Home by Nightfall (18 page)

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Almost involuntarily, both brothers looked around the office, making sure there was nobody about to leap out at them. Nobody was—there was nowhere to hide, no closet to slide into or sofa to crawl under. They turned back to the figure of the schoolgirl. It wasn't pleasant to look at, even there in the broad light of day.

“Well,” said Lenox, trying to keep his voice steady, “at least our attacker has had the courtesy to link our crimes to each other. That was sporting.”

Edmund, whose face had always been so full of good cheer and country haleness until Molly's death, now looked sick, as thinned out as Lenox had ever seen him. He shook his head. Here he was, close to death once more. “I don't know that I like this job of yours,” he said. “I didn't realize—well, I don't know.”

Sympathetically, Lenox went and put a hand on his brother's shoulder. “Yes, I know,” he said. “Dallington had a terrible time with it at first, I suspect, though he never said a word. But one gets used to it—and then, think, hopefully we may be a help, to all of these frightened people in Markethouse. If the porch of the pub is anything to go by, they've lost their wits with worry.”

Edmund nodded. “Yes. I'm only telling you that I don't like it. I don't.”

“Would you like to wait outside while I look at the office?”

“No, no. Tell me what we ought to do.”

They looked over the office very carefully together. At one point Lenox asked if anyone had mentioned the figure on the wall before his arrival, and Edmund said no one had, which was odd—Clavering ought to have.

Then again, Edmund pointed out, it had still been near dawn when Miss Harville had found Stevens Stevens, and everyone's energy had been intent upon moving him safely to Stallings's house. It was possible they had missed it. And since then, Clavering had been with the town's leaders, trying to come up with a plan to ensure the calm and safety of the village. Nobody had returned to inspect the office.

That made some sense, and as Lenox looked through the papers on the mayor's desk he thought about what the drawing might mean. It felt … well, it felt
personal,
and yet both Hadley and Stevens were men without any strong personal ties, neither married, both childless, each more engaged with his work (or, in Hadley's case, a hobby, the gemstones) than any individual connection.

Might this lack of connections even be what linked them?

“What do we make of our second Watson sister?” asked Edmund, who was crouched by the armchairs, looking underneath them, at Lenox's instruction. Two sets of eyes on everything in the room—for it was even odds that the motive behind the attack must be in this room, Lenox had been at pains to insist to his brother. “Small-town coincidence, or more?”

“I wish we knew that it was one or the other,” said Lenox. “Because I don't like that it might be either. I suppose we must try to speak to Claire Adams.”

Edmund chuckled lowly. He had some of his spirit back. “Hopefully she's not preoccupied by a child feigning illness.”

“Stallings has real work now, I'm afraid.”

“Too true, alas.”

The office was a disappointment to Lenox—neat as a pin, the drawers mostly empty other than bits of charcoal and nib ends and spare inkstands and
SS
stationery, no evidence whatsoever of Stevens's life outside of this room. The papers on the desk were indeed mostly about the budget, along with a few others on village subjects, a report on the refurbishment of the pews in the church, another from the schoolmaster. The closest he found to anything related to the crimes was another report, this one about the thefts at the market from Clavering. It wasn't even clear the mayor had read it yet, however.

Lenox stood irresolutely at the window, looking down at the town square, which rose up toward the Bell and Horns. It was still packed with people. He stared at the long line of horses standing throughout the alleyway, overflow from the stables.

“Graham may be getting married,” he said to his brother.

Edmund joined him at the window. “Is he never! I say, that's good news at least.”

“It's not sealed yet. Don't congratulate him. He's still contemplating whether to make the proposal, though I think he will.”

“She'll need to be a pretty deep file,” said Edmund, shaking his head skeptically. “He's one of the sharpest fellows I've met. Sees twice what other men do. I've often told Lord Cabot that I'm glad he isn't a Tory. Well, my. I'll send him the fish-slice.”

“I already signed up for that. It will have to be teaspoons for you—nothing more boring than giving teaspoons, ha.”

“Let her accept first and we'll race.”

