Home by Nightfall (19 page)

The great matter now was to find the connection between Hadley and Stevens—and more to the point, to discover why Stevens had been attacked and Hadley had not. Was it a matter of opportunity or of motive?

One thing was sure: He would hardly feel comfortable in Hadley's shoes, out roaming the countryside unprotected.

The next few hours were frustratingly slow. At the Horns, Clavering was still interviewing people—a thankless errand, when everyone in Markethouse had something to say and nobody in Markethouse had anything to tell. Lenox stopped in quickly enough to ascertain that Clavering hadn't discovered anything vital.

He also picked up a piece of flannel that Sandy, Mickelson's springer spaniel, often wore around his neck, according to Bunce—the person who passed it on—to keep fleas off his face. Lenox took it with a smile (“It's been years since I had fleas”) and tied it up in a piece of brown paper, which he sent back to Lenox House by one of the pub's boys.

His next stop was the Malone household. There, he had a brief interview with Claire Adams, Elizabeth Watson's sister, who hadn't been in the town hall since the night before, still had her key, and yes, she could show it to him this instant. She produced it, tied on a thin string around her neck. She did seem shaken by the news of the attack—though, like her sister, somehow not quite devastated. She had been at the Malones' that morning from six o'clock. Mrs. Malone confirmed this to Lenox before he left—that Claire Adams had been in the household the entire time—and was all the more plausible because she seemed almost sorry to report the news, a petty, gossiping person, who would have been only too happy to believe that her maid could have killed the mayor.

McConnell, bless him, arrived on the 3:40 train.

He found Lenox at the Bell and Horns, and Lenox thanked him profusely for coming down. “Not at all,” said the doctor.

“I wouldn't have asked you so urgently, except that it's very close to home for me. It
is
home, in fact. I hope you can stay over?”

“I have to go back this evening, I think. But you can stand me a local Markethouse dinner first if you like.”

“With pleasure.”

They walked across the square, back toward Stallings's house. McConnell drew looks from the congregation outside it, a stranger on a day when any stranger was bound to attract attention; he was a rangy, handsome man, with curly graying hair and a face worn by a long decade of drink and unhappiness, but now restored, in some measure, to youthfulness—he was a happy father, finally a happy husband to Jane's effervescent cousin Toto, and most importantly once again a full-time physician, working at the children's hospital.

Thanks to Lenox, McConnell had a vast experience in criminal medicine, and as he leaned over Stevens's body—the victim did indeed look fearfully pale, Lenox saw upon his first glimpse—he examined him with an assured and practiced air, unwrapping his bandages tenderly, feeling his forehead, listening to his heart.

Stallings stood back. “A faint arrhythmia, I believe,” he murmured at one point. “Not unusual?”

McConnell nodded. “Yes, quite right.”

Stallings looked pleased. “A short knife, I would have guessed?” he ventured now.

“That's a bit more difficult to say. If you'll give me a moment—”

“Of course, of course.”

Stallings and Lenox stood in silence as McConnell, with great, great care, examined Stevens by the fading light from the windows. He spent an endless amount of time on each wound; the mayor never flinched, and to Lenox's untrained eye he looked past rescue, four-fifths dead, closer to walking with his ancestors than to walking in Markethouse again.

At long last, McConnell neatly redressed Stevens's wounds, placed a thin sheet over him, and then stepped to the basin in the corner of the room to wash his hands. When that was finished he looked at the two men and nodded toward the door, indicating that they ought to speak away from the patient.

Once they were in Stallings's office, McConnell, his face grave, shook his head. “He'll be gone before nightfall I think.”

“Oh, dear.”

“He lost too much blood, and it was not a strong constitution to start with—overwork, lack of exercise, alcohol. Dr. Stallings, is that accurate?”

“I would not have called him more given over to alcohol than other men. A glass of sherry with lunch. Overwork, certainly.”

“Well—perhaps. I see the signs in a certain venous lethargy. Leave that aside, anyhow, and we can agree that he was singularly ill suited to survive such an attack.”

