed look on his face. “He was probably there.”

“You’re sharper than that, surely. Think—we’ve just caught Ludo in his first lie, and if he would lie about six hours, wouldn’t he lie about matters of greater moment?”

“Anyway, why wouldn’t he have signed the book if he simply wanted an alibi? It might have been an exaggeration.”

“He was too specific for that, as I remember it. This is incriminating, somehow or other.”

“So Collingwood is innocent.”

“I don’t stipulate that point,” said Lenox. “There have been half a dozen cases during my years in London when a man who had been arrested seemed innocent, another suspect having emerged, only for the first man arrested to be proven guilty. In one instance, Smethurst back in ’52, the second man was covering up for an entirely different crime. Embezzlement.”

They were out on the street now, the light low. They passed a fruit and vegetable cart, and Dallington swiped an apple from it and flicked a coin at the cart’s owner, who caught it and touched his cap in one quick motion. Dallington crunched into his fruit as they walked down toward Green Park.

“Tell me, what shall we do next? Or what shall I do next, as you must be in Parliament tomorrow?”

“I think we must go see Collingwood himself, and I would like to go to the boxing club. It still bothers me that Clarke had money slipped to him under the servants’ door. I reckon Collingwood wouldn’t have tolerated secret doings among the servants, strange business that touched the house. And then Clarke’s peculiar room…” Lenox shook his head. “I feel quite sure we’re missing something.”

“Must you go back to work?”

“No. I don’t have any particular role in the state opening of the House, beyond observation.” He looked at his watch. “It’s only six o’clock. We should be able to find our way to Collingwood if we get there before eight. We’ll pass by the Starlinghouse along the way, to wish Ludo a swift recovery.”

As a shortcut they took the fateful back alley, now gloomed with shadows. Fetching up at the back stoop of Ludo’s house on Curzon Street, Lenox said, “Out of curiosity, which house belongs to Ginger’s employer?”

“It’s three down,” Dallington was saying, when they heard the short, urgent rap of knuckles on a window. They looked up. It was coming from behind a curtain on the second floor.

The curtain pulled aside, and they were both surprised to see Paul, Ludo’s younger son. He held up a finger: Wait.

He had raced down the stairs, evidently, because when he reached them he was breathless. “Dallington!”

“What is it? Didn’t you like Cambridge during your visit?”

“Oh, bother Cambridge. It’s Collie!”

“A dog?”

“Collingwood, you ass!”

Dallington raised his eyebrows. “I see.”

Paul looked appalled at what he had said to his drinking hero. “I’m sorry. I’m too used to speaking with Alfred. Anyway, no, it’s about Collingwood. They’ve arrested him!”

“So we heard.”

“But don’t you understand, it’s impossible!”

“Why?” asked Lenox.

Paul threw up his arms with the despair of someone who feels that he should be understood but isn’t. “Ask Alfred. Collie was our friend—our best friend. When we were children and he was a footman, he let us jump on him over and over, and just laughed. When he should have given us a lashing for stealing from the pantry, he smiled and looked the other way.”

“There’s every chance—”

“No!”
Paul looked as if he were going to cry. Suddenly he reminded Lenox of Frabbs, his new clerk at Parliament: youth dressed up in the maturity it didn’t possess. “He couldn’t even bear to watch the foxes die at the hunt!”

“Paul!”
From the back step Elizabeth Starling, red with emotion, almost shouted her son’s name.

“Damn,” said Paul under his breath, his face suddenly fearful. He ran up the steps and past her.

She ignored Lenox and Dallington and closed the door.

“Do you give that any credit?” asked the young lord.

“It was in Collingwood’s professional interests to befriend these lads.”

“I don’t know, Lenox. Their father is at the Turf constantly, and their mother is a bit too protective. You saw. He seemed genuinely upset.”

“He did. Unfortunately this is a field in which sentiment is of little practical value.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Walking down Curzon Street, they saw Ginger leaning against the wall of a small alcove in front of the house he worked in. He had a pouch of tobacco in his hand and was loading a pipe with it.

“John!” he called out in a theatrical whisper.

“Hiding?” Dallington asked when they were close.

“The butler’s strict.”

“Have you heard about Collingwood?”

Puffing away now, he said, “Everyone in China’s heard of it, much less Curzon Street. I can’t believe he attacked Starling!”

“Mm.”

“We’ve all wanted to do it, mind, to our masters,” added Ginger with a dark grin, “but it’s sheer madness.”

“You still think he did it, then?” asked Lenox.

“Collingwood? Of course. They found the apron and the knife in his larder.”

“Does nobody but the butler go into the pantry?”

The lad shook his head. “They’re afraid of theft, these rich families.”

“Doesn’t it puzzle you that he attacked Ludo? What would his motivation have been, for heaven’s sake?”

“I’ll tell you what it is. He knew he was going to get pinched, and he wanted to turn attention away from himself.”

“By hiding the evidence in a place that could only be attached to him? I don’t think so.”

Ginger shrugged. “Well, he was the only person with any reason in the world to kill poor Freddie.”

Unless the lad had a secret life,
thought Lenox. They had to get to that boxing club.

First, though, they went to Newgate Prison. A quick, silver-laden handshake with a jailer Lenox had known for a decade and they were through to a bare room with two battered tables and four battered chairs in it.

When an unseen hand shoved Collingwood through the door, it was apparent instantly that the last hours had robbed him of the dignity of office and person he had borne during their previous encounters. He would have been searched for weapons, had his money taken from him and—possibly—been entered in a logbook, had his hair shorn off, and been bathed in cold, filthy water. As a remand prisoner he had been permitted his old clothes, but they looked rumpled and now absurdly formal after the travesties of the day.