They stood in silence for a moment, staring toward the pub—until, out of the blue, Edmund yelped.

“My God, what is it?” said Lenox.

“It's Cigar!”

“Where?”

“There at the Horns! Third horse back!”

Lenox peered at the alleyway. “Are you quite sure?”

“I would know him from twice the distance, with half my eyesight. I would swear it on your life.”

“Steady on.”

“Come, come, let's go get him. I had given up hope—I promise you I had altogether given up hope! Hurry, Charles! My goodness, for all we know Daisy may be there, too!”

They ran from the office. Fortunately both Sutherland and Van Leer were back. Sutherland stopped them as they hurried past to say that all the doors and windows were as he had left them the night before, no sign of forced entry.

Edmund didn't care. He tore up the square, faster even than they had when they were boys. At the Bell and Horns he looked ready to weep with frustration when a mass of men, standing by the porch, blocked his way back to the alley and the stables.

They made it through after ninety seconds or so of very hard pushing. When they reached the first horse they met, Edmund grabbed a young groom. “That horse there, the chestnut! Whose horse is that?”

The boy, alarmed by the vehemence of Edmund's questioning, said he wasn't quite sure, but Mr. Wapping would be sure to know. Wapping, brother-in-law of the pub's owner, was in charge of the stables. Edmund by this time had made his way to Cigar and was at his neck, talking into his ear. Charles said he would go and find Wapping.

Leaving his brother, Lenox waded into the incredible noise of the stables, which were as overcrowded as the pub and twice as pungent. He spotted Mrs. Watson's older son—one of several boys shoveling the stalls, no doubt hired on just for this busy morning.

“Mr. Wapping?” called Lenox loudly.

A thin, pale-faced, black-haired man turned. “Aye?”

“I believe you're holding a stolen horse. Will you come with me?”

Wapping, apprehensive, came into the alley. His face calmed slightly when he saw that he knew the claimant of the horse—
Sredmund
—and said how sorry he was, that he hadn't known Cigar by sight, but he didn't doubt for a second that His Highness (he seemed to be confused about the titles of the English aristocracy, and neither brother bothered to correct him) knew his own horse. But still, wasn't Mr. Flint, who owned this horse, a very respectable wheat trader from Massingstone? And was he likely to have a stolen horse? It was all very puzzling.

It took no time to find this Flint. He was on the porch of the pub, a handsome man with curly dark hair, dressed in riding breeches. Once Wapping had made it clear to him that Charles and Edmund were from Lenox House, he was all civility.

“I very much fear that your horse—the horse you've left here—is mine,” said Edmund. “He went missing three days ago.”

Flint was astonished. “My goodness,” he said. “Well, Tattersall's shall give me my money back. I paid forty-five pounds for him yesterday and thought it a snip. He's a very fine beast, and not more than ten.”

“He's eight,” said Edmund shortly. “Who sold him?”

“The house.”

That might mean anything. Tattersall's was an auctioneer of horses, with a central location in London, regional ones elsewhere.

“Why not resolve it now?” Lenox asked. “Edmund, you could go to Tattersall's, with Mr. Flint if he will be so good.”

Flint looked doubtful. “I had hoped to stay here and get news of the attack.”

“Will you trust me to take the horse?” asked Edmund. “I'll ride him to the auction house. One way or another you'll have your money back, regardless—even if I have to pay it out of my pocket.”

“For your own horse!” cried Flint. “No, please take him. You'll find me here until about six o'clock this evening. After that time, anybody in Massingstone can tell you where to find Juniper Cottage.”

“How will you get home without your horse?” asked Lenox. “You must allow us to hire you one.”

Flint shook his head firmly. “Out of the question,” he said. “There are a dozen men here who will allow me to hitch on with them. Go, please. I look forward to hearing what they have to say at Tattersall's.”

“Your servant,” said Edmund, bowing his head. Then he looked at Charles. “I'll return in a few hours—with a name, I hope.”