“Would he do better in London?” Lenox asked.

McConnell shook his head. “His whole fate is in his body's reaction now. That will determine whether he lives or dies. There is nothing more that medical attention can do for him. Thus far the signs are not hopeful.”

“And what about the attack?”

“Ah. There I can be more definite.” McConnell ran his hand through his hair, gathering his thoughts. “I'm sure Dr. Stallings observed that the wounds are mostly clustered well below Mr. Stevens's sternum. There are seven of them. Six are very shallow, one slightly deeper, and all of them were dealt in the same flurry. Lenox, you recall my study of wound patterns in East End stabbing victims. The attacker was right-handed.”

“Anything else?” asked Lenox, slightly disappointed at this vagueness.

But McConnell had an arrow remaining in his quiver. “Yes, this: that based on the height, depth, and nature of the wounds, I think it overwhelmingly probable that you are looking for either a woman or a boy.”

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

The country evenings were getting icy now, and as Lenox and McConnell walked from the village back toward Lenox House an hour or so later, both pulled up their collars, shivering when the winds picked up. It was pleasant to stamp their feet on the threshold of Edmund's house and feel the warmth awaiting them inside; they went straight to the long drawing room, where tea was waiting, and took opposing armchairs next to the hearth. Thawing, they drank their tea in appreciative, sleepy silence, both staring into the lulling light of the wood fire.

After a few minutes, when they had poured their second cups of tea and woken up slightly, they began to talk, McConnell first. “May I ask how your brother is faring?”

Lenox shrugged. “I should say, not well, all in all—not well. The case has at least been a distraction.”

“Poor fellow. Molly was a lovely woman.”

“Yes, she was. I think if only the boys knew, he might begin to—to look forward, at least a step or two. While they don't know about their mother, it's as if it happens again every day.”

“I understand.”

The conversation wandered back in the direction of Stevens. Lenox had asked that word be sent if he died, and McConnell, not a man usually given to pessimism, had said on their walk that he would wager the news would beat Edmund back to Lenox House. He hadn't at all liked the clamminess or pallor of the mayor's skin.

They had achieved little after seeing the patient. First, they had gone to see Stevens's secretary, Miss Harville, at the town hall, only to learn from the mayor's clerk that she had gone home to rest until the morning. Then they had checked in once more with Clavering, a baleful figure in the pub, still negotiating the aggregated rumors of Markethouse. Hearing nothing new from him, they had returned home to wait for news and for Edmund, in whichever order they came.

Waller came in and topped off their tea, coughing discreetly when he was done and asking whether they knew how many they might be for dinner.

“Three,” Lenox replied. “At least, I'm almost sure my brother will be back soon.”

He was right: Not ten minutes later there was a noise in the front hall, and Edmund, red-cheeked and watery-eyed from riding in the twilight cold, entered.

There was a minor commotion as the dogs greeted him. He strode forward with a creditable imitation of good cheer to greet McConnell, saying how grateful he was the doctor had come down, how happy he was to see him, inviting him to stay the night, regretting it when McConnell said he could not, expressing his pleasure that at the least he could stay for dinner—his manners still intact even though the spirit had half gone out of him, as Lenox could see more plainly with an outsider present.

“And Cigar?” said Lenox, as they all settled down.

“Well, he's mine again,” said Edmund. “I just rode him home. Damnably cold for my troubles, too. Waller, could I have a whisky?”

“I'll have one, too,” said Lenox.

“And I,” said McConnell.

“So?” said Lenox as his brother sat down. “Who sold the horse to Tattersall's?”

Edmund screwed up his mouth, looking frustrated. “It's a maddening story. No name. At first they were extremely stiff with me—said they didn't deal in stolen horses. I took a pretty high hand with them after that, I must say.”

“Did you tell them that you were a Member of Parliament?”

“No, I told them I was going to bring in the police. Finally a fellow named Chapman was able to help me. He said that he had bought the horses from an older gentleman, well dressed, with a gray beard, three days ago.”

“And this person didn't leave a name?”

