A Stranger in Mayfair - Charles Finch [23]
“No,” said Ludo, though looking as if he rather would. “You can’t attend?”
“Meetings.”
Ludo looked relieved. “Shall we just let the Yard handle it, after all?”
“With your permission, I would like to keep an eye on it,” said Lenox. “Grayson Fowler is an excellent detective. Still. I can’t quite identify what bothers me so much, but it’s there.”
“Well—all right.” They were now in the entrance hall. “Good night.”
Just as Lenox and Dallington said good night, however, a voice stopped them. “Who’s there?” rang out from the drawing room in a cranky old tone.
“Only a couple of friends, Uncle Tiberius,” said Ludo in an agitated way. “We’re on our way out.” He added in a confidential tone, “I’ll come along and go to my club. I rather fancy a hand of whist.”
“Wait!” cried the old man. He appeared in the doorway, holding a candle and dressed in a rumpled suit. “Is it the inspector again? I want to speak to the inspector!”
“No—only my friends,” said Ludo. He looked irritated. “John Dallington, Charles Lenox, may I please introduce you to my father’s uncle, Tiberius Starling.”
“How do you do?” the two visitors asked.
“I remembered something to tell the inspector.”
“It can wait until tomorrow.”
“We’re acting as inspectors, too,” said Dallington mildly, earning for his troubles a look of pure vexation from Ludo, who was almost physically harrying them out. They paused by the door.
“Good, good,” said the old man. “I remembered something about Clarke. The packets.”
“What packets, blast them?” asked Ludo.
“Under the servants’ door,” said Tiberius. He looked at Dallington. “I sit down there, you see, because they have that cooks’ fire. It warms up these old bones. One day I was alone down there—it was Sunday morning—and a packet came under the door. I hobbled over to fetch it for ’em, and it was unsigned. I opened it, and what do you think was inside?”
“What?” asked Dallington.
“A note! A white note, worth a pound! Not even a coin!”
Money. All notes issued by the Bank of England were printed in black on one side and blank on the reverse and were called white notes.
“Oh?” said Lenox.
“I thought it was empty—that’s why I opened it—but down marched Frederick Clarke, who by rights should have been out on a Sunday, and he told me it was his, he was expecting it. I asked what was inside, to test him, you see, and he told me. Well, I had no choice but to give it to him then.”
“You said packets, plural.”
“It happened again two Sundays later, but he was there to scoop it up before I did.”
“Why did you never tell me this, Uncle?” said Ludo.
“Forgot. But now he’s dead—rich as he would please.”
“How much did you pay him a year, may I ask, Ludo?” said Lenox.
“Twenty pounds.”
Dallington was shocked. “My God, how dismal!”
“It’s on the lower side, yes, but that includes room and board, of course,” said Ludo, bristling.
“I’m sorry—quite sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. I haven’t any idea what any servant earns.”
Lenox ignored this all, deep in thought. At last he said, “Five percent of his yearly wage, slipped under the door so nonchalantly. What was that young man doing with his life, I wonder?”
Chapter Eleven
Lenox and Dallington walked very slowly through the pristine, vacant streets of Mayfair, moonlight and lamplight enough to make it rather bright. They discussed the case and arrived at one essential conclusion: Ludo Starling’s behavior was odd. Neither of them knew whether it was significant, but they concurred upon that fact. As for the packet, or packets, that Frederick Clarke had received, Lenox was inclined to believe that Clarke had been the participant in some variety of fraud or chicanery.
They stood at the corner of Hampden Lane discussing it until they were neither content nor unhappy, then parted. It was past midnight. They agreed that Dallington would attend the funeral and then report in to Lenox.
When he went inside his house, Lenox was surprised to find a figure on the small chair in the hallway. It was Jane.
“Hullo,” he said, cheerfully enough.
“Hello, Charles.”
“You sound upset.”
She stood.