Collingwood’s face fell when he saw Lenox and Dallington. “Hello,” he said, the “sirs” dropped from his speech.

“How do you do, Collingwood?”

“I had hoped it might be Mr. Starling, or perhaps my brother.”

“No, I’m afraid not.” Lenox didn’t have the heart to tell him that prisoners could only receive two or three visits a year, and that unless his friends had ready money only his lawyer would visit. “We came to ask you whether you murdered Freddie Clarke.”

For a tense moment, everything hung in the balance. Then the man spoke. “No, of course not. The idea is outlandish.”

“Did you attack Ludo Starling?”

“Mr. Lenox, my father was butler to Mr. Starling for twenty-five years. I myself ascended to that position upon his death and considered it the fulfillment of my only professional ambition. Both my father and I, and my brother, who is a butler in Sussex for the de Spencer family, take tremendous pride in our work. The answer, you’ll have deduced, is no. I did not stab the man who has employed me these dozen years.”

The words were civil but the tone of derision in them acidic. It was convincing. “Who besides you has the key to the larder?”

Collingwood’s self-belief seemed to flicker for a moment. “I—nobody else.”

“None of the other servants, you mean. Perhaps Mr. Starling has it? Mrs. Starling?”

With transparent relief, he said, “Oh, of course.”

“Master Alfred?” Lenox said in a speculative tone.

Collingwood reddened. “I’ve had a soft spot for Mr. Starling’s sons for many years now. I’m not sure who told you—”

“No, no, only a guess.”

“Did Paul have a key, too?” said Dallington.

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“No! Paul wasn’t involved, I tell you.”

Lenox thought for a moment. “Very well. As for Alfred…I hardly think it was a serious dereliction of your responsibilities to give him the key. And since any one of them might have lost theirs…”

“Yes! Precisely what I thought—precisely. I’m being plotted against. This was all prearranged.”

“Do you own a green apron?”

“Absolutely not. Am I a woman?” he asked bitterly. “A butcher?”

“A knife?”

“There are knives in the kitchen, of course, but I’ve never had need to use them.”

“We’ll have to check whether any are missing from the cook’s set,” Lenox murmured to Dallington.

“Yes!” said Collingwood. “Do that! Please, check!”

Lenox decided to shift tacks. “What did you think of Freddie Clarke?”

“Think of him?”

“Were you friends? Did you clash?”

“We didn’t clash. He kept to himself, very diligent in his duties. Can’t say we were friends, though.”

“Did he have much money?”

Collingwood laughed and rubbed his tired eyes, taking some genuine pleasure in their company for the first time. “That depends how many envelopes came under the door, doesn’t it?”

“You know about that?” Dallington asked incredulously.

“The older Mr. Starling—Tiberius—he told me about it the moment it happened. He often came to me for a measure of brandy, and we had many conversations.”

The man had been bosom friends with everyone in the house,
Lenox thought. Why would the Starlings ever have believed Frederick Clarke’s word against the butler’s? And therefore why would Collingwood have felt the need to take such drastic action in order to protect his job? It didn’t add up.

“Where do you think the money came from?” asked Dallington.

Collingwood shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Delicately, Lenox put the crucial question to the butler. “Mr. Collingwood, if I might ask: Did you ever take anything, small change, trinkets, from your employers?”

“Never! And whoever told you that can go straight to hell!”

“If you’re worried we’ll tell, you—”

“Never!”
he bellowed, standing up and slamming his fists on the table. “Who told you that?”

“Frederick Clarke saw you taking coins from Mrs. Starling’s dresser. Admit it.” Dallington, shrewdly, had taken on the role of the villain. He caught Lenox’s eye and nodded.

Quickly the older detective played along. “No, no, John, we don’t know if it’s the truth—”

“How much did you steal?”

Collingwood, now more aggrieved than enraged, said, “Nothing. It’s a damnable lie.”

“Well, tell us about the incident anyway,” said Lenox encouragingly.

“It was nothing. I organize the desk in that particular chamber every morning, and Clarke came in to refill the coal scuttle just as I was placing Mrs. Starling’s spare coins in the small wooden box where she keeps them. Clarke must have had the impression that I was taking them, as he turned and left right away. The idea that I would kill him for that—it’s preposterous. Beyond preposterous.”

“Then what did you kill him for?” asked Dallington.

“I didn’t!”

To forestall another tirade, Lenox quickly interjected, “We mustn’t be hasty. There may be another answer.”

“There is! Find it!”

After this burst of energy Collingwood seemed to crumple, and there was very little further conversation. As they left the prison, Dallington asked what Lenox thought.

“I’m not sure.”

“He seems innocent, doesn’t he?”

“Certainly I don’t think he killed Frederick Clarke over that incident, as Ginger believes.”

“Of course not.”

“Still, we can’t know why Fowler arrested him. If only he would speak with me.”

“Fowler? Of course he arrested Collingwood for the apron and the knife in the larder, which we’ve proven to ourselves are inconclusive.”

“I wouldn’t venture to guess at Inspector Fowler’s motives. He’s making himself a mystery. One thing, however, that I noticed: Collingwood has a temper.”

“Wouldn’t you, in jail for a crime—for two crimes—that you didn’t commit?”

“Perhaps. Still—someone killed Frederick Clarke, and someone attacked Ludo with a knife. The strongest pieces of circumstantial evidence both point to this butler. We may be too clever for our own good.”