A Stranger in Mayfair - Charles Finch [7]
Until Ludovic, that is. About Lenox’s age, he had gone up to university as a willowy, handsome, ambitious lad of seventeen. From there he had moved to London and by the age of thirty had through his marriage attained a seat in Parliament; his father-in-law was a Scottish lord with land in Kintyre and a district in pocket. Since then Ludo had been a reliable backbencher and more recently had assumed a prominent position in his party’s hierarchy. He had also gained weight and was now a red-faced, sturdy, and social creature, who loved to drink and play cards. A year before he had inherited Starling Hall—an only child—but hadn’t visited it since his father’s funeral. All this Lenox knew by the way, just as well as he knew a thousand other short biographies of his London acquaintanceship.
“Why, Ludo, what can I do for you?” asked Lenox, who had come down the hall and watched Graham open the door.
“There you are, Charles. I’m sorry to pop up unannounced like this.”
Graham left, and Lenox shepherded Ludo into the study to sit. “You’re very welcome, of course. How is Elizabeth?”
“Quite well, thanks. A bit unsure of what to do with herself, with Alfred at Cambridge and Paul following him in the fall. They’re both here for the summer holidays at the moment, at least.”
“Following in their father’s footsteps at Downing, I take it?
Here, come into my study. Have you come about Parliament? I’m to meet with a group of gentlemen this afternoon to discuss our position in the colonies. I expressed an interest on the subject, and James Hilary was kind enough to include me.”
Ludo shook his head. “No, not that at all. Congratulations, by the way.”
“Thanks.”
“In fact I’ve come for another reason. A lad in my house has been killed.”
“My God!”
“Not in my house,” Ludo hastened to add. He was restless, anxious. In Lenox’s study he stood up and paced back and forth. “A lad of my house, I should have said. In fact his actual demise took place in an alley just behind us, off of South Audley.”
“Who was it?”
“Not anyone I knew well—a young man named Clarke, Frederick Clarke, who worked for me. He was only nineteen.”
“How was he killed?”
“Bludgeoned to death. There was no weapon at the scene apparently.”
“The Yard is in?”
“Oh yes—it happened last night. Two constables are there now, keeping people clear of the area. I came to see you because—well, because I know you’ve worked as a detective in the past. Kept your cases very quiet, too.”
“This young man, Frederick Clarke, worked for you?”
“Yes, as a footman. His mother, Marie, was our housekeeper briefly, about fifteen years ago. Almost as soon as she came into our service she inherited something from her family and moved back to her hometown to open a pub. Apparently her son wanted to come to London, and she wrote asking if we might take him on, so of course we said yes.”
“Decent of you.”
“Elizabeth has a long memory for these things—you know how kind she is. He’s been with us for four years now, but I spend so much time at the House and at the Turf”—this was his club, whose membership consisted largely of sportsmen and cardplayers—“that I don’t know all the faces.”
Four years! thought Lenox. It seemed impossible to live under the same roof as a person for so long without knowing him through and through. “You didn’t know him, or you didn’t know him well?”
“Didn’t know him well, I should have said. Of course I knew his face and exchanged a few words with him here and there. But Eliza is very upset, and I promised her that I would ask