The September Society (27 page)

“You took his body to Christ Church Meadow.”

“Yes,” said Dabney, taking the handkerchief Lenox offered him. “Yes, I carried him into the meadow. Our hiding space was just between a grouping of trees, and it was awfully well hidden. But I wanted his body to be found, because I wanted the police—and you, I suppose, though I didn’t know you existed—to figure it out straight away.”

“You didn’t want to come forward yourself?”

“No.”

“I can see why you wouldn’t, of course.”

“It was simply so shocking—so shocking to find him there. Suddenly it all seemed so much different than what we had been playing at. I had had no idea it was serious. And of course I assumed that they would want to kill me, too, whoever had done it, because George might have confided in me.”

“Yes, of course.”

“So I put his body in the meadow and then I ran for it. It took days of walking—I hadn’t very much money, you see, because I thought we would only be gone a short while—and
a bit of scavenging—and then I couldn’t quite turn to old Stamp, because I didn’t want him to become a target …”

Exhaustion seemed to overtake the lad. Again he buried his head in his hands.

“We’ll push you upstairs to bed in just a moment,” said Lenox. “I know how tired you must be. But are you fit to answer another question or two?”

“Oh, yes, yes.”

“Did George say anything at all about the man he was meeting with? About the Society?”

“No, he didn’t. I wish I had asked.”

“I take it you cut your hair and changed into the clothes you had on as a means of disguise?”

“Yes, exactly.”

“I thought so. Tell me, what did you speak about? Out beyond the meadow?”

Now the phantom of a smile came into Dabney’s eyes. “We talked about old times. About when we were freshers. About what spring would be like, this year, when we had written our exams and we could simply punt all day and go to the Bear and have pints to drink.” Another short sob, which he managed to cut short somewhere in his chest. “Lord, I can’t believe it’s happened!”

After two or three more inconclusive questions, Lenox led Dabney upstairs and put him in the guest bedroom; in only moments there was a deep quiet from within.

As for the detective, he went back downstairs. The candles guttered out, and long after midnight he was left staring into the embers of the fire for light, as a comfortless rain beat against the window.

I
t was almost noon when Dabney woke the next day. Lenox had spent the late night and the morning devising a plan of action; it depended on one man, but he thought it might just work.

He also had half a dozen questions he had forgotten to ask Dabney the night before. The foremost of these was about Hatch. When the lad had finished eating his breakfast (prepared by a wrathful Ellie, who thought that once the master started asking for eggs and kippers at noon the apocalypse couldn’t be far behind), Lenox began that line of inquiry.

“Did he deliver a parcel to you, out in the Meadow?”

“Who—old Hatch? No, I don’t know anything about that. I certainly didn’t see him, and I don’t think he could have spoken to Payson without my knowing about it.”

“Are you certain? It would have been on Sunday afternoon. And the two of them met at a place called Shotter’s just before Payson disappeared on Saturday.”

“Did they?” Dabney seemed perplexed. “Professor Hatch was decent for a laugh and a drink, but I doubt that he
would have been George’s choice as a confidant. I very much doubt it.”

This exchange immediately led Lenox to reevaluate his thoughts about Hatch. He had to some extent discounted the possibility that Hatch was guilty, even as an accomplice. It had seemed logical to assume that Hatch had been helping his troubled young friend, bringing him a parcel of—what, food? Clothes? It seemed feeble now. Quickly he wrote a telegram to Graham, requesting that he remain in Oxford another twelve hours.

“Another question, then,” he said to Dabney. “What do you mean to do? I’ve met with your parents, and while they’ve handled it admirably, they’re of course frantically worried. I’m inclined to send them a telegram instantly. I fought against the instinct after you had gone to sleep last night, out of respect for your free will.”

Dabney winced. “Please, please don’t. I have a good reason.”

“What’s that?”

“Listen, when will all this be over, do you reckon?”

“Not later than Monday evening, I should say.”

“How can you know that?”

“I have a plan in mind that should force things to a conclusion, one way or another.”

“Tuesday morning, then, as early as possible. I’ll write them then.”

