A Stranger in Mayfair - Charles Finch [49]
“Well?”
Lenox shrugged. “Why choose a place in the house so closely associated with himself? Besides which certainly Collingwood isn’t the only person with a key.”
“Ludo!”
“That’s one. Or, for that matter, another member of the family whom we’ve both observed at the trough.”
“Alfred—but why on earth would he attack his father?”
“I don’t say he did, just that he may have had a key, somehow, and if so he may have lost it—misplaced it—given it away. Anything.”
“It’s true.”
Lenox stepped out and paid the driver. “Bear that in mind as we interview Collingwood. If we have a chance to, that is.”
“I doubt he’ll still be here.”
Dallington was right. They saw Ludo, who looked heartily sick of them, and he recapitulated briefly what they already knew.
“Do you believe Collingwood was capable of murdering Frederick Clarke?” Lenox asked.
“I don’t know, to be honest. Look, I’m late for a game of whist.”
“The Turf?”
“No, we’re playing at the house of a chap I know. I must be off.”
“How’s your leg?”
“My leg? Ah, that—it’s painful but healing, thanks.”
When they had walked a block away, Dallington said to Lenox, “Maybe we should go to the Turf.”
“His club?”
“We agree that his behavior is strange. Shall we see whether he was playing cards during the time Frederick Clarke was killed?”
The Turf was a very new club—it had been founded in 1861—but already a very exclusive one among the younger generations. The game that had taken London by storm in the past several years, whist, had actually been invented there and then certified by the much older Portland Club, a more staid place where the game of choice was generally contract bridge. The Turf had a comfortable house in Bennett Street in Picadilly, with many small rooms for cardplaying, a fine cellar full of wines, and a notably discreet staff. Many of the surfaces in the building, the doors, chairs, and tables included, were embossed with the club’s emblem, a centaur.
Dallington, who was a member, asked the porter if he could look through the sign-in book, passing him a coin; everyone who entered the Turf, member or guest, had to sign the book. After they had signed it themselves he and Lenox looked back to the date when Ludo had been playing cards. “For ten hours or more,” Lenox recalled him saying, or something like that. It wasn’t at all uncommon for these games of cards to go on for days, with players dropping in and out to eat or sleep for a few hours, and then returning to see a mix of old and new faces at the table.
Ludo’s name wasn’t in the book.
They checked the date twice, and for good measure each day on either side. “There, Frank Derbyshire,” said Lenox. “That was the group he said he was with.”
“He was lying!”
“He might have been. Or he might simply have walked in with a crowd and not bothered to wait around for his turn to sign the book. Still, it is suspicious, I’ll grant you that.”
“This is it!” said Dallington excitedly. “Ludo is involved, even if we don’t know how!”
“Patience. Let’s go see Frank Derbyshire.”
Dallington flipped to the front of the club book and studied the names on the most recent page. “We may not need to leave the building,” he said after a moment. “Derbyshire signed in an hour ago.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
There were servants stationed at the door of every card room that was in use, in case the players needed a fresh cigar, or a cutlet to eat during play. Dallington, who knew many of the servants by name quietly asked each whether Frank Derbyshire was there. The third one said yes.
Derbyshire, an ugly, carrot-haired, very rich young man, was annoyed at the disruption. “What in damnation is it, Dallington?” he said. “I don’t owe you a cent, and there are no places at the table. Monty Kibble is ahead thirty pounds, and I’ll be damned to hell if he isn’t cheating. I need to get back in there and catch him.” A moody puff on his cigar.
“It’s not about cards.”
“Well, what else is there?”
Lenox smiled, then realized it wasn’t a joke.
“Ludovic Starling,” said Dallington,