A Stranger in Mayfair - Charles Finch [36]
“How do you do, Mrs. Starling. I hope you know John Dallington?”
With a wide, warm smile, Elizabeth Starling said, “My pleasure. I’m sorry if I sound rude on the subject, gentlemen, but Inspector Fowler’s discretion is far in excess of what we expected, and we feel we can count on him entirely. Consider Ludo’s request withdrawn. It was importunate to begin with, I think.”
She had a charm to her that softened Ludo’s impoliteness, and Lenox found himself nodding slightly.
“Where are the boys, dear?” asked Ludo.
“Do you take my position, Mr. Lenox?”
“Yes, certainly.”
“Wonderful. I think Ludo told you about the honor that may soon accrue to us. We mustn’t put a foot wrong.”
“Did you like the lad?” asked Dallington, whose tone came very close to impertinence. His next words spilled over into it altogether. “Not to turn the subject away from the honor that may accrue to you.”
“I did,” said Elizabeth, “and Ludo, to answer your question, I believe I hear their footsteps on the stair.”
In the event, it was not the Starling boys but the old uncle, Tiberius. He was wearing a hunting jacket with holes in the elbows, trousers that would have been more appropriate on a pig farmer than a gentleman, and shoes that, being orange and black, looked frankly peculiar. His ivory-white hair stood straight up in a stiff prow. Upon entering the room he took a large handkerchief from his pocket and loudly blew his nose into it.
“Uncle, I had Collingwood lay out your dinner jacket. Did you miss it?”
“Damn thing doesn’t fit. How do you do, fellows?” he said to Lenox and Dallington. “Have you found out who killed our footman?”
“Not yet,” said Dallington. His own dinner suit was quite fine—he was something of a dandy—but he was smiling widely at Tiberius. A kindred spirit. “I must say, I admire your shoes.”
“Cheers for that. They get some strange looks, but they’re quite comfortable. Fellow in India made them for me. Black as midnight.” He belched loudly. “When’s dinner?”
Elizabeth Starling, only temporarily nonplussed, said, “Please, sit—some wine, gentlemen?” Lenox nodded his assent to the proposal.
Two young men came clattering into the room, as if they had been racing downstairs. One was quite fat and tall and the other quite short and thin, with a sparse, queasy mustache that looked as if it had needed careful tending and cultivation in order to exist at all.
The fat, tall one came forward first. “How d’you do?” he said.
“This is Alfred,” said Ludo. “My oldest son. Paul, come forward.” The mustache approached. “These are two friends of mine, Mr. Lenox and Mr. Dallington.”
“Cor, not John Dallington, is it?” said Paul, who appeared to be the more enterprising of the two. The older boy looked around hungrily, mouth open, and then, his eyes failing to alight on anything edible, turned hopefully toward the dining room.
“It is John Dallington, yes. Have we met?”
“No, but I know your name. You’re a legend at the varsity. James Douglas-Titmore said you once drank five bottles of champagne in an hour.”
“Well—perhaps. Wouldn’t be to dwell on my accomplishments.”
Elizabeth Starling looked anxious. “Paul, I certainly hope that you would never undertake something so frivolous and dangerous.”
“I wouldn’t,” volunteered Alfred, his vowels heavy and jowly. “Shall we eat soon, Mother, do you know?”
Paul looked at his brother scornfully. “’Course you wouldn’t.”
Tiberius belched.
“Oh, dear,” said Ludo, pinkening.
Collingwood came in and rang a small bell. “Supper is served,” he said.
“Lovely,” Alfred said and pushed toward the front of the line to get to the dining room.
“What’d he say?” shouted Tiberius, as half-deaf men will.
“Dinner is served,” said Elizabeth.
“Good for him!” answered Tiberius with a cheerful smile.
“No, dinner is served, Uncle!”
“Always said he would come to good. Excellent lad. Dinner being served shortly, I expect? No, Elizabeth, it’s all right, you can’t be expected to remember everything.