A Stranger in Mayfair - Charles Finch [78]
Schott spoke up. “Show him the paper. It ain’t worth the trouble—staying closed, losing business, worrying about the police.”
To Lenox’s enormous relief Runcible nodded, put down the cleaver, and started to root around in the pockets of his green apron with both hands. At last he withdrew a soiled piece of paper, folded many times over, and presented it triumphantly to Lenox. Better still, he didn’t pick up the cleaver again.
Lenox smoothed it out and read aloud. Based on the spelling, the penmanship, and the slightly incoherent grammar, Lenox decided that it had been written by Runcible himself.
I, Loodovick Starling, confess I paid Wm. Runcible two pounds to stab him in the leg in Curzen Street Alley.
Ludo had scrawled a hasty signature at the bottom of the page.
Lenox read it to himself again, totally puzzled, and said, “What is this?”
“What does it look like?” Runcible asked indignantly.
To Lenox’s unhappy surprise he picked up the cleaver again.
“Is it real? You stabbed Ludo?”
“It was me.”
“The young idiot,” added Schott.
“He paid me!” said Runcible to his cousin, in a tone that suggested they had discussed the subject before.
“Wait—wait,” said Lenox. “Why did he ask you to do this?”
Runcible shrugged. “I don’t rightly know. He came to me after hours and said, ‘You, William Runcible, I need you to do me something. I’ll give you two pounds.’ ‘What is it?’ I said. ‘Stab me in the leg. Make it bloody but not too painful. And make sure the damn knife is clean!’ ‘Show me the two pounds,’ I says—”
Lenox interrupted to ask when Ludo had signed the paper.
“Just before I went over I got to thinking about my risk—my legal risk—so I made up this dockiment for Mr. Starling to sign. He was angry, but it was all arranged, like, and he wanted to go through with it.”
Lenox felt entirely befuddled. The signature looked real, and the story was—well, was it plausible?
More importantly, how stupid could Ludo Starling be? Of all the men in London willing to stab him for two pounds, why oh why choose his family butcher? He must have been desperate.
“Did he ask for anything else, besides you stabbing him?” asked Lenox.
Runcible frowned. “Like what?”
Schott, as if he had given up on his cousin, was starting to pulverize a piece of veal. Lenox saw this as welcome further proof that they didn’t intend to slaughter him.
“Anything.” He didn’t want to lead the young man on. “To give him something, to…”
“You mean the apron! He asked me for the apron, the mask, and the knife when it was done.”
That settled it. The boy was telling the truth. “It’s the stupidest thing I ever heard of anyone doing, Mr. Runcible,” said Lenox.
Suddenly he remembered that day. Lenox had come to visit Ludo, who had been extremely cordial but then disappeared for twenty minutes, rather mysteriously, before returning full of apologies. That must have been when he struck his deal with Runcible. How strange. It was one small puzzle solved, anyhow.
Runcible looked dangerous and hefted the cleaver in his hand.
“That’s what I told him,” muttered Schott and gave the veal an especially vicious pound.
“I fear I must tell the police.”
Both men looked up, and again Lenox felt real terror, his heart thrumming in his chest.
“The police? He wanted me to do it,” said Runcible, brow darkened ominously. “That can’t be a crime.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” said Lenox nervously.
“Don’t placate us.”
“Very well, then. I think it can be a crime, and it makes you a suspect in Clarke’s murder.”
“I didn’t do that,” said Runcible.
“It was Collingwood, wasn’t it?” asked Schott. He had stopped tenderizing the veal, and his arms were crossed.
“I don’t believe you did,” Lenox said to Runcible, a roundabout answer, “but why did you run out of the boxing club?”
“I panicked,” said Runcible. “I figgered Mr. Starling’s getting stabbed—paying me to do it—was connected. Now the question is who you think you’re going to tell.”
“Don’t do anything foolish, William.”
“Going to prison would be foolish.”
Suddenly there was a sharp rap at the window.