A Stranger in Mayfair - Charles Finch [20]
“Yes.”
“Quite routine,” said Lenox.
“Still, I say, it’s a bit awkward,” said Ludo.
“We’ll need to speak to you soon, Miss Rogers.”
“You’re not a suspect,” added Dallington, still smiling. Lenox sighed. His apprentice couldn’t resist a pretty woman.
Chapter Nine
After Jenny Rogers had blushed, offered a confused curtsy, and retreated down the hallway, Lenox and Dallington turned into the room to begin a proper examination. Ludo stayed in the hall, trying to peer over their shoulders and shifting nervously from foot to foot.
“He was reading rather heavy stuff,” said Dallington, crouching down to look at the names on the spines of the books upon the side table.
“What?” said Lenox.
“There’s something called The Philosophy of Right by a chap named Hegel, a pamphlet on universal suffrage, and a little quarto of George Crabbe’s. He must have been the best-educated footman in London.”
“Those are all from my library,” said Ludo. “We encourage the staff to pluck what they will from it, but I’m afraid most of them read books from Mudie’s—adventure stories and romances. Three-volume novels. You know the sort of trash.”
“I rather like the triple-deckers myself,” said Dallington. “They make the time go.”
“To each his own,” answered Ludo frostily. His vices were not intellectual ones, at any rate.
“What sort of education did he have?” asked Lenox curiously. He stood up from his examination under the bed. “It must have been rather atypical. One of my friend Thomas McConnell’s footmen is quite illiterate.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know. As I told you before, I didn’t pay the lad much attention.”
“I don’t blame you if he was always on about Hegel,” murmured Dallington, then laughed at his own joke.
There was really very little to see in the room. Lenox examined the entire bed and its frame for anything hidden—a note, a diary—but found nothing. The side table was similarly unrevealing. A small shelf in the corner had an assortment of meaningless trifles: a jar of ink, a picture postcard of Stratford with nothing on its reverse, a ball of black India rubber. The only thing that intrigued Lenox was a scrap of paper that read, When’s your birthday? C. said you would turn 20 soon. Did you have the day off last year?
“Does this note mean anything to you?” asked Lenox.
“I was curious about it myself,” said Ludo. “I asked Collingwood, and he said Elizabeth sent it, through him—we let the staff have their birthdays off, but she realized she didn’t know Clarke’s. She knew all the others.”
“Wouldn’t Collingwood have found that out? I imagine days off are within his purview.”
Ludo shrugged. “You know how solicitous my wife can be. She felt badly to think that we hadn’t given him his birthday off.”
“I see.”
The closet was the last place in the room that hadn’t been searched; in fact both Dallington and Lenox had run their eyes over everything else, shaken out the books, felt for lumps in the pillows. Lenox opened the closet, vaguely hoping to see something revelatory—something covered in blood, say—but he was disappointed. There were two tidy suits of livery, both black, such as a footman might wear, and four shirts.
“We provide them, of course,” said Ludo.
There was also a very fine gray suit, his one personal suit, that looked expensively tailored. On a shelf behind these was a stack of shirts. Lenox shook out and refolded each, then did the same with two pairs of trousers, checking the pockets, three pairs of socks, and a nightshirt.
“Defeated,” said Dallington.
“Probably,” replied Lenox.
He knelt down and looked at the shiny black shoes on the floor of the closet. He groped inside the left and found nothing, and then he groped inside the right and found—something.
He pulled it out and saw that he was holding a gentleman’s signet ring, made of heavy greenish-yellow gold. On its oval face was an intricately worked griffin with a small ruby as its eye.
“Good Lord,” said Dallington. “It looks like an heirloom.”
“I should think so. It’s shined smooth from use on the outside.”
“What is it?” asked Ludo, still