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

After having seen Edmund off, Lenox decided that he ought to go to the house of Dr. Stallings to gauge Stevens's chances of survival and discover something about the attacker. On his way, he stopped in at Potbelly Lane and knocked on the door. Mrs. Watson answered. Apparently Hadley was away on business, having left at his customary hour, around seven o'clock. He had done the same the day before, too, Monday. He was on his regular schedule again.

Mrs. Watson said she had heard about Stevens, yes. Strangely, she didn't seem very sorry, though she was curious. It wasn't anything she said, exactly, that gave Lenox this impression—more something in her tone. It bothered him.

“Your sister cleans at the town hall, I understand?” he said.

“Claire? Yes, she works like a galley slave, too, sir, keeps it right tidy.”

“Does she like Stevens?” asked Lenox. “Do they have much cause to interact?”

“You'll have to ask her, sir. I don't know, do I?”

It was still there, that tone of voice. “She wouldn't have been there this morning?”

Mrs. Watson shook her head. “She gets to the Malones' at six o'clock and leaves at four. Then she makes tea for her three boys before she goes and puts in two more hours at the hall, bless her. We take the boys at ours to eat as often as we can.”

Lenox remembered that Claire Adams's husband was—
gone,
that was the word Sutherland had used. “She lives nearby?”

“Two doors down from me. But you won't find her there, she'll be at the Malones'.”

“Please tell Mr. Hadley when he returns that I'll call on him this evening,” Lenox said.

“Yes, sir, I certainly will.”

Next Lenox went to Stallings's. There was a crowd of people in front of it; not unusual. In London one often saw crowds of hundreds in front of the homes of the dying, if they were even moderately well known.

Stallings's butler admitted Lenox after checking with his master. The lights of the house were dimmed. In the front parlor, Lenox met two people, who introduced themselves as Stringfellow and Allerton—the first the deputy mayor (a part-time job, for Lenox knew that he was also prominent in the local grain trade), the second the town's chemist, that notorious drunk.

He looked decently sober now, at least. “How is he?” asked Lenox.

“Fading quickly,” said Allerton.

Stringfellow shook his head. “I thought I might be mayor one day when Stevens took his rightful place in Parliament. Not this way.”

“Stallings is with him?”

The question answered itself—from a swinging white door, the doctor emerged. He nodded at Lenox. “Mr. Lenox,” he said.

“I hear that he's not well.”

“No,” said Stallings curtly. “His breathing is ragged; his eyelids are fluttering; he sweats profusely. All the symptoms of catalepsy induced by trauma and loss of blood.”

“What can you tell me about the attack?”

“That is not my field. He was attacked with a sharp object of some sort obviously, not a powerfully sharp one though, perhaps even something like a letter opener. I cannot hazard anything more than that.”

Lenox recalled the letter opener on Stevens's desk. It didn't look as if it had been used in a violent stabbing—but of course it could have been wiped clean. “I see. How long do you think he will live?”

“If he remains in his current condition, thirty or forty hours. Or, if he improves, thirty or forty years.”

“I have asked a friend, Thomas McConnell of the Great Ormond Street Hospital, to come down and look at the wounds—not as a medical matter,” Lenox hastened to add, lest he offend the doctor's professional pride, “but as a criminal one. Would you consent to him seeing Stevens?”

To his surprise, Stallings agreed readily to McConnell's consultation. He said that he welcomed another opinion; that nobody could call him closed-minded; and so on. Only after Stallings went on for a few moments about the variety of medical insights did Lenox realize that he might be outmatched, this imperturbable village doctor, even afraid, unaccustomed to this sort of patient—seemingly as phlegmatic as usual, but in fact shaken.

Lenox promised to stop by with McConnell later. In the drawing room he said good-bye to all three men, then left the house.

What next?

He trudged in the direction of the Bell and Horns. Though he was pleased Edmund had found Cigar, he wished his brother were here with him; he would have been glad of someone to turn over his thoughts with. He was also curious about what Edmund had found on his second, daylight viewing of the gamekeeper's cottage on Snow's land. That was still their closest encounter with the criminal, after all.