The September Society (20 page)

“No,” said Lenox, half regretting the word, “no, I used to be here at Balliol, and I’m visiting for a day or two.”

“Having a jolly time, I hope?” said the young man patiently.

“Yes, thanks. Good to see it all again. At the moment I was wondering—if I wanted to take a long walk hereabouts, where would you recommend I go?”

“Well, sir,” he said, “there are two options. You could walk up north, just walk past Wadham and keep on, and then you’ll reach the parks. Beautiful cricket pitch there, though they reckon they’ll build a new one, and a fair amount of meadow to walk about on. I often walk the leas there myself.”

“Sounds charming. What’s the other?”

“Just past Christ Church Meadow is a fair bit of open field and stream, plus of course the Thames—or rather, the Isis, as you’ll remember we call it here.”

“Do students go there often?”

He nodded. “Many students walk there, certainly.”

“Perhaps I’ll try that,” Lenox said. “Thanks very much for your help.”

“Not at all.”

“I’m Charles Lenox, by the way.”

“Hopkins,” the lad said. They shook hands. “Gerard Manley Hopkins. A pleasure to meet you. Have a good walk—I’m off to see my professor.” With a wave he tramped off toward the Balliol lodge.

Lenox was thinking of the muddy boots and walking stick Payson had left in such an oddly prominent spot of his sitting room. What did they indicate? Along with his harried, anxious attitude when he met his mother just before disappearing, perhaps that he already knew the trouble he was facing—that he had already walked past Christ Church Meadow, looking for a place to hide? Even that he had met Geoffrey Canterbury before the ball at Jesus?

Lenox left Balliol and started walking down Broad Street. It was midafternoon by now, and it occurred to him that perhaps he should return to London. Goodson was in charge on this end, and to Lenox’s eyes everything seemed to indicate the participation of the September Society in London. Hatch aside … but then, perhaps he would leave Graham here to keep an eye on Hatch—and, more important, Red. Could he ask Graham to look after the porter, too?

He stopped in to see Goodson and told him about finding George Payson’s father’s name in the rolls. They had a long conversation about its significance.

“Any luck with Canterbury?” Lenox said at last.

“A constable in Didcot may have traced him to that neck of the woods, but I’m not hopeful. He’ll have disappeared already. I’m thinking of taking your advice, doing a closer search behind the Meadow.”

“I don’t think it can hurt,” Lenox said and told him about the walking stick and boots in Payson’s room.

“I confess,” said Goodson, “that I’m a little low in my spirits. Nobody has come forward to say that they saw something; nobody can find this Canterbury fellow.”

“I felt the same.”

“Yes?”

“That’s why I thought I might track back down to London to follow the September Society lead—this Payson lead.”

“As you wish.”

“There’s nothing I can do here?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“You’ll keep an eye on Hatch and Red?”

“Aye.”

The two men shook hands and said good-bye. “For now, anyway,” Lenox said.

“Keep in close contact.”

“I will.”

Outside, Lenox turned his footsteps toward the Randolph. Canterbury, he thought—what could have compelled Payson to meet Canterbury?

Then he stopped.

What had the description of Canterbury been? Dark hair, a big pocket watch, a mark on his throat? Why did that ring a bell? Then he realized: He had just met a dark-haired man with a scar on his neck.

He ran back inside to see Goodson. “Look,” he said, “I think I may know who Geoffrey Canterbury is.”

“Who?”

“John Lysander.”

“The chap you met with?”

“Exactly. I think he convinced Payson to meet him somehow—invoked his father’s name, something like that.”

“Why would he have lingered hereabouts, then, rather than going straight back to London?”

“Because it’s what Geoffrey Canterbury would have done, perhaps? And the opposite of what John Lysander would have.”

“Can you furnish a more exact description of this Lysander?” Lenox did as he was asked. “All right, then,” said Goodson. “I’ll take it to Mrs. Meade.”

“Excellent,” said Lenox.

He returned to his room at the Randolph in a pensive mood and instructed Graham to pack.

O
n the train once more that evening (the trips were becoming tedious) he thought about what he would do in London. First, perhaps, he would find out whatever he could about John Lysander and James Payson. Or better still, he would have Dallington handle Lysander, because he and Lenox had already met.

