A Stranger in Mayfair - Charles Finch [27]
“Where is the boy’s mother staying?” he asked. “With you, I assume?”
“No. We offered.”
“You don’t know where?”
“A hotel in Hammersmith.”
“But that’s miles and miles away.”
Ludo shrugged. “We offered, as I say.”
“Which hotel?”
“It’s called the Tilton. That’s all I know. Listen, Charles—I feel uneasy about you looking into this murder. It’s nearly been a week already. Fowler says we can’t expect to discover who did this horrible thing to Frederick, and I don’t want to detain you for the purposes of a—a fruitless search.”
“Yes,” said Lenox placidly.
“After all, what’s the point? The House sits again soon, and we both have work to do before then.”
“True.”
“Will you drop it?”
“My priorities are certainly at the House, but if you don’t mind I’ll have Dallington look around a little more.”
“Oh?” said Ludo. His face was difficult to read. “If he has the time, by all means. I just want to be sure you don’t waste any time that would be otherwise spent productively.”
“Thank you,” said Lenox.
As he walked away down Brook Street toward New Bond, Lenox pondered this exchange with Ludo. There was no possibility whatsoever that Grayson Fowler had said the Yard couldn’t expect to solve the case. For one thing it was against policy, and for another Fowler was an irascible, tenacious man, not given to accepting failure gracefully. What could be happening between Ludo’s ears? Why ask Lenox onto the case and then try to kick him off? The title?
He was walking in the direction of Grosvenor Square. He was already late to see Graham, but it had occurred to him during the service that he hadn’t seen Thomas and Toto McConnell in nearly a week, and he decided to go visit them.
It was Toto herself, big as a house, who answered the door. Her funereal butler, Shreve, stood behind her with a dismayed downturn at the corners of his mouth.
“Oh, Charles, how wonderful! Look at the size of me, will you? I’m not supposed to be on my feet, but I saw it was you through the window.”
“Shreve could have gotten it.”
The butler coughed a muted agreement.
“Oh, bother that, I wanted to stand up anyway. Thomas was reading one of his scientific papers to me, something or other about dolphins, I can’t keep up and it’s dreadfully boring. I do like his voice, though, don’t you? It’s very soothing.”
McConnell was standing before the sofa, beaming—still tall, still exceedingly handsome with his shaggy hair.
“How are you?” he said.
“Excellent, thank you. Any day now?”
“Yes,” he said. “I think it’s a girl.”
“I do want a girl,” said Toto, heaving herself onto the couch with an unladylike grunt, “but of course a boy would be lovely, too.”
“Anything happening about the murder?” asked McConnell.
“Don’t talk about that nonsense,” said Toto crossly, her pretty face flushed. “I want to hear happy chatter, not about murders and blood. Just this once. After the baby comes the five of us can have a symposium on the subject, but right now I want to talk about nice subjects. How is Jane’s garden, Charles?”
Chapter Thirteen
That evening Lenox was sitting at his broad mahogany desk, reading a blue book on the subject of England’s commitments to Ireland. It was early September all of the sudden, after the endless warm summer of his honeymoon, and chill on the streets. Lady Jane had been out all evening, and he had stayed home, hoping to speak with her when she returned. He owed her a better apology and in his mind he worked over the words he would say when she came in.
As it happened the sound of the front door opening brought not her but a breathless Dallington.
“Lord John Dallington, sir,” said Kirk, coming in after the young man yet again. “The young gentleman didn’t knock, sir,” he added with opprobrium. Between him and Shreve, it was a bad day to be a fastidious butler in London.
“I was in a rush, wasn’t I? Lenox, it’s about the case.”
“What?”
“I spent the last five hours at the Bricklayers’ Arms. I think we have a suspect.”
Lenox stood up. “Who?”
“Jack Collingwood.”
Lenox