The September Society (8 page)

He stared for a moment. “What’s two plus five?” he had said, chewing on the end of his pipe.

“Seven,” Compton had said. “Last I checked.”

“How about three plus four?”

“Also seven, I should say.”

With a twinkle in his eyes, Farrior had said, “I myself hate Christmas pudding. Have since I was a boy. Tastes of ashes.” Then he had walked away, leaving Lenox and his friend in fits of laughter as they finished the job. It was still part of Balliol lore, passed down to each incoming class along with the theft of the Wadham chandelier and the transfer of several deer from Magdalen’s deer park to the Brasenose courtyard.

There was such a multitude of memories and associations here! He loved this little, many-roomed tavern, its low ceilings and smell of barley, its black casks of ale, its glass decanters of brandy. It was part of his love for Oxford.

Upstairs to his room in a moment. First he wanted a few more seconds to think.

Before him was a book he had borrowed from Andy Scratch, called
The Heroes of Punjab
. It told the story of the Anglo-Sikh wars, which were by now about twenty years in the past. One chapter briefly mentioned that the September Society had been created after the war by the surviving lead officers of the forces there during the period. The Society maintained close bonds, according to the book.

The question was: Why did a society of former military officers want anything to do with George Payson and Bill Dabney? What on earth connected them? Or was it a false lead? Swallowing the last of his beer, he decided he needed to look into Bill Dabney a bit more. In good time. For now, to bed. It was only half past ten, but he was completely and
entirely exhausted. Still, it was a tiredness tinged with satisfaction, the end product of a long, good day of work.

Lenox woke up later than usual the next morning, Monday, with the rays of the sun striping his sheets. He pulled the bell by his desk and stood up to put on his robe and slippers. In about ten minutes there was a sharp knock on the door, and young Thomas Tate came in with a tray that once again must have weighed about what he did. Lenox gave him another sixpence and thanked him with a smile, before fixing himself a quick cup of tea. Always important to have that first gulp so that one could feel human again.

He ate at the table by the windows that peered into New College. It was a pretty, clear day, when yellow leaves hung thick on the branches and a breath of wind scattered another dozen to the ground. The sun was watery but bright, and the sky a pale, early blue. Perhaps because Oxford had so little to do with factories and trains, or perhaps because it was in a valley, shielded by its depth, there was rarely the blinding fog of London here. It refreshed Lenox. In twenty years it might not be any longer, but for now Oxford was still the country, with meadows at the end of every street and many roads made only of dirt. Cleaner air, and birds still giving morning voice to their songs.

The September Society. Could it be an accident? One thing was a relief to him: If the boys had been either of them murdered, even if their bodies had been thrown in the Thames, something would have come out by now. Lenox had instructed Graham to wire up any accounts of unidentified bodies, and the only report that had come was of an elderly man discovered in Covent Garden, stabbed to death without identification on his person. Nothing had been reported closer to Oxford.

He ate a last bit of toast and poached egg, took a last swallow of tea, and looked at his watch. Quarter to nine. He just had time to interview Professor Hatch before catching the 11:50 to Paddington.

Hatch’s house, which was located only a few steps away at 13 Holywell Street, was an old, narrow stone place with four windows facing the street and a green front door. It was painted white, and to match the door there was a green roof. Rather nice for a professor.

A maid answered the door and led Lenox into a front drawing room that was small and close, filled with science journals spilling off of bookcases. Very little light made its way through the blinds.

The professor took quite a long time to come down, and after a while Lenox realized that he might have woken the man. When at last he came into the room he was a surprisingly tall and hearty chap, indeed strong, though with sallow skin and black circles underneath his eyes. He had a mustache and wore an impeccable dark suit.

“John Hatch,” he said.

Lenox introduced himself, and the two men shook hands.

“How may I help you?” Hatch said.

“Nobody has seen Bill Dabney or George Payson in two days, and I’m trying to find them.”

Hatch looked genuinely puzzled, if not all that concerned. “I’m afraid I’m not the most likely man to have seen them,” he said. “Though I’m sorry to hear of it. Have you checked around much?”

