A Stranger in Mayfair (28 page)

“I never knew that,” said Lenox and could hear the awe in his own voice.

Proudly, Fowler nodded. “I always drink to Sir Bobby,” he said and nodded toward a dusty pencil portrait of Peel as a young man that Lenox had missed before. “I met him four times. Once he asked if I had heard who won the fourth race at Goodwood. That was the only time we said anything other than hello.”

Lenox smiled despite himself. “You said—”

“Can you imagine what that meant to me? My brothers and sisters worked the worst jobs—dipping matches or out with my father—and so had I. It was on a lark that I applied to be a peeler. I had always had good marks, when they could afford to keep me in school, but to be
selected,
Mr. Lenox—to be
chosen
—can you understand that? Birth selected you; I had to wait fifteen years. And then, the greatest day of my life, when I was plucked from the constables and allowed to train as an inspector! Can you imagine the honor, to a boy like me?”

“Yes,” murmured Lenox.

Fowler, who had been at the window, now faced Lenox. “I’ve given this work every ounce of my being. You know that.”

“I thought I did.”

“I cannot apologize for accepting money. I needed it, not for myself alone, and after thirty-eight years the Yard is going to turn me away. That—no, that I could not brook.”

Lenox didn’t know what he should do with this information, but he knew what he would do. Nothing, as long as Fowler pointed him toward the truth. His own conscience wasn’t strong enough.

“Listen,” he said rather desperately. “You said Collingwood would be out of Newgate next week. Why?”

Fowler waved a dismissive hand. “Paul Starling will be out of the country by then,” he said and drained his drink.

Chapter Forty-Five

“Just a moment—Paul Starling?”

Fowler looked at him. “You didn’t know?”

“I assumed it was Ludo.”

“Why did you think Paul was being sent away on such short notice?”

Lenox looked stunned. “I know Collingwood took the blame because he wanted to protect Paul, but it didn’t add up for me. What can the motive have been?”

Fowler shrugged. “I don’t know. Mr. Starling saw it all happen, apparently. He laid out the facts before me, and I decided that a young man’s life could still have value.”

This inflamed Lenox. “What about Frederick Clarke’s life? That didn’t have value?”

Fowler sighed. “I didn’t say it was easy to look in the glass every morning as I shave, but I’ve explained to you why I did it already.”

“There’s a mother sitting in a hotel in Hammersmith right now, crying her eyes out.”

“Would it really have helped her to know that Paul Starling was in prison? Between his father’s connections and his youth he wouldn’t have swung for it, I don’t think.”

“Leave all that aside—how does Ludo being stabbed fit into this theory?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps it was a way to pin the blame on Collingwood.”

“My God!” said Lenox. “Don’t you see that the stabbing suits
Ludo
perfectly as an alibi, not his son? Did you even bother to find out that Ludo was Frederick Clarke’s father?”

Fowler blanched. “His what?”

Lenox was in no mood for explanation. “There’s every chance Ludo killed the boy and blamed Paul to keep them all safe.”

“There’s—no, it was Paul! The mother knew about it, too—she came here weeping, begging me for lenience!”

Lenox chuckled grimly. “I see now why Ludo came to me, at least. I never quite understood that. He must have wanted someone to bribe, and thought he would test the waters with both of us. My reaction was less civil than yours, apparently.”

“I assure you Paul—”

“How did you intend to get Jack Collingwood out of Newgate, can I ask?”

“Telling them the truth! Ludo said he would come forward and confess that he had seen his son do it.”

“You believed him? The stupidity, man—my God.”

Fowler looked horrified. “But he swore—”

“To a man who had accepted a bribe from him! What pressure could you have exerted on him, may I ask? No—I must be off.”

Lenox stood up, and his head, which had felt quite under his control as he sat, gave a twinge and started to throb like a heartbeat. Nevertheless he just managed to turn to the door.

“Wait! Lenox!” cried Fowler, standing up, too. “What about me?”

“You?” Lenox paused, and remembered the story about Fowler in the peelers. “Do you have enough money now?”

He nodded slightly. “I suppose.”

Lenox saw that there had been other times—perhaps many—when Fowler had taken money. Perhaps it had begun nobly, but it had turned into base greed. “Are you quite rich?”

