A Stranger in Mayfair - Charles Finch [10]
“Yes, sir. Can’t quite see the point myself, when there are thirty people clamoring to get in every minute or so.”
“At any rate I’m glad you’ve kept the scene intact this long. Which inspector was it?”
“With all politeness and that, sir, I didn’t catch your name?”
“I’m Charles Lenox, Constable Johnson.”
The man’s ruddy face lit up. “Lenox the detective!” he said brightly.
“That’s right.”
“You ought to have said so. We’re all right grateful down the Yard that you caught that bastard Barnard. Excusing my language, sir,” he added, nodding to Ludo.
“Not at all.”
Barnard had killed—had ordered killed—a famous police inspector, a man by the name of Exeter. Lenox had uncovered the deed.
“Thank you,” said Lenox, “although I must say that my role was extremely minor—the Yard did the vast majority of the work.”
Johnson grinned and tapped his nose. “Our secret, sir,” he said, “but I heard Inspector Jenkins tell about it all, sir. All of it,” he added significantly.
Ludo looked at the pair slightly irritably, as if he suddenly suspected that Lenox might get a title now and there was only one to be had. “Would you mind if Mr. Lenox looked at the spot?” he asked.
“Not at all. Down this way, sir.”
The genial tone of their conversation abruptly changed as they came upon the scene of the murder. There was a large smear of dried blood along the brick walkway. Only nineteen, thought Lenox with a lurch in his heart. Just an hour before London had seemed like the most marvelous place in the world, but all at once it seemed like a midden of sorrows.
“As well as we can work it out, Mr. Clarke never saw the man who attacked him,” said Johnson, now somber, business-like.
“Must it have been a man?” asked Lenox.
“Sir?”
“If this is a servants’ lane, it’s much more frequented by women then men, I would imagine. Was Clarke a large boy, Ludo?”
“Yes.”
“Still, we mustn’t exclude half of the population from our suspicion. Or slightly more than half, isn’t it? Go on, Constable.”
“The wound was on the back of the young man’s head.”
“Was he hit from above or below?”
“Sir?”
“Never mind. I’ll ask—just a moment, I don’t think you ever told me which inspector is looking at the case?”
“Old Fowler, sir.”
“Grayson Fowler? Perhaps I’ll ask him. Or it might be just as well to send for McConnell,” muttered Lenox to himself.
He dropped to one knee and began to look very carefully at the vicinity of the attack on Frederick Clarke. Aside from the blood there was an unpleasantly evocative clump of hair on the ground.
“Did you remove anything from the area?” asked Lenox. “Or did Fowler?”
“Only the body, sir. All else is as it was.”
“Which way was the body facing?”
“Toward the street you came from—South Audley Street, sir.”
“And he was attacked from behind. Where does this alley lead?”
“To a small back lane with houses backed onto it, sir, including Mr. Starling’s.”
“I take it the servants use this lane to get between their houses and the street? If that’s so it seems likely our attacker was either lying in wait or came from that direction. It makes me suspect one of your servants, Ludo.”
“Oh?” said the man, who had been standing quietly off to the side.
“The men and women with whom Frederick Clarke spent nearly every hour of his life in quite close proximity—yes, our first thoughts must go to them. Still, it would be silly to draw any conclusions yet.”
Rising from his crouched position, Lenox walked around the blood spill toward the side of the alley that led to the backs of the houses, away from the alley’s busy end at South Audley Street. He ran his hands gingerly along the walls.
“Did Inspector Fowler say what kind of weapon it might have been?” he asked.
“No, sir.”
“Ludo? To you?”
“He didn’t say anything about it.”
For the next ten minutes Lenox went up and down the alley, very carefully dragging his fingertips along each wall and walking gingerly, in short steps.
“What are you doing?” Starling eventually asked.
“Oh, just a suspicion,” said Lenox quietly, still focusing intently on his fingertips and feet.