“Yes, a bit. Oxford is such a small town that it seems probable that a friend or a classmate would have caught sight of one of them. When did you last see them?”

Hatch considered the question. “Both about a fortnight ago. I had a small gathering here at my house for the students I advise, as I often do. Bill and George usually came.”

Lenox made a note on his pad. “Any idea where they may have gone?”

“None at all, unless they went home.”

“No.”

“Then I don’t, I’m sorry to say. London? Your guess is as good as mine.”

“What are they like, the two boys?”

“Both bright. Above middling, anyway, though I really couldn’t say with any expertise. Medicine is my field, not classics or history. Dabney was more introverted than Payson. Both the sort of gentlemen to be popular in a place like Oxford. Payson was at Westminster like myself, so we had that in common. I don’t know what else to say.”

“Have you heard of the September Society?”

“Can’t say that I have, no.”

“Have you noticed Dabney and Payson pulling apart from the other students at all?”

“Not the sort of thing I’d be likely to notice. I’m not in college much, except for hall, and then I sit with my colleagues at high table.”

“Did you know they kept a cat?”

“Did they?”

“It was found dead.”

“That seems odd.”

“Decidedly.”

“I could use the body in class, if you like.”

“No, that’s all right.”

“Well, it’s the same to me.”

“Was either of them at all in trouble, that you knew of? Financially? Did they break rules?”

“Just in normal amounts. Financially, I couldn’t say. Not really my place, is it?”

“Some might say it was.”

“No,” Hatch said firmly. “Not quite done.”

“You speak as if you were more friend than advisor to them.”

“I admit that, to be sure. Oxford’s a dull place, Mr. Lenox. I don’t mind a
coupe
of champagne or a glass of beer here and
there. I miss London something devilish. And the lads and I have more in common than I do with the dons.”

There was a strange kind of unease in the air. Lenox couldn’t put his finger on it.

“You don’t know anything about Dabney’s background, then?” he said.

Hatch raised his eyebrows in contemplation. “Certainly not much. I know he’s from north of here, somewhere in the Midlands, I believe. I know that he shares digs with Thomas Stamp, rather a friend of the two boys.”

“You haven’t met Dabney’s parents?”

“No. The master will have, Banbury.”

“Payson’s?”

“Oh, yes, his mother. Father’s dead, I heard.”

“How did his mother strike you?”

“A little bit rattled by life, perhaps? Introspective, I would call it.”

Lenox nodded. “Is there anything else you can think of? Anything relevant?”

“No, not particularly. Sorry.”

“Oh—by the way, when did you start giving your parties?”

“I’ve been here many years. Began with them straight away.”

“I see. Thanks again.”

Lenox showed himself out. A decidedly strange man, he thought to himself. Why had he stayed in Oxford for eight years if he didn’t like it? Walking briskly past Trinity College, Lenox also thought how unusual it was for somebody innocent to lie twice in twenty minutes to a complete stranger. For one thing, Stamp had mentioned that Dabney and Payson took the cat to Hatch’s parties and let it wander around his house. For another, he and Scratch had both said that the last party was four nights before, on Thursday, not eight or nine, and certainly not a fortnight.

B
efore he left, Lenox stopped by Lincoln College again.

Hall was still open for breakfast, and there were loose groups of students framed in the windows, eating, studying, and lingering until classes began.

He took a walk around the Grove Quad and the Fellows’ Garden, thinking. Each of the lads would miss a tutorial today; they hadn’t been at meals for some time; their friends, beyond Stamp, would begin to mark their absence. The police would have to be involved, he thought. He would write them from London.

He went to Stamp’s room and knocked on the door.

“Had your collections?” Lenox asked him.

“Yes,” said Stamp, pushing his blond hair away from his face as he constantly did. “Brutal. We had a question on Cromwell’s protectorate that you wouldn’t believe. I couldn’t even understand it, much less answer it. Some bother about predestination and right rule and I don’t know what.”

“It’s over, at any rate.”

“Yes. I wish this matter with Dabs and Payson weren’t going on, or I could have a drink to celebrate.”

“Has anything further come to you? Perhaps a conversation with one of them? Or a trip they had talked about?”

