A Stranger in Mayfair - Charles Finch [38]
“Who knows how important his position might be to him, or indeed whether there was something else between the two of them besides the money Collingwood stole. I’m going to see Ginger, Clarke’s friend, after we finish here. Perhaps he’ll know something more by now.”
They had pulled up to a low-slung sandstone building, which advertised itself on a small placard as the Tilton Hotel. This was where Mrs. Clarke had chosen to stay during her trip to London for the funeral. The entrance hall had a sort of shabby grandeur, with very nice furniture that was all worn at the edges, a floor of beautiful tiles that had gotten dingy, and attendants in fraying uniforms. Lenox registered the place in his head as a piece of evidence; it wasn’t the sort of place one stayed if one had tailored suits, as Frederick Clarke had.
A few moments later they were sitting with her in the tearoom next door. Lenox went to the counter and bought cakes and coffee, as well as a scone and jam for Mrs. Clarke’s breakfast.
She was a striking woman, nearly fifty but still slender and well dressed. Her hair was black and her face very alive, at once shrewd and playful—though now these characteristics were only half visible under an outer layer of grief. Her wide mouth was pinched with anxiety.
“Thank you,” she said when Lenox returned with the food. Her accent was less distinct than the average housemaid’s—perhaps through conscious effort. “Mr. Dallington has been telling me about your credentials as an investigator. Extremely impressive.”
“He plays a decent hand of cards, too,” said Dallington with a grin.
She smiled faintly. “I’m sure.”
“Is your hotel comfortable?” asked Lenox.
“Thank you, yes.”
“I’m sorry for your loss. By all accounts your son was a fine young man.”
“A good boxer as well,” said Dallington encouragingly.
“His letters were full of boxing, I do know that. Which makes it seem so unfair that he didn’t get a chance to fight back.” She brought her handkerchief to her mouth, her eyes suddenly stricken.
“Did he like his work, too?” asked Lenox.
“Yes, he seemed to.”
“He must have mentioned the people he worked with—Miss Rogers, Mr. Collingwood?”
“Only Mr. Collingwood.”
“In a negative light?”
“Not always. I sometimes thought they seemed quite friendly, though Freddie did mention that the butler could be strict with the staff. He wouldn’t have liked that.” She nibbled at her slice of lemon cake.
“What were his plans?”
“Excuse me?”
“Did he hope to continue on as a footman?”
“He spoke of university, in fact. The new place, not Oxford or Cambridge.”
For many centuries these had been the only two universities in England, but now others were springing up. “University College, do you mean? Here in London?”
“Yes, exactly. He said they offered a good education without all the snobbery. But just for the moment he was earning a decent wage and saving his money, I think. We never spoke about his plans, to be quite honest. I was always pleased for him to do whatever he liked. I only know he thought about university because we live in Cambridge, and when he visited me he said that he could never go anywhere like that—pointing at the university, you understand.”
“I didn’t realize you lived in Cambridge.”
“Yes, these several years, and before I worked in London as well. It’s where I grew up. My father was a gardener at Peterhouse.”
“Did you come to work for the Starlings because you met them in Cambridge, then?” asked Lenox.
She looked at him curiously. “Why would you think that? I came to work for the Starlings because they needed a housemaid and the hiring agency sent me there—you see, I had come to London because I wanted to see a bit of the world. I left when I inherited money from my uncle George and opened my pub. The Dove.”
“Did Frederick like the Starlings?”
“He never mentioned it. I imagine he did since he stayed so long.