The September Society (13 page)

Seeing a porter, Lenox said, “I had a note from someone called Rosie Little. Any chance she’s still in?”

“Tomorrow morning, sir,” said the porter, a jowly chap.

“Thanks.”

It was dark as Lenox walked toward the Randolph, his notebook in one hand. The net was drawing tighter, he felt—but around whom?

I
n the lobby of the Randolph, Lenox stopped at the front desk for his key, but just as he was going to speak to the manager, he saw Lady Annabelle Payson. With a heavy heart he changed direction and walked toward her.

She was sitting in the far corner of the room, half hidden in the shade and all on her own. Lenox saw as he drew closer to her that her eyes were red-rimmed and that her cheeks had grown paler since he had last seen her. The air of utter defeat in her face was easy for Lenox to take as a personal rebuke.

“Lady Annabelle?” he said.

It took her a moment to look up. “Ah,” she said, bowing her head with great dignity, “how do you do, Mr. Lenox?”

“Lady Annabelle, is anybody here with you?”

“My brother is speaking to the police at the moment, but yes, he has kept me company.”

“I wanted to apologize, Lady Annabelle. For failing, and of course for George’s death.”

She didn’t contradict him. “Tell me, Mr. Lenox, do you still plan to work on this case?”

“I do, yes.” He didn’t add: until I drop dead myself, if need be.

“Good,” she said, though her eyes were still dull and lifeless, lacking even the fieriness of revenge that Lenox had so often seen in the grieving.

“Perhaps it will be some solace when we find out who did it,” said Lenox. “I hope so, at any rate.”

After a long, almost reproving pause, she went on, “What I cannot forgive myself for is letting him leave when I met him at Lincoln College, Mr. Lenox. I keep repeating the scene in my mind, and it’s beyond my comprehension that I could have let my poor George walk away from my embrace when he looked so pale, so … so vulnerable, Mr. Lenox. So vulnerable.”

“You couldn’t have known what would happen, Lady Annabelle.”

“I lost my husband, too, you know.”

“I do,” Lenox answered quietly. “I remember him.”

“But that,” she said, her voice a whisper, “was a walk in the park to this.”

“Perhaps you could help me, Lady Annabelle.”

“Help you?”

“To solve this case. For example, have you heard of the September Society?”

“I haven’t, no, Mr. Lenox.”

“Does the color red mean anything to you?”

“Not in particular.” Her tone was distracted, even faintly annoyed, and Lenox didn’t blame her for it.

“Did George take long walks?”

“Only in the country, he always said.” She laughed in a rather choked way. “Said there was no point walking in Oxford or London, when there was always a pub nearby.”

“I see.”

“He was awfully sweet, my dear George. The funniest person I ever knew.”

“Yes,” said Lenox. A moment’s silence later, he reached for his pocket. “Do these pen lines mean anything to you?”

He handed her the September Society card that was marked with the black and pink
X
. Taking it from him, her brow furrowed, and she turned it over several times. She studied it closely. She looked slightly puzzled—the only deviation from the wan, downcast mien her face had borne throughout the conversation.

“It rings some vague bell, Mr. Lenox.”

Trying to suppress his eager curiosity, Lenox said, “Can you think of what it might be?”

“Why—I think—only faintly, but I think it resembles the Payson crest.”

“The crest?”

“You know, the coat of arms, whatever you call it.”

“How so?”

“The crest’s a shield in black and pinkish red. George had it on his stationery.”

“Black and pinkish red?”

“A bit darker pink than this, but an
X
shape, yes—the pink for the blood the Paysons have spilled in battle.” Though Lenox was worried it might, the thought of blood didn’t seem to bother her. “Yes, it looks like a quick, crude rendering of the crest.”

“How odd,” Lenox murmured, his mind quickening

At that moment John West, Lady Annabelle’s brother, came toward them. After introducing himself and again trying to find a few consolatory words for her, Lenox left them. As he went upstairs, his thoughts moved on to the cat on the seal (seals and crests were certainly flying fast and furious now) of the September Society. It must have been related, the dead cat, to the Society. Every bone in Lenox’s body told him
that George Payson, or Bill Dabney perhaps—perhaps even someone unknown—had left behind a minefield of clues waiting to be discovered. The cat was one of those clues, like the walking boots, the line of ash, all of it.

