A Stranger in Mayfair - Charles Finch [82]
“He knew about the money.”
“That’s wonderful! What did he say?”
“Starling was slipping him the money.”
“Ludo Starling? Was slipping Frederick Clarke money?”
“His son.”
“Everything comes back to Ludo—the money, the stabbing,” muttered Lenox, almost to himself. “I wonder whether it was he who hid the apron and the knife, too…but can he have been the murderer?” He fell silent and stared intently at the floor, his mind far away from the party.
“Lenox?” said Dallington quietly.
“Sorry—quite sorry. Did he have a story to tell, Collingwood?”
“Indeed he did, and I don’t mind adding that he lives in mortal terror of the gallows. His trial will begin in a week. I told him we would do our best for him.”
“Of course.”
“He didn’t want to talk about the money at first, but I could see he knew something, and I tried to pull it out of him gently.”
“What was the story?”
“His bedroom was close to the door of the servants’ quarters, the one you walk a few steps down from the street to reach. It was the biggest room and always belonged to the butler. According to Collingwood he heard someone stumbling down the steps one night.”
“Starling?”
“He didn’t know. An envelope slid under the door, and he opened it to check what it was.”
“Even though it had Clarke’s name on it.”
Dallington grimaced. “He wasn’t proud to tell me that. He didn’t steal anything—or so he said. At any rate, he didn’t twig what was happening then, but the next time it happened he heard Starling coming in upstairs.”
“Interesting.”
“Nobody else was out of the house—it couldn’t have been anyone but Starling. Then the third time he had confirmation, saw him through the window.”
“I had hoped the trail of money would lead somewhere more conclusive,” said Lenox. “Instead it must draw our focus even tighter on Ludo, I suppose.”
“Another interesting thing—all three times, he bragged to Collingwood afterward about winning at cards the night before.”
“But Ludo’s rich. He could have given Frederick Clarke money whenever he wanted. Or for that matter, stopped him working as a footman!”
Dallington laughed. “Apparently not. Elizabeth Starling keeps the family’s finances under tight control, Collingwood said. There was gossip in the servants’ quarters that Ludo owed more than a few men money for cards, and only paid when he won.”
Lenox pondered this. At last, when he spoke, it was methodically, with determined logic of thought. “Here’s a simple enough story,” he said. “Clarke was tired of having so little money—wanted to be recognized as a gentleman’s son, which his mother had raised him in the knowledge that he was—and threatened to tell Ludo’s family. Ludo killed him to stop that. It’s all the more plausible because he’s so concerned about the title he may get.”
The young man laughed. “Not that mine has done me any good. But Charles, think—if the simplest story makes such sense, mustn’t it be correct? Hasn’t Ludo been behaving strangely all along?”
“It makes sense, I know. Except it doesn’t sit right with me. Look at the facts. Ludo was Frederick Clarke’s father—I think his giving the boy money only confirms what we thought on that subject—yet he allowed Clarke to work as his servant and pretended to me barely to know his name. He had ambivalent feelings, not angry ones. For God’s sake, he took him into his house, at least in some fashion! Yet you say he murdered him? His own son? It doesn’t sit right with me,” he repeated.
“But having himself stabbed by Schott’s cousin makes it seem conclusive to me,” said Dallington. “Not to mention framing Collingwood! And for that matter, implicating his other son, Paul! These are the actions of a man with something to hide.”
Lenox shook his head. “Maybe. Maybe Ludo Starling killed Frederick Clarke. There’s something we’re missing, though. I feel sure of it. Ludo is no mastermind, and I’ve never known him to be violent.”
“Well, what shall we do, then?”
Dallington looked unhappy. Lenox