A Stranger in Mayfair - Charles Finch [51]
“It’s three down,” Dallington was saying, when they heard the short, urgent rap of knuckles on a window. They looked up. It was coming from behind a curtain on the second floor.
The curtain pulled aside, and they were both surprised to see Paul, Ludo’s younger son. He held up a finger: Wait.
He had raced down the stairs, evidently, because when he reached them he was breathless. “Dallington!”
“What is it? Didn’t you like Cambridge during your visit?”
“Oh, bother Cambridge. It’s Collie!”
“A dog?”
“Collingwood, you ass!”
Dallington raised his eyebrows. “I see.”
Paul looked appalled at what he had said to his drinking hero. “I’m sorry. I’m too used to speaking with Alfred. Anyway, no, it’s about Collingwood. They’ve arrested him!”
“So we heard.”
“But don’t you understand, it’s impossible!”
“Why?” asked Lenox.
Paul threw up his arms with the despair of someone who feels that he should be understood but isn’t. “Ask Alfred. Collie was our friend—our best friend. When we were children and he was a footman, he let us jump on him over and over, and just laughed. When he should have given us a lashing for stealing from the pantry, he smiled and looked the other way.”
“There’s every chance—”
“No!” Paul looked as if he were going to cry. Suddenly he reminded Lenox of Frabbs, his new clerk at Parliament: youth dressed up in the maturity it didn’t possess. “He couldn’t even bear to watch the foxes die at the hunt!”
“Paul!” From the back step Elizabeth Starling, red with emotion, almost shouted her son’s name.
“Damn,” said Paul under his breath, his face suddenly fearful. He ran up the steps and past her.
She ignored Lenox and Dallington and closed the door.
“Do you give that any credit?” asked the young lord.
“It was in Collingwood’s professional interests to befriend these lads.”
“I don’t know, Lenox. Their father is at the Turf constantly, and their mother is a bit too protective. You saw. He seemed genuinely upset.”
“He did. Unfortunately this is a field in which sentiment is of little practical value.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Walking down Curzon Street, they saw Ginger leaning against the wall of a small alcove in front of the house he worked in. He had a pouch of tobacco in his hand and was loading a pipe with it.
“John!” he called out in a theatrical whisper.
“Hiding?” Dallington asked when they were close.
“The butler’s strict.”
“Have you heard about Collingwood?”
Puffing away now, he said, “Everyone in China’s heard of it, much less Curzon Street. I can’t believe he attacked Starling!”
“Mm.”
“We’ve all wanted to do it, mind, to our masters,” added Ginger with a dark grin, “but it’s sheer madness.”
“You still think he did it, then?” asked Lenox.
“Collingwood? Of course. They found the apron and the knife in his larder.”
“Does nobody but the butler go into the pantry?”
The lad shook his head. “They’re afraid of theft, these rich families.”
“Doesn’t it puzzle you that he attacked Ludo? What would his motivation have been, for heaven’s sake?”
“I’ll tell you what it is. He knew he was going to get pinched, and he wanted to turn attention away from himself.”
“By hiding the evidence in a place that could only be attached to him? I don’t think so.”
Ginger shrugged. “Well, he was the only person with any reason in the world to kill poor Freddie.”
Unless the lad had a secret life, thought Lenox. They had to get to that boxing club.
First, though, they went to Newgate Prison. A quick, silver-laden handshake with a jailer Lenox had known for a decade and they were through to a bare room with two battered tables and four battered chairs in it.
When an unseen hand shoved Collingwood through the door, it was apparent instantly that the last hours had robbed him of the dignity of office and person he had borne during their previous encounters. He would have been searched for weapons, had his money taken