Oxford an hour behind him, he almost missed it—the quiet implacable towers that stood on against time, the low murmur of people on the sidewalks, the perennially festive pubs that were always greeting a new wave of students just past some looming obstacle, an exam, an essay … and above all the companionable feeling of a university town, of a place that centuries of students have come to frightened and left feeling that they would always belong. The fields on either side of the train, golden in the late light, felt like the border between that simple life of his undergraduate days and these more complicated ones; for, as always, his thoughts had revolved again to Jane.

Pure sentimentality, thought Lenox—but smiled as he did.

He forced himself back to the case and for the rest of the
train ride sat low in his seat, eyes hooded, trying to untangle the skein of connections between Red Kelly, John Lysander, Professor Hatch, Bill Dabney, and the dead father and son.

From Victoria he took a two-wheeled hansom cab, thinking first that he would go straight to Hampden Lane, but after a moment he decided to drop in on Toto and Thomas.

He found them again sitting quietly in the small anteroom by the door. It was a happy scene upon which he stumbled. The remnants of an informal supper were just being taken away, and Toto was writing letters at a small correspondence desk, while just by her McConnell was sitting on the sofa reading. Lenox saw this from the outside, the firelight dancing in the dim windows, and almost turned away, but rang at the door instead. Shreve showed him in.

“Charles, how good to see you back. Any progress?” This from McConnell.

“Some. A great deal, in fact, if only it will lead us to the murderer—and to Dabney, of course.” Toto had stood up to kiss him on the cheek. “You’re still in good health, I hope?”

“Oh, yes, the doctor’s quite proud of me—apparently I’ve unconsciously done everything right. I think that’s an absolute sign that I’m meant to be a mother, don’t you? Although it’s a bore to skip my favorite foods. I don’t like that bit. Still, think, in seven months you’ll be a godfather!”

“What present ought a godfather to give his godson, do you think?”

All three of them were sitting now, Toto with her feet up on the couch by McConell, Lenox in a chair opposite. Very definitely, she said, “Oh, you must give her a silver porringer! We’re expecting a christening bowl from Vix, you see.”

Lenox took this to refer to the Queen of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, Empress of the Isles, Victoria.

“That’s jolly, then,” he said.

“If she’ll do it. I expect she shall, Father will speak to somebody. But I would find it auspicious.” McConnell rolled his eyes in a way calculated to irritate his wife, and she smacked his hand softly. “Thomas, if you want to raise little Malory a heathen—”

“Malory, is it? Have I agreed to Malory McConnell? Well, she’ll grow up to be a washerwoman, but I’ll love her anyway,” said the doctor, though happiness was etched into his face.

“Take it back!”

Laughing, Lenox said, “Perhaps the Queen’s washerwoman, at any rate. That will be a consolation.”

“But listen to us,” said Toto. “Charles, where do you think you’re going to travel next?”

“Morocco!” he said and expounded on the merits of that country for a little while longer.

“Morocco! Oh, no, Malory’s godfather can’t go to Morocco.”

“But it’s awfully beautiful, Toto, I promise.”

“Promise all you like!”

They rattled on in this way for a few minutes more. Presently, McConnell said, “By the way, Charles, did you get that report on Peter Wilson that I sent you?”

“Yes, thanks. It was helpful.”

“I wish I could have been more conclusive.”

“Well, in any event it showed that there are some grounds for suspicion.”

“Quite slim ones, perhaps.”

“By the way—does either of you remember George Payson’s father?”

Both of them shook their heads. Toto said, “I wasn’t born, I don’t think—or only one or two.”

“And I’d have been in Scotland still, or at school.”

Lenox sighed. “No matter; I only mentioned it because I’m
going to track down the report of his death, and if it wouldn’t be too much trouble you might have a look at that, too.”

“Yes, of course,” said McConnell. “Foul play?”

“There’s always been some doubt about it, actually. I always heard he was shot over cards, but that may be a myth.”

“Oh, Charles,” said Toto, suddenly perking up, “won’t you have a bit of supper? We’ve just had ours, but we haven’t had coffee yet—or rather, Thomas hasn’t, I’m not meant to at all any longer.”

“Thanks, no,” he said. “I must get home. I only wanted to say hello—and to check that you were in good health.”