At half past noon, Lenox set out to execute his new plan. He walked with some trepidation for Pall Mall and the row of clubs along it. As he drew close to Carlton Gardens and the September Society (and Biblius Club), his uncertainty increased, and he decided to wait until after his lunch. At the Athenaeum Club he had turkey on the joint with cranberry sauce and mashed potatoes—heavy but sustaining in the
weather, which continued cold and wet—and read the
Cambridge Journal of Roman History
.

The Athenaeum was a place for people accomplished intellectually rather than socially, and many of the people in the dining room were reading similar journals on any number of subjects. While its members were still largely drawn from the landed classes, some had arrived on the merit of their achievements. For example, in the late 1830s, when the club had been in a difficult financial position, its board had decided to admit forty less well born men from a waiting list. Thereafter known jocularly as the Forty Thieves, their number had included Dickens and Darwin. Lenox liked this tradition in the club—one dedicated to Athena, after all, the goddess of wisdom whose cunning had guided Odysseus—much better than he liked the tradition of exclusivity at Boodle’s, where the SPQRs met.

At half past one he finally made his way out, nodding to the familiar faces he saw on the way, and started for Carlton Gardens.

At the September Society, however, he did not find Hallowell as he had hoped, but the second, older doorman who had directed him once before to the Royal Oak.

“After Hallowell again, sir?”

“Yes, actually.”

“He won’t be at the Royal Oak now, I shouldn’t imagine, sir. His shift doesn’t begin for another hour and a half.”

“I see.”

“Would you like me to leave word for him that you called?”

“No, that’s quite all right. Thanks.”

Lenox decided to check the Royal Oak anyway. He turned up his collar against the rain and once more walked down the slender alleyway which housed the pub.

It was as he had left it, dim, the walls dampening a constant murmur of voices, and in the air the steamy warmth of a wet
day brought indoors. In fact, the people at the tables might not have moved at all since he had last been there. The man with the large mustache was still behind the bar.

“Hello,” said Lenox. “I’m trying to find Hallowell. You may remember I was here—”

“In the back,” said the barman, pointing with his thumb.

It was a stroke of luck. Hallowell was reading a newspaper at a rear table, a full pint of Guinness before him. When he looked up and saw Lenox, his face fell slightly—and who could blame him? What had begun as a conversational acquaintance had become dangerously uncertain.

“Really, sir,” he said as Lenox approached, “I’ve told you all I know about Major Wilson. I haven’t thought of anything else.”

Lenox sat down. “Of course, and I’m sorry to bother you again.”

“It’s not a bother, sir, but it may be more than my job is worth.”

“Have you read anything about this business at Oxford?” the detective asked, pointing at the newspaper Hallowell was still holding.

“Some, yes, sir.”

“I know I’ve asked you to go against your conscience, but a great deal is at stake, you see. A lad died, a lad of twenty.”

“Yes, Mr. Lenox.”

“In part it was my own fault. I knew something was afoot before he died, young George Payson, and I couldn’t stop it from happening. But I may be able to stop it from happening again.”

Hallowell nodded slightly

“I need to ask you a larger favor, Thomas.”

“Sir?”

“It’s not about Major Wilson. It’s about the meeting tomorrow.”

“The September Society’s meeting?”

“Yes, precisely.”

“But I won’t even be there, sir. As I told you, we receive the night off.”

It was time to level with the man. He was sharp enough, clever enough, to see that things had changed. “I told you that I was working in the same direction as the Society, whether they knew it or not, didn’t I?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That no longer appears to be the case.”

Hallowell blanched. “Sir?”

“I think somebody in the Society is responsible for George Payson’s murder—perhaps several other deaths, too.”

“Sir, I can scarcely credit—I mean to say, I know these men, it’s not possible.”

“I’m afraid it is, in fact. And I need you to sneak me into the club before the meeting so that I can spy on them all.”

“No, sir, I simply cannot—”

“But you must!”

“I simply cannot, Mr. Lenox—”

Lenox’s temper rose. “They shot at my friend’s house, Hallowell! Did you read about that in the papers, on Hampden Lane? They threatened a woman with no involvement in the case—they’ve killed an innocent lad—they probably killed Major Wilson—you must!”