“No. Chapman had the good grace to be embarrassed by that, for of course they usually insist upon a full record of ownership. But that's a stricter rule in London than here, apparently. Chapman said this fellow was well spoken, and he told them he had won the horses in a bet but didn't want to take the trouble of housing them, nor did he want the publicity of having his name attached to them. In the end they struck a handshake deal. Chapman told me that they only paid twenty-five pounds for the pair, by way of explanation. Cash.”

Cigar and Daisy were thoroughbreds, together worth probably close to a hundred and thirty pounds at the right auction. Twenty-five pounds for the pair would have been a hard bargain for any horse trader to resist. “How much did they sell them for?” asked McConnell.

“Cigar for forty-five, just as Flint said, and Daisy for sixty, plus fees. A young fellow from Hampshire with a string of ponies bought her, apparently, with an eye toward amateur racing. Criminally cheap. He's in county for the hunt.”

“She has the pace for racing,” Lenox said.

“Yes, true. Anyhow, Flint's money is going back to him, and Daisy should be here tomorrow morning, with any luck. They're very scared I'm going to write to the
Times,
or the London office, or the police. Chapman was full of apologies and promises by the end. I did let it slip who I was.”

“A gray-whiskered man, well dressed,” said Lenox thoughtfully. “They didn't give you any other detail?”

“A local accent,” said Edmund. “I was sure to ask about that.”

“Well done!” said Lenox, and his brother looked briefly pleased. “And his boots? A walking stick? How did he arrive, how did he leave?”

Edmund's face fell slightly. “I don't know. Chapman said to wire him with any questions, however, at their expense. I'll ask.”

“Good,” said Lenox.

“And you two?” asked Edmund. “Did you see Stevens? How is he?”

Lenox described what they had done in some detail, then said, “But tell us, Ed, about going back to the gamekeeper's cottage. As I was walking in from the station, I met Adelaide Snow, and she told me that you went over it with a fine-toothed comb. I'm curious what you found.”

Just as Edmund was about to tell them, Waller came in and said that dinner awaited—and though their whisky was only half gone, McConnell had an eye on the clock, since he hoped to catch the 8:08 train back to London, so they went into the dining room.

That also gave Edmund the chance to find the notes he had jotted down when he inspected the cottage, which he read over as they sat down to a first course of a rich onion soup, made with ingredients from the house's gardens, topped with thick slices of local cheese. It was hearty enough that a spoon would stand up in it, and eaten along with a cold glass of Tokay, the white Hungarian wine Edmund loved best, it was wonderfully delicious, warming.

As they ate, Lenox's older brother described in detail what he had found at the house, including much that Lenox himself had seen—the remnants of a plucked chicken, the makeshift bed, the small decorative touches that suggested an inhabitation of at least intermediate length. These details were new to McConnell, of course, and for his part, Lenox always liked hearing details twice when he was investigating a crime.

Two new ones struck him. The first was that a small hand-drawn map of Markethouse had been tucked into one of the books. “Was the town hall on it?” asked Lenox.

Edmund nodded. “Not only that, but Potbelly Lane, which is not quite at the very center of town.”

“Where is the map now? I should like to see it.”

“With Clavering.”

“I'll look at it tomorrow, then,” said Lenox, frowning to himself.

The other detail was that along with the stolen food there was a slab of butter and several sprigs of herb—mint, marjoram, and rosemary were the ones Edmund had identified—which again suggested both a longer inhabitation, and a certain sophistication, of a piece with the novels and the bed.

As the footmen cleared the soup and brought out plates of steak, smothered with roasted potatoes, McConnell said, “Still, I would prefer dining here,” and the brothers laughed.

“There's one thing that puzzles me more than the others,” Lenox said. “I understand all the food, our horses, the blankets, even the books. But I don't understand the dog.”

“Nor do I,” said Edmund.

“Perhaps it was a watchdog,” Lenox said. “But then, it never barked at us. And it was surely the thought of the moment to have it act as a decoy, rather than a premeditated idea.”