A Stranger in Mayfair - Charles Finch [48]
There was a knock at the door. Expecting it to be the next candidate—they were running behind—Graham went to the door.
Instead of another seventeen-year-old lad, though, Dallington came rushing in. “There you are,” he said.
“What is it? I’m in the middle of seeing clerks.”
“Never mind that—Ginger came to the Beargarden and told me that they’ve arrested Collingwood.”
“What? Why?”
“It was he who killed Frederick Clarke and attacked Ludo Starling.”
Lenox stood up immediately. “Mr. Frabbs, you’re hired. Graham, give him his desk.”
“Am I really, Mr. Graham, really really?” Lenox heard Frabbs say as he left, the boy’s voice squeaking with delight.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“How do you know?”
That was what the detective asked his apprentice as they rolled through Whitehall in a hired brougham.
“Fowler caught him last night after you left.”
“Fowler?”
“He pretended to leave—this was Starling’s plan—and fetched back quickly to the alley door to take everyone by surprise. He was convinced it might be Collingwood, apparently.”
“Perhaps he’s spoken to Ginger, too. Did you ask him?”
“Damn, I didn’t. That’s true. I thought we had an advantage.”
“It’s not a competition,” said Lenox. “I would be just as pleased if Fowler caught the murderer as if we did.” This wasn’t true at all, but he felt he needed to say it.
“In any event, Ludo ordered the entire staff to wait in the living room, and Fowler went through all of the rooms.”
“What did he find in Collingwood’s?”
“It wasn’t in Collingwood’s room. That was what Fowler hoped, and he searched it high and low, but no such luck.”
“Well?”
“Among the staff only Collingwood has a key to the larder. It was in there. A bloody knife, a black wool mask, and a green butcher’s apron. It was you who saw the flash of green, wasn’t it?”
“It was I, yes.”
“He arrested Collingwood straightaway, for assaulting Starling. The house was in a stir about it, of course.” Suddenly there was a silence, and Dallington stared moodily at the carnation in his buttonhole, fiddling with its stem. “Charles, I’ve told you a lie.”
“What?” said Lenox, shocked. “It wasn’t Collingwood?”
“No, no—not that. About Ginger. It wasn’t he who came to me at the club.”
“Then who—” Suddenly Lenox remembered with perfect clarity the light banter, the looks of curiosity, that had passed between Dallington and the young housemaid. “Jenny Rogers, was it?”
The younger man nodded guiltily. “Yes.”
“It’s bad—very bad. Not so much that you lied, though you ought to deplore any action of the sort, but that you have a—a friendship with a suspect.”
“A suspect!” cried Dallington. “Surely not!”
“Not a very likely one, of course—but certainly she had the opportunity, and she knew the alley well enough to find that loose brick. The weapon.”
“But—but motive!”
Dallington looked pale, and Lenox decided he had been hard enough on the lad. “It’s unlikely, as I say. Almost impossible. Still, it was unprofessional of you.”
“I don’t get paid,” said Dallington miserably. “I’m not a professional.”
“It’s not so bad. Look—we’re here. Wait, before we go on we must think for a moment. Hold here a second, sir, and it’s a shilling for you,” he called out to the cabman.
“What is it?” asked Dallington.
“Well, only this—do we believe Collingwood murdered Frederick Clarke? Or that he attacked Ludo Starling?”
“It certainly seems likelier now.”
“Let’s take this as part of your education, John. Think! Why would Collingwood have attacked Ludo Starling? How could it have benefited him?”
Dallington frowned. “Perhaps Starling knew Collingwood had killed Clarke?”
“Then why on earth wouldn’t Ludo have told us? All he wants is for this scandal to end!”
“Still, you must admit Starling is acting peculiarly.”
“There! That’s certainly true. We have to think about his motivations in all this. But then, listen—is there anything strange about what Collingwood hid?”
“What?”
“Even granting that he may have had a green butcher’s apron—which I feel far from sure of—why would he have worn it?”
“To keep the blood off?”
“Fair point. Still, I find