For a moment there was silence at the table. The paper fell out of Hallowell’s hands, while in the front bar the voices grew suddenly louder and a wave of laughter rose and fell among the house’s patrons. Outside, Lenox saw through the small window above him, the rain had stopped.

At last, almost imperceptibly, Hallowell nodded. “Yes,” he said. “All right.”

Relieved, Lenox said, “Good. Excellent.”

“But just a moment—how can I trust you? How can I be sure you’re not involved?”

Lenox scribbled a few words on a piece of paper in his notebook and tore it out. “Here,” he said, “take this to Inspector Jenkins at Scotland Yard. He’ll tell you that I’ve been doing this for a long time.”

Hallowell glanced at the paper, then folded it and put it in his pocket. “Tomorrow, then,” he said. “Meet me here tomorrow at five in the afternoon.”

“I shall.”

“I may be late.”

“I’ll be here,” said lenox. He Stood Up. “You’re doing the right thing. I can only promise you that. If you lose your job for any reason, Because of this or not, You need only come to me, Hallowell.”

A
fter he left the Royal Oak, Lenox hailed a hansom cab and went to Hunt House. It was here, close to the river, where Dallington still lived with his parents. The house belonged to an old family with a relatively new dukedom; for centuries before their elevation the family had been a steady and well-respected line of local squires in Bedfordshire, but in the last hundred years they had gone from that prosperous station in England’s landed gentry to the pinnacle of its nobility. Hunt House reflected that. It was quite modern, painted white with gold and green window frames, and every cut of stone and pane of glass sighed money.

They were an amusing family. The duchess was plain-spoken, pretty, well past fifty, and a close friend of Lady Jane’s. The duke was a generous and entirely idle man. Both of them were continually at court, good friends to Victoria and once upon a time Prince Albert, who had been dead five years. Their heir was dull and industrious; their second son was vain and pious; and their third son was Lenox’s apprentice.

Eager, quick-witted, and conscientious for the time being, the young lord had suddenly begun to seem indispensable to
Lenox; a second set of eyes at the September Society during the meeting, what he had in mind for Dallington, might ultimately mean the difference between success and failure.

Lenox stepped out of his cab and rapped the door sharply. An eminently appropriate butler answered the door.

“How do you do, Mr. Lenox?” he said. “Please come in.”

“Oh, I can’t, thanks. I was only looking for the youngest of the brood.”

“Lord John is not presently in, sir.”

The respectful and cautious tone of these words made Lenox uneasy. “Do you know where he’s gone?”

“I believe he stated an intention of visiting Claridge’s, sir, with one or two friends.”

Damn. “Thanks,” said Lenox. “If he does return, hold him here for me, won’t you?”

Lenox quickly hailed another cab and directed the driver to the hotel. Claridge’s was an august establishment on Brook Street in Mayfair, about fifty years old, which the Queen had consecrated not long ago by calling on Empress Eugenie of France in her suite there. It also—and this was the cause of the butler’s overly polite manner, perhaps, in referring to Dallington—housed a raucous bar full of slightly disreputable young aristocrats.

When he arrived at the terraced house, Lenox walked straight to the bar. Sure enough, Dallington was there, having a glass of champagne and unloosening his tie while he spoke with a florid, light-haired lad of about the same age. There was also an extremely pretty young woman with them. She wore a bright red dress and had a high, clear laugh that rang out across the room. Lenox went over to them.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but might I have a word?” he said.

Dallington looked up blearily, then gave an excited start. “Oh, I say, Lenox! I say! Meet Solly Mayfair!”

Lenox shook hands and nodded at the woman, to whom
he hadn’t been introduced. “Nice to see you. Do you think I could have that word, Dallington?”

“About what? No secrets from Solly.”

All three of them found this outlandishly funny.

“About the case, John.”

“Quite right, Lenox, quite right—we
should
get a case of champagne. These bottles on their own seem so stingy. A case of champagne, a barrel of beer—that will set us to rights.”

“Can you not be serious, for a moment?”

“I was never more serious in my life!” said the lad with a Falstaffian belch. “A case of champagne! A barrel of beer!”