A Stranger in Mayfair - Charles Finch [68]
“Damn it, you’re a Member of Parliament! It’s a disgrace!”
“Because you’re angry I’ll let that pass, but don’t say it again.”
Ludo waved an angry hand at him. “We’re at an end, by God.” He paused to regain some measure of composure. “I’ll be pleased to deal with you in the House, or see you socially—but as for this business, there will be no more relationship between us.”
“A final question, then?”
“Well?”
“Who does your butchering?”
Starling reddened and walked inside the prison without another word, throwing his cigarette angrily to the ground as he went.
Dallington looked at Lenox. “You know who his butcher is.”
“I wanted to see his reaction.”
“Is it so mysterious? He wants to protect his son from you. Just like Collingwood.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Dallington was perhaps right, but too many loose threads remained for Lenox to feel happy. Why had the butcher run out of the boxing club? Was he from Schott and Son? And above all: If Paul had killed Frederick Clarke, then first, what was his motive, and second, who had attacked Ludo? For Paul and his mother had been in Cambridge then. Though the idea of him being asked to defer entry must have been a lie, the trip wasn’t.
Lenox explained this all in the carriage, which he directed to Schott and Son. “Will you come along with me?” he asked Dallington. “I can drop you at home.”
“Oh, I’ll come. I’m as curious as you are. Actually I feel stupid—all the facts before us and no solution, no rhyme and reason to any of the blasted thing.”
A dry laugh from Lenox. “If you dislike that feeling, you should leave the profession before it’s too late.”
Unfortunately Schott and Son was closed again. It was strange, of course, for a prominent butcher in the heart of Mayfair to close on consecutive days without any explanation.
“There’s a wine shop I know next door,” said Dallington. “Trask’s. We could ask about our butcher there.”
“Perfect.”
They went inside the shop, which was so honeycombed with wine bottles—on the walls, in great cases down the middle of the floor—that it was hard to move to and fro. A tall, thin, gray-haired gentleman, evidently with poor eyesight because he had thick glasses perched on the end of a thin nose, approached them.
Only when he was very close indeed did he exclaim, “Lord John Dallington! It has been far, far too long.”
Dallington, smiling ruefully, and participating gingerly in the shop keep er’s vigorous handshake, said, “Only a week, I think.”
“I remember when you were here every day! Will it be another case of champagne? Or did you like that Bordeaux we ordered for you in August? Too heavy a wine for such weather, I said, but you had it; and liked it, I fancy, for it’s a hard wine not to like.”
“I’m after information, actually,” said Dallington.
“Oh?” said Trask, crestfallen.
“Well—why not send me another crate of champagne.”
“Excellent! I’ll have the boy take it over this afternoon. Let me find my book, here…” He pulled a ledger off a nearby crate of wine and made a note in it.
“Do you know anything of the butcher next door?”
“Schott?”
“And son,” added Lenox.
“It’s only the son,” said Trask. “Old Mr. Schott died four years ago, and his son runs the place with a cousin now.”
“Do you know where he’s been the past two days?” asked Dallington.
“No, and it’s quite unusual. When Schott is sick his cousin is usually there, at least, or the other way round sometimes. They don’t often close.”
“You haven’t heard anything else?”
“No. Shall I tell you if I do?”
“Please—that would be wonderful.”
“May I ask why you gentlemen want to know?”
“To settle a bet,” said Dallington.
“Not the first time I’ve done that—do you remember, sir, coming in with the stopwatch to see whether you or your young friend could drink a bottle of wine in under ten minutes? An exciting day, that was.”
“Yes, yes,” said Dallington hurriedly, “well—thank you—I’ll expect that champagne. Good-bye!”
Outside again they walked in silence for thirty seconds, Lenox smiling inwardly.
Dallington stopped and with an