A Stranger in Mayfair - Charles Finch [11]
“What?”
“Sometimes the murder weapon is whatever’s at hand.”
Suddenly Lenox felt his foot rock slightly. Without moving he bent down, then drew his foot back. The brick that had shifted when he trod on it now looked plainly disconnected from the ones that surrounded it. He gently pried it out and held it up for all three of them to look at.
“What is it?” asked Johnson.
“It’s sticky,” Lenox said.
“Cor!” said Johnson wonderingly.
On the bottom of the brick was a smudge of what was plainly fresh blood.
Chapter Five
For a moment the three men stood, staring mutely at the murder weapon.
“Does that mean it was a crime of passion?” asked Ludo.
“Why do you ask that?”
“A brick right at hand—an argument—it must have been the heat of the moment!”
“Impossible to say,” Lenox said, shaking his head. “What it must confirm, I believe, is what I said earlier—that the murderer has come up and down this alley many times, and knew which loose brick would make for a decent weapon. Much simpler to replace the brick than bother hiding some blunt object, or throwing it away and risk it being found. Johnson, have you your whistle?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Blow it for the nearest constable, and we’ll have him fetch Fowler out for this fresh piece of evidence. Ludo, I need to leave, but as I said I’ll pass the case on to my assistant, John Dallington.”
“Dallington?” said Ludo dubiously. “That boy of the Duke of Marchmain?”
Lenox laughed. “The very same. I assure you that he’s quite a competent student of mine.”
John Dallington had a firm reputation as the greatest rake, gambler, seducer, and libertine in all of London. Born to wealth and status, he had abjured the usual course (clergy or military) of most third sons of rank. It was to Lenox’s very great surprise that this Dallington, who was perfectly charming, a small, dapper, handsome fellow, unmarked by his excesses, but without a reliable bone in his body, had asked to learn the art of detection. Against all odds he had since then picked up a great deal of Lenox’s knowledge and even, in the business of the September Society, saved Lenox’s life. He still drank and caroused now and then—it was troubling—but in the midst of their cases together his conduct had been largely faultless. More than that, it had been a balm to Lenox to have a colleague. For so long he had struggled alone to keep his head held high when people disdained his profession or pitied him—or, as that morning, offered him money. There had been Graham, of course, and even occasional help from his brother, but Dallington was different. He found Lenox’s passion for detection not embarrassing, as many people seemed to, but fascinating. It was a comfort.
Still, Ludo’s reaction to the name of John Dallington was scarcely surprising. If a century passed he wouldn’t live down the character he had earned in three or four years during his early twenties.
“If you can vouch for his dependability,” said Ludo with a doubtful grimace, “then I suppose that would be all right.”
“I’ll send Thomas McConnell to have a look at the body, too. I wouldn’t mind seeing Frederick Clarke’s clothes and possessions myself, either, but it will have to wait for another day.”
There was then a footfall at the end of the alley, and all three men turned their heads to see who it was.
“Eliza!” said Ludo, glancing quickly at Lenox. “How are you, dear?”
“Hello, Ludovic. And who can this be—Charles Lenox?”
Lenox nodded. “How do you do, Mrs. Starling?”
Elizabeth Starling was a pretty, fragile, smallish woman, with a little bit of plumpness and big, soft brown eyes. She looked rather like Marie Antoinette playing a milkmaid at the Petit Trianon.
“Quite well, thank you. But I thought you were still on your—”
“Why have you come into the alley?” said Ludo.
“Don’t interrupt, dear,” she said good-naturedly. “Anyway, I might ask you the same thing. Mr. Lenox, I thought you were still on your honeymoon?”
Lenox looked at Ludo, who was beet red. “No, I told