A Stranger in Mayfair - Charles Finch [43]
“It’s very finely put,” murmured Lenox.
Then a thought occurred to him. It was that turn of phrase: “an antic cast.” It put him in mind of someone.
Ludo Starling.
If one has a secret trouble…and now it occurred to Lenox in a fell stroke what should have occurred to him all along. That Ludo himself was certainly a suspect in the murder of Frederick Clarke.
Everything about his behavior had been odd, but more than that, there was some indefinable disturbance in his mind that was obvious if you spent three minutes in his presence.
Of course it was a problematic idea. For one thing, Ludo had an alibi (but hadn’t he been quick to deliver it?). Dallington would have to check whether he had in fact been playing cards at the hour when Clarke was killed. For another thing, he had approached Lenox. Why would he have done that, had he been the murderer?
And yet the detective’s intuition was pulsing with the certainty that Ludo was concealing something.
“What is it?” asked McConnell. “You look peculiar.”
“Nothing—nothing. I must be going.”
“Is it about your case? Shall I lend you a hand?”
Lenox smiled at him. “Your place is here. Tell Jane I’ll see her this evening at home.”
“As you wish, of course.”
On the way to Ludo’s house Lenox pondered their encounters over the past few days. There were Ludo’s constant pleas that Lenox drop the case. There was the invitation to dinner, ostensibly in the spirit of friendship but in fact as an excuse for Elizabeth Starling to make the same request.
It was all exceedingly strange.
Ludo’s house was brightly lit; it was nearly night by now, with only thin purple bands of light visible below the black of the horizon. Lenox knocked on the door, and Collingwood—whose complicity suddenly seemed like a possibility—answered.
“Is he in?” asked Lenox, barging past.
“Yes, sir. Please—” Collingwood had been going to invite him to sit and wait, but Lenox had already taken a place on the sofa in the drawing room. “Just a moment, please.”
Ludo appeared. “Oh, Charles,” he said. “How are you?”
“Do you know why I’m here?”
“To thank us for supper? It was our pleasure, I promise you.”
“I do thank you, but no. I have some questions about—about Frederick Clarke. And you.”
“And me?”
“Yes.”
“Very well. I was just on my way to supper and a hand of cards. Will you walk with me?”
“As you please.”
“Just wait here a moment, if you don’t mind. You’ll find something to read in the bookshelf if you like.”
Ludo left. Lenox felt suddenly nonplussed: What was he going to say? Perhaps coming here had been a mistake. It was the fervor of his meeting with Hilary that had made his blood race. He was behaving impulsively. Now he resolved that he would ask Ludo only the most innocuous question, and leave it till the next day to collect more facts.
Then something rather strange happened. Having expected Ludo to be gone a moment, Lenox waited nearly twenty minutes before the man appeared again. At first he was annoyed, then puzzled, and finally truly perplexed.
“Sorry for the delay. I had to get my papers in order before I went out for the evening. It took longer than I expected, but my secretary is coming by to pick them up in a little while, so it was quite necessary. Parliament sits within the week, as of course you know.”
“It’s quite all right.”
“Are you nervous? I was, my first time. Here, this way. If you don’t mind terribly, we’ll go down the alley. A bit ghostly, but it’s the fastest way out.”
“Not at all.”
They went through a back garden into the brick alleyway. Ludo was chatting amiably on, much more self-assured now, when Lenox heard rapid footsteps behind them.
He turned to see and with one shocking glance realized it was a masked man, bearing down on them.
“Ludo!” cried Lenox.
“Wha—oh!”
The man in the mask had barreled into them, and in the confusion