“Oh, I don’t think I could be healthier or happier in a million years!”

The truth of this in the face of both his friends gave Lenox a moment’s happiness, even as his brain prowled around the edges of the case.

A
few minutes later he was in another cab, bumping homeward. A glass of wine wouldn’t go amiss, he thought, and if he saw lights on next door he might drop in on Lady Jane. The next morning he would go straight to work again—well, perhaps he’d drop by the bookshop, then straight to work. What should he read next? Something contemporary, perhaps, something fresh …

As the cab pulled into Hampden Lane these idle thoughts vanished. The street was ablaze with light, crowded by carriages, and on one stoop—Lady Jane’s stoop, he realized, his heart plummeting—were two bobbies, speaking to a servant.

“Stop here!” said Lenox, and roughly handed the driver some indeterminate amount of change. He picked up his small bag and flung it over his shoulder, then ran the twenty feet to the small stretch of sidewalk where his house joined Jane’s. There was a confusion of people on the street and no real order to things. Spying Mr. Chaffanbrass, he said, “What’s happened?”

“I don’t know,” Chaffanbrass responded. He was bright
red and looked out of sorts. “Somebody’s been shot, but everybody seems to be all right!”

Horror and relief flooded Lenox’s mind at once; of course, he would have to ascertain the truth for himself. In his heart was a prayer for Jane’s safety: a deep, almost unconscious prayer. He moved roughly through the crowd of onlookers toward the door. Looking up he saw to his consternation that one of the policemen on the stoop was Inspector Jenkins, who had given him the coroner’s report on Peter Wilson’s suicide. As Lenox climbed the stairs he rapidly tried to think whether Jenkins would be there without anyone dead, or at least injured.

“Jenkins,” he said, coming to the top step. The door to the house was open and every room was brightly lit, giving the place a look of midnight panic. “What’s happened?”

“Lenox, hello—everybody’s all right. Only one injury, and that superficial.”

“To whom? To whom, Jenkins?”

The inspector looked at his pad. “Annie, a kitchen maid.”

“What happened?”

Again Jenkins consulted his pad. “Apparently a man knocked on the door, face covered by a kerchief, brandishing a revolver, and pointed it menacingly at this housemaid. He dropped a note at her feet, and then as he turned to leave the gun went off. It struck the stone eave of the door and ricocheted back off, grazing Annie on the shoulder.”

“Did she get a good look at him?”

“No, unfortunately.”

“Fainted?”

“On the contrary, she chased him halfway down the block, the plucky old girl.”

“May I go in? Is Jane—Lady Jane Grey—inside?”

“She is, but …” He looked dubious.

“We’re old friends—please ask her.”

Jenkins nodded to his constable, who went inside and checked. On returning, he said, “Looks all right, then,” and with a grateful nod Lenox pushed his way inside. He saw Lady Jane sitting on her rose-colored sofa, all alone. Instinctively he dropped his valise and ran to be beside her, embracing her shoulders as he sat.

“Thank God you’re safe” was all he could manage to say.

She didn’t seem at all surprised by his unusual actions and hugged him in return. “I’m quite all right,” she insisted. “Only a little shaken.”

A little shaken!

“How is Annie?”

“They’ve taken her away to Dr. Brooke’s.”

That was the doctor on Harley Street whom both Jane and Lenox routinely visited. “Where was she hit?”

“The bullet grazed her arm, just by the shoulder. I came back to find Kirk and the police here, and she seemed the sanest of all of them. Said she only needed a bit of iodine.”

Here she gave out and buried her face in Lenox’s shoulder, crying.

“What is it?” he said. “What?”

“I wish I had half her courage, Charles. Look at this.”

She reached into her pocket and produced a note. Lenox read it twice, trying to be clearheaded. It read:
Tell your friend to leave Payson in the ground, or we’ll be back
.

W
hat do you think the Yard can do, Jenkins?” said Lenox. It was half an hour later, and the two men were standing on the street. The crowds had begun to dissolve, the stream of startled neighbors at the door had slowed, and in Lady Jane’s house the servants were all having a glass of brandy under Kirk’s supervision. Jane herself was still in the drawing room, with the recently arrived Toto and the Duchess of Marchmain at her side.