Now they were gone, dash it. If only he had thought to make a more thorough catalog of what the room had contained. Perhaps he would go back and look at it again despite the cleaning. The question was why whoever had planted the clues had felt the need to make them obscure, and there was only one answer: The person had known that somebody would search the room after it had been abandoned. The cat was a clever touch, in that case. It would draw the instant focus of anybody who saw it. Perhaps, Lenox mused, that meant that the cat was the least important of the clues—pointing toward the September Society but not in itself the critical puzzle piece. Perhaps it was designed, with the cryptic numbers written on the note underneath it, to seem more significant or baffling than it was.

When he reached his room, Graham was sitting on a chair in the hall.

“There you are, Graham,” said Lenox. “Is this my kip?”

“Just here, sir. I acquired a suite with a bedroom and sitting room. If it does not meet with your approval, sir—”

“Not at all, no. Thanks awfully for coming and figuring it out.”

“Was the Bodleian a fruitful detour, sir?”

“It may have been. I’m not certain.” Lenox related the tangle of uncertainties to Graham as he unpacked the detective’s clothes. “The damned thing about it, Graham, is that it might have been a local criminal or a far-flung one, we can’t know yet.”

“Frustrating, sir. I think you’ll find the navy socks are preferable, sir.”

Lenox discarded the black pair and donned the navy blue.

“McConnell’s meeting me downstairs, then? How much time do I have?”

“Half an hour, sir.”

“I say, Graham, have you started your investigations into Hatch yet?”

“Not yet, sir. I planned to begin in the morning.”

“Could you figure out whether he was in the military? In the East, for obvious reasons? I forgot to look up
Who’s Who
in the Bod.”

“Yes, sir, I certainly shall. Is he of the correct age, sir?”

“Hard to say. One of these chaps who could be twenty-five or forty-five.”

“Indeed, sir.”

Lenox, dressed now, shot his cuffs in front of the mirror. His black tie was a bit off center, and Graham tended to it.

“I saw Lady Payson downstairs.”

“Yes, sir?”

“It was painful, though that’s nothing. She’s as broken as I’ve ever seen anyone.” Lenox paused. “This may be the first time somebody has come to me
before
a death.” Another pause. “It’s a pretty bad lookout, Graham.”

“Yes, sir.”

“To put it another way—every effort, don’t you think?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Not that it’s ever otherwise.” Glancing again in the mirror, Lenox said, “I think I’ll have a drink at the bar before I meet McConnell. Steady myself a bit.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Do you have anything planned? Have the night off, of course. I can draw my own bath and that sort of thing.”

“Thank you, sir. I may see one or two of the other footmen from my Balliol days, sir.”

“Our Balliol days, Graham. Which ones are still kicking around?”

“Oh, Mr. Bond, of course, Mr. Middleton, and Mr. Dekker.”

“Will you buy them a round on me? Here’s a couple of shillings.” Lenox reached into his pocket and handed the money over. “Tell them I said hello, won’t you? And tell Dekker I haven’t forgotten him dropping that boiled egg in old Bessborough’s lap, won’t you?”

With a smile, Graham said, “Yes, sir.”

“All right. I’ll wander off, then. Hopefully McConnell’s solved the whole thing and we can go back to London.”

T
he next morning, slightly hungover after a merry dinner with McConnell, Lenox woke up to find the soft sun peering through the curtains. The Turf was well and good, but it was nice to sleep on soft sheets and to find his coffee waiting for him on a tray with a vase of nasturtiums.
Graham must be awake
, he thought. So the careworn detective lay in bed and read for twenty minutes or so, losing himself in the copy of
The Praise of Folly
that he had bought from Mr. Chaffanbrass. The sharp, warm coffee slowly brought him back to the world. By the time Graham had come into the room, Lenox was alert enough to have his mind on the case again. He would devote this morning to speaking to Rosie Little at Jesus College and looking over Payson’s rooms again. Then he would take the 11:35 train to Paddington and search out Theophilus Butler and the September Society. It was high time he found out more about both of them.

Graham was laying out a blue suit. “Will this do, sir?”

“Yes, thanks,” said Lenox. “Don’t know how I managed without you. Are you going to begin on Hatch today, then?”

