A Stranger in Mayfair - Charles Finch [28]
“What makes you suspect him?”
“I’ll tell you in a moment. Graham, could you scare up a glass of brandy for me? Oh, but of course you’re not Graham—Kirk, is it? Thank you.” He turned to Lenox. “I sipped one glass of porter all afternoon, trying to keep my head clear, even though I bought five rounds. I have a terrible thirst.”
“Make it two, Kirk, and I’ll take mine warm.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ve found out why he had scabbed knuckles. Freddie Clarke. Everyone calls him Freddie, by the way—his friends.”
“Why?”
“It doesn’t help us. He was an amateur boxer, bare knuckles. Apparently they make these footmen of pretty durable material—he fought every other Thursday and trained whenever he could, including early mornings, at a ring in South London.”
Boxing had grown up over the course of Lenox’s lifetime, replacing fencing and the quarterstaff as the city’s most prevalent combat sport. There were both aristocratic sparring rings and back-of-the-pub arenas devoted to it.
“Who did he fight? Was it rough or clean?”
“Clean—a nice place, expensive enough to be a drain on his income. He was great friends with his sparring partners.”
“It’s too bad. I thought the hands might be a clue.”
“I did, too.”
“What about Collingwood?”
“May I tell it chronologically, while it’s fresh in my mind?”
“Of course.”
Kirk arrived with the drinks, and Dallington downed half of his in one gulp. He looked at Lenox. “Oh, don’t put on that irritable face,” he said. “I hardly drink at all anymore.”
Lenox laughed. “I didn’t know I had any particular look on my face.”
Dallington still caroused three or four days a month, out with the lively young things of the West End, with loose women and plentiful champagne in the dim dens lying under unmarked doors, the ones that only true revelers could discover. As a result he saw opprobrium in Lenox’s eyes perhaps more often than it was there.
“Let me think,” said Dallington. “I should begin by saying that the footmen you saw at the funeral were Dallington’s closest friends. They came from various houses along Curzon Street and went to the pub once or twice a week together, in addition to meeting in the alley where he was killed, to smoke and chat.”
“It makes sense—he didn’t have any close friends in the house.”
“On the contrary, he absolutely loathed Jack Collingwood, his superior and apparently a very strict taskmaster. They nearly came to blows three weeks ago when Collingwood called Clarke an idiot. Collingwood withdrew the insult when Clarke challenged him to fight. According to Jenny Rogers, by way of Ginger—that’s the red-haired chap who spoke on the church steps—Freddie said he didn’t care a whit about the job and would quit just so that he could fight Collingwood.”
“That’s why you think Collingwood is a suspect?”
“Partly. There’s a great deal of anecdotal evidence about how little the two men liked each other. Ginger told me several stories—so did his friends—about that. Once Clarke dropped a silver tray as he was coming down the stairs, and even though it was undamaged Collingwood reported the incident to Ludo Starling. Apparently Collingwood was outraged when Starling refused to reprimand him, much less sack him. Suffice to say there was a good deal of animosity between the two men.”
“Go on.”
“What’s far more damning for Collingwood is something that happened about a fortnight ago, four days before Clarke died.”
“What?”
“According to Ginger, Freddie found Collingwood pilfering money from Elizabeth Starling’s desk.”
Lenox turned, his eyes wide with surprise. “Really?”
“Yes. Apparently Collingwood went pale, and Clarke left immediately. Still, they both knew what he had seen.”
“Congratulations, John. It may be the answer.”
“It may be.”
Inside, however, Lenox felt a twinge of disappointment. He told himself it was stupid, but he had found himself drawn further and further into the case as the days