A Stranger in Mayfair - Charles Finch [18]
Eventually the lecture was over and they were walking through a labyrinth of alternating small and vast hallways, some dim and low-ceilinged, others imposing and portrait-lined. Bigham kept up a steady prattle about the history of the building. A few times Lenox bumped into men he knew and stopped to say hello. It was all starting to feel real; he was here.
That feeling truly took hold of him when they entered the Commons. He had sat in the visitors’ galleries, of course—had from them often watched his own father speak—but to be on the floor, so near the chair of the Speaker of the House…it was a remarkable thing. The room was tiny, ornate, and as hushed as a cathedral.
Mr. Bigham whispered reverently, “To think—from this chamber a group of six hundred and seventy men rule an empire of tens of millions of souls. Once you write your name in the Members’ book, it will remain there forever as part of the history of this time. How lucky you are, Mr. Lenox!”
“I am,” said Lenox. There was a strange hollow place in his chest. “I am,” he repeated. “I know I am.”
Chapter Eight
Still, he hadn’t forgotten the murder. Lenox was particularly eager to see Ludo Starling again, if for no other reason than to further analyze the man’s behavior, which had on their first encounter been so strange. The lie about his wife, for instance. The odd braggadocio of his claims about a palace-bestowed title.
Alas, between the meetings and the reading he had to do, there was no time for it. The task thus fell to Dallington and, of course, Scotland Yard. Inspector Fowler. He had replied to Lenox’s inquiring note with a few perfunctory lines explaining that the Yard had the case well in hand and that outside interference could only hinder the course of the investigation. The note was distinctly unfriendly, if not hostile.
On the second evening after Lenox saw his new offices, Dallington came by with a report. Kirk announced him.
“Who’s this new chappie buttling for you?” asked the young lord. “Surely Graham hasn’t handed his notice in?”
“Not at all, no. He’s become my political secretary. Kirk was Jane’s butler for many years.”
Dallington frowned. “My parents were always trying to make me be a political secretary to some sniveling politician. No offense, of course.”
“Of course.”
“I never saw the good in it. Parliament would burn to the ground before they made me a Member of it, and unless that was your goal it was just a job with long hours and no pay.”
“We haven’t spoken about your parents in some time.”
“Oh?”
“Would it be intrusive of me to ask what their current mood is—on the subject of your new career, I mean?”
“Middling, I’d say. They haven’t thrown themselves off a cliff yet, anyway. It helped when you spoke to Father.”
“I’m glad.”
“But leave that aside—how about Frederick Clarke?”
“Well?”
“What can you possibly mean by saying ‘Well,’ for God’s sake?” asked Dallington with an irritable scowl. “I hope you don’t think I’ve found the murderer or anything like that.”
Lenox chuckled. “No. I only wondered what progress you had made.”
“Too bloody little progress.”
“What have you done?”
“Whatever I could. I was hoping to convince you to come speak to the family with me.”
“Why?”
“Ludo Starling looks at me like I’m a leper.”
“He judges you on outdated information, I fear.”
“It’s not as if I reeled in there on a bender. I was altogether respectful. But he simply said that it was up to the Yard now and turned me out. It was dashed uncomfortable, to be honest.”
“What have you been doing instead, then?”
“Anything I could think of. I interviewed housekeepers and footmen up and down the street. None of them said anything interesting, unfortunately.”
“They knew him? Clarke?