“I had planned to, sir.”

“If you want to jaunt off, I can dress myself.”

“As you say, sir. May I inquire after your plans?”

“I daresay I’ll scratch a bite of breakfast together downstairs, then set out for Lincoln to look over the room again. Oh, and Graham, I’ll be returning to London for the night to follow up on a clue.”

“Do you require my company, sir?”

“Don’t even think about shirking—I need you to stay here, of course. Who’s in charge of the house at the moment?”

“Mary, sir.”

“How did Ellie take that?” Lenox’s cook was excellent but tempestuous.

“Equaniminously enough, sir.”

After eating alone (or rather, with his book and the
Standard
–McConnell had popped back to London that morning), Lenox took a final glance into the mirror by the door and left the Randolph. It was cold but bright, a taste of the autumn ahead, and he regretted leaving his overcoat behind. Fortunately it was only a few minutes until he got to Jesus. It was too early to see Rosie Little, so he turned left toward Lincoln. When he found the porter’s lodge, a strange man was there in place of Red.

“How do you do? I’m Charles Lenox.”

The man tipped his hat. “Mr. Lenox, sir. You can call me Phelps.”

“Hullo, Phelps. Are you the porter who was on duty with Mr. Kelly on the day Bill Dabney and George Payson disappeared?”

“I am, sir, yes. Why?”

“I’m by way of helping Inspector Goodson with his investigation. Here’s his note.” Lenox handed over that useful passport again and watched Phelps read it. “I was hoping to see Payson’s room once more—and in fact to have a word with you as well, Mr. Phelps.”

“Aye, sir?”

“Do you remember seeing Bill Dabney or George Payson that day?”

“No ’or’ about it, sir. I saw the two of ’em together, only but once.”

“Did you? What time would that have been?”

“Early, like, and that’s how I remember it. Neither of ’em was an early riser.”

“Where were they?”

“In the Grove Quad, underneath all that ivy along the high wall there. It was around seven o’clock in the morning, I’d reckon, sir.”

“Were they talking openly?”

“‘Ad their’ eads together, they did. Whispering.”

“Well, that certainly confirms our thinking. Had you reported this?”

“To Re—to Mr. Kelly, sir.”

Why wouldn’t Kelly have mentioned it?

“Did you catch anything of what they were saying?”

“I didn’t, sir, no.”

“Have you heard of the September Society, Mr. Phelps?”

“No, sir.”

“Anything else you can remember? What did you think of the lads?”

“Liked ’em, sir. Specially Payson, bit of a firecracker, him. We’re all passing sad about it, sir. Mrs. Phelps included, mind you.”

They spoke a few minutes longer, though Phelps didn’t yield any other interesting information. Then Lenox took the key from him and went up to George Payson’s room. It looked startlingly different, not so much tampered with as sanitized, depersonalized. The walking stick at its jaunty angle was gone from the chair; the tomato, string, and pen were gone; the books had been neatly gathered from their improbable homes
and put in a row; the bed had been stripped. In the silence of the white, chill morning light it all seemed immeasurably sad.

Lenox looked behind all the furniture and in the ashes of the grate, and for good measure he glanced through the books, shuffled through the shapeless clothes on their sagging hangers, and read carefully through Payson’s notebooks. They only contained tutorial notes.

Lenox left Lincoln again with a few words to Phelps, who tipped his cap good-bye, and then made his way across the street to Jesus. When Lenox asked for Miss Little, the porter said that she had been expecting him and directed him toward the long hall at the end of the Front Quad. Finding it, Lenox went inside and saw a single woman pinning decorations to the wall.

“Miss Little?” he said, walking toward her.

“Ah—Mr. Lenox, is it? You’ve received my note, then.”

“Yes, that’s right. You wanted to speak to me?”

“I did. Call me Rosie, please.”

“May I ask how you heard about me, Rosie?”

“To be honest, Mr. Lenox—I—I followed you.”

She was an exquisitely pretty young girl, fair, with high plump red cheeks and lovely auburn hair. The dress she wore, blue and long, made her look both young and practical. She was distinctly of the middle class, the daughter of a banker or a local brewer, nineteen and with all the world before her.

“Did you?” he said mildly.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Lenox, but I did. It’s—it’s George, you see.”

“George Payson.”