“No!”

“The Gauss imbroglio—I wondered at the time that you couldn’t solve it.” This was the murder of a diplomat from whom quite secret papers had been taken the year before.

Fowler tilted his head in miserable assent. “It was the cousin.”

“Gauss’s? Ah—I see. He sold them to a foreign government and cut you in on the proceeds. Yes. Well, Grayson, if you retire this week I can leave it alone. I’ve known you to do good work, after all.”

Fowler cringed with gratitude. “Instantly—straight away. Reasons of health—easiest thing in the world.”

Without responding, Lenox turned and left.

Out in the street it had started to rain hard, gray in the sky, with wind gusting the raindrops every which way. Nonetheless Dallington was stood there, waiting, and Lenox felt a wave of respect and admiration for him.

“We may have to swim out!” called the young lord.

“There are usually cabs at Brown’s Hotel—let’s walk there.”

Eventually they reached Hampden Lane, a little wetter than they had ever been before. Lenox tipped the driver handsomely, and they dashed inside.

Dallington had heard about the meeting with Fowler on the drive there, and they had only intended to regroup before going to the Starlinghouse. But Lady Jane was waiting at the door and insisted Lenox rest for an hour or two.

After arguing only halfheartedly—for his head did hurt—Lenox said, “Will you see what you can find out about Paul?”

“Find what out?” asked Dallington.

“Whether he’s left the country. If he hasn’t, you might try to sneak a word with him.”

“I’m sure he’s under lock and key.”

There were fuller reports in the morning newspapers about the attack on Lenox, and as he rested he cast a critical eye over them, looking to see whether any marked the connection with Ludo. In fact the only bystander named was Dallington, and the comments from Scotland Yard were diffident. It would be out of the news tomorrow.

What did it mean, he wondered? Had it been foolish to leave the house today? Was the attack even related to the Starling case? Or was it another alibi Ludo had created for himself, in the vein of the butcher’s attack?

His head ached, and he prodded the bandage above the wound gingerly, looking for the spot that hurt. Tossing the newspaper to one side, he picked up a fresh blue book. He was in the back sitting room, a small, quiet chamber where they often read in the evenings, stretched out on a sofa. The small fireplace nearby was burning bright orange, keeping out the cold of the rain.

The blue book was, for a change, absorbing. It was about perhaps the most significant political issue of the day, Irish home rule. On the first day of 1801 Parliament had passed a bill absorbing Ireland into Great Britain, and ever since then there had been bitter, occasionally violent opposition by the majority of the Irish people. Lenox had always been of two minds on the subject; the Irish would be independent sooner or later, it seemed clear, but in the meanwhile it was perhaps to the benefit of both nations that they be joined.

There were those within his party who would have perceived this as a treacherous viewpoint—who regarded home rule as absolutely and unquestionably a right of the Irish—and as he read on he realized that his opinions, which he had always thought so carefully formed, were based on ideas rather than facts. The book taught him a great deal he hadn’t known, and troubled his mind on whether his more vociferous friends weren’t correct.

Some time after he had begun reading, Lady Jane brought him a plate of sliced oranges.

“Your brother has been by twice,” she said, sitting by him as he ate. “He was very worried.”

“You told him I was doing well?”

“I did. He said he would come by later in the day, and asked when you thought you could come back to Parliament.”

“The home rule debate will be interesting.” Lenox frowned. “Although I want to see this case through, at the least.”

She looked at him with a mix of sympathy and concern. “Which is more important to you?”

He thought about it and then gave an honest answer. “I don’t know.”

Chapter Forty-Six

It was time to go confront Ludo once and for all, he decided. The die was cast. He would wait for Dallington—it was the case in which the lad had had the most involvement, and it was his due to be there at the end—and then go. Whether the murderer was Paul or, as he now suspected, Ludo himself (but why?), the truth would have to come out soon.

When Dallington arrived back some hours later he looked tired. “I’ve been all over this blasted city,” he said, “without finding a trace of Paul Starling.”

“No? Perhaps he really did leave from Norfolk, as Elizabeth said. I didn’t think it possible.”

“No, I don’t think he did. He was booked into a first-class berth on a ship called the
Bruce,
which carries indentured servants from Trinidad to other colonies and ends here. It makes port in three cities along the way.”