“The only thing I thought of after you left yesterday was that Dabney sometimes talked of getting digs in London after we leave Oxford, the three of us. It couldn’t possibly be related, but he did talk it over a good deal.”

“Were they spontaneous?”

“Not exceptionally, and I would be surprised if they had done something off the cuff without me.”

“What do you think of your head porter here? Reliable fellow?”

“Red?”

“Is that his name?”

“Well, we call him that. His real name is Kelly. He’s Irish, though.”

“Ah.”

“I don’t know if I’ve heard anyone call him his real name in my life, other than the junior dean or the chaplain or some dour chap like that. The lads’ mothers.”

“Is he reliable?”

“I should say so, yes. Pretty steady with us, doesn’t make trouble if you’re a moment or two past lock-in. All of the porters around the college belonged to one company in some regiment of the army—can’t remember which, maybe the Royal Pioneer Corps?–and we got more or less lucky. Nice chaps. The worst is at Queen’s, down the lane. They have the Scots Guards. Absolute dragons, they say. It’s a pretty miserable lot over there anyway. The students, I mean.”

“Have you thought about my advice? A spell at home?”

“I’ve thought about little else. More about that than Oliver Cromwell, unfortunately. Or Charles II and the Restoration or Dryden as court poet or anything like that.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

“Well, it’s not ideal, but I do appreciate it. I think I’ll go to
see my aunt in London for five days—until my next tute. They’re good about letting you use the British Library there, if you run into the right librarians. My aunt doesn’t have a world-class collection of modern histories, unfortunately.”

Lenox laughed. “I’m glad to hear you’ll be safe down there,” he said. “I’m leaving in an hour if you’d like to share the train.”

“Nice of you, but I’ll go this afternoon. Have to send a few hours’ warning.”

Lenox handed Stamp a card. “Please come see me if you like, or if you think of anything. I live round St. James’s Park.”

“I say, that’s decent of you. I shall.”

They said good-bye, and Lenox went up to George Payson’s room again.

It had been tidied since yesterday, books straightened, old tea removed, boots cleaned, so Lenox went back downstairs to find the head porter.

He was a man of middling size wearing a black suit and a pair of thin silver spectacles that were just perched on his nose. When he spoke there was no trace of his country of origin, and his hair was in fact black, not red. Some long-graduated student’s idea of an Irish joke.

“Mr. Kelly?” Lenox said.

“You’ve found me—but call me Red.”

“I’m Charles Lenox.”

“Ah, Mr. Lenox. How do you do?”

“Not badly, thanks. May I ask a housekeeping question?”

“Certainly.”

“Did you know that the scout had cleaned George Payson’s room since yesterday?”

“Yes, as usual.”

“He hadn’t for two or three days prior.”

“True enough—at the student’s special request. But it had been two days since we cleaned it.”

“Is it common for students to request that the scout not clean their rooms?”

“Not uncommon, if they’re studying for an exam and have their papers and things as they like. Or if they’ve lost something.”

“Did Payson ask you or his scout?”

“His scout. I would have discouraged the lad.”

“Why did you ask for it to be cleaned today?”

“As I say, I discourage it as a policy. A porter’s second concern is always cleanliness in the college.”

“His first?”

“Security.”

Lenox thought it best not to point out the irony of this. “To be sure. How did you discover that the room was untouched?”

“From the scout himself. I get weekly reports, and it so happens this morning was his.”

“Any ideas about Payson’s whereabouts?”

“I should say on a trip to London. He didn’t report it, but again that’s not entirely uncommon. We try not to send students down for relatively minor infractions like that any longer.”

“Wise policy. Different than my day.”

“Times change.”

“Can you think of any other places where Payson might have gone?”

“I’m afraid I can’t, no.”

“Thank you, Mr. Kelly.”

“Call me Red, as I say,” he said.

“Well, in that case, thank you, Red.”

“Pleased.”

Lenox wandered down Broad Street, its bookstores and cafés busy with students from the nearest colleges—Trinity, Wadham, Jesus, and Lenox’s own, Balliol—and thought over the case.