A Stranger in Mayfair - Charles Finch [53]
Quickly the older detective played along. “No, no, John, we don’t know if it’s the truth—”
“How much did you steal?”
Collingwood, now more aggrieved than enraged, said, “Nothing. It’s a damnable lie.”
“Well, tell us about the incident anyway,” said Lenox encouragingly.
“It was nothing. I organize the desk in that particular chamber every morning, and Clarke came in to refill the coal scuttle just as I was placing Mrs. Starling’s spare coins in the small wooden box where she keeps them. Clarke must have had the impression that I was taking them, as he turned and left right away. The idea that I would kill him for that—it’s preposterous. Beyond preposterous.”
“Then what did you kill him for?” asked Dallington.
“I didn’t!”
To forestall another tirade, Lenox quickly interjected, “We mustn’t be hasty. There may be another answer.”
“There is! Find it!”
After this burst of energy Collingwood seemed to crumple, and there was very little further conversation. As they left the prison, Dallington asked what Lenox thought.
“I’m not sure.”
“He seems innocent, doesn’t he?”
“Certainly I don’t think he killed Frederick Clarke over that incident, as Ginger believes.”
“Of course not.”
“Still, we can’t know why Fowler arrested him. If only he would speak with me.”
“Fowler? Of course he arrested Collingwood for the apron and the knife in the larder, which we’ve proven to ourselves are inconclusive.”
“I wouldn’t venture to guess at Inspector Fowler’s motives. He’s making himself a mystery. One thing, however, that I noticed: Collingwood has a temper.”
“Wouldn’t you, in jail for a crime—for two crimes—that you didn’t commit?”
“Perhaps. Still—someone killed Frederick Clarke, and someone attacked Ludo with a knife. The strongest pieces of circumstantial evidence both point to this butler. We may be too clever for our own good.”
They arrived at a line of cabs. “Care for a drink?” Dallington asked. He grinned. “There’s a lad at the Jumpers who’s going to try to eat four hard rolls in a minute. I have a shilling on the other side.”
“Diverting as that sounds, I must go home,” said Lenox. “As you know, the Queen’s opening Parliament in the morning.”
“Well, if you prefer the Queen to an eating contest, I can’t say I admire your priorities.” Dallington laughed. “Here, take the first cab. I say, good luck tomorrow, Lenox. Pass a law making Fowler tell you everything if you find a moment.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
On the next morning he opened his eyes with the feeling that at last he would truly belong in Parliament, truly be one of them, for the first time. If the issue of cholera had given Lenox the realization of his responsibility, a purpose, the chamber’s opening reminded him of the gravity of his new work. After so much prelude he was ready for the real thing.
Jane was at home, thank God, and for the first time in what felt like years they spoke in their old, familiar way, as they had when they were friends (and she certainly would have been the one to straighten his necktie and brush off his jacket, as she did now). What a relief it was.
“Well—try not to fall in love with the Queen and leave me,” she said with a laugh as she inspected him. He was dressed and breakfasted. It was almost time to leave. “No matter how good her speech is.”
He smiled. “I’ll send a note if it happens. From my new home at the palace.”
“It’s the least you could do, really.”
“Are you going to see Toto?”
“I think I’ll take a day to myself, at last. I love her—as well you know—but she’s run me ragged.”
“Anyway, they’re quite safe now.”
“Exactly. I need the morning to catch up with my correspondence, and I’m having lunch with Duch.” This was the Duchess of Marchmain, Dallington’s mother and one of Lady Jane’s closest friends. “Then we’re going to call on Emily Pendle, the bishop’s wife—in Berkeley Square?” In exasperation at Lenox’s blank face, she said, “Surely you know her.”
“I misplaced my master list of all the bishops’ wives, I’m afraid.”
“He’ll be there with you, of course.” All the bishops of