“Has it left?”

“It has—yesterday—but I couldn’t establish whether he was on it.” Dallington, who had been in the doorway, strode over and mixed himself a rum with tonic water. “The chap who books passengers on the
Bruce
gets paid when the ship leaves, and apparently he drinks himself half to death every time. I didn’t have the heart to visit forty different taverns in the Dials, so I came back.”

“Nobody else might have seen him?”

“They
might
have, quite easily. Whether they did or not—well, it’s a busy dock, of course, and none of them were impressed by my vague questions about Paul Starling.”

Lenox nodded. “Thank you for trying,” he said. “It was well done to find out that he was booked on the
Bruce
.”

“I daresay he’s on board, having a whale of a time playing cards with these poor indentured fellows,” said Dallington. “But where does that leave us?”

Lenox stood up and, despite a wave of lightheadedness, said, “At the end. We must go and confront Ludo.”

Dallington looked impressed. “Fair enough. Let me finish my drink and we’ll go. Won’t he be at Parliament, though?”

“We’re not sitting tonight—tomorrow is the great debate about home rule.”

It was dark out, the days shortening, and still there was a threat of drizzle in the air. Lenox, impatient, didn’t bother waiting the fifteen minutes for his own horses to be rubbed down and his carriage to be readied, and instead hailed a cab. The drive was a short one.

They arrived at the Starling mansion in time to hear Elizabeth Starling’s usually gentle voice saying, “Now polish it again!”

“Yes, ma’am,” came the tearful reply.

Dallington reddened and clicked his tongue indignantly—the girl was Jenny Rogers, as they could both hear.

It wasn’t Elizabeth who answered, however; they heard her footsteps (or someone else’s) walking briskly away from the entrance after they had knocked.

It was Tiberius Starling who opened the door for them. “No damn butler,” he said moodily.

“That will be fixed soon enough,” answered Lenox with a broad smile. Then he noticed a fresh red welt on the old uncle’s cheek.

He didn’t say anything, of course—manners forbore it—but Tiberius must have seen his glance. With the occasionally excessive frankness and confidentiality of old gentlemen, he leaned into them and said, “That devil woman did it. Threw a book at me, one I had left lying on the table. She’s in a fearful temper. About Paul, I expect.”

“I’m extremely sorry to hear it,” said Lenox.

“Come in—Ludo’s at his desk.”

Elizabeth Starling was indeed in a fearful temper. It was no wonder, of course. Her son was gone, in all likelihood off to the colonies, and either the boy or his father was a murderer.

Ludo’s face again fell when he saw who his visitors were, and he started to say what he had before. “A damn intrusion” was his greeting to them, “a nuisance of the first order and—”

Lenox interrupted him. “I had an interesting discussion with Inspector Fowler. About your friendship.”

Ludo, nonplussed, stopped talking for a few seconds. “Oh?” he said at last, in an attempt to be brazen. “At least he’s competent enough to be employed as an inspector. A pair of bumbling amateurs, you two.”

Lenox shook his head gently. “It’s no good, Ludo.”

“What do you mean?”

“We know far more than we did—enough, I should say.”

“What do you mean?” he said again. He was seated at his desk still, not having risen to greet them, and Lenox could see the stress in his visage—of lying, of guilt, of sleepless nights.

“You’ve reached an agreement with an inspector of Scotland Yard. You paid him money in order to conceal a crime. Both of you will appear before the bench for it. Your trial will be in the House of Lords, yes”—this was customary for all members of Parliament and the nobility—“though I don’t know that it will matter. What sickens me is that you’ve let Jack Collingwood sit in Newgate Prison, wondering whether he’ll be hanged by the neck until he’s dead.”

“No!”

“Even though he’s an innocent man.”

“How do you—how do you think you know this?” asked Ludo.

“It’s no use bluffing. Between this and Frederick Clarke’s true identity—as your son—I thought it was time to consult with Scotland Yard. Because we’re acquaintances I wanted to give you the chance to confess first.”

At last now Ludo broke down. “I didn’t kill the boy,” he said. “I gave him money, for heaven’s sake! I looked after him! We were—well, friends, you might say! I only paid Fowler because I was trying to protect someone I love.”