A Stranger in Mayfair - Charles Finch [84]
They rode together in a cab to Hammersmith, with the foul-mouthed driver cursing everyone who stood in their way. For much of the time they didn’t speak; Lenox had a blue book and Dallington a copy of Punch, and they read in the two corners of the carriage.
When they were close to Hammersmith Dallington looked at him. “How would you like to speak to her? Shall we come right out and ask who Clarke’s father was?”
Lenox was silent for a moment. “You mustn’t always look to me, if you intend to learn anything for yourself,” he said. “Perhaps I’ve been too domineering an instructor. Would you like to speak to her yourself?”
The younger man looked surprised. “If you like,” he said. “I’ve no wish to jeopardize our chance of hearing the truth.”
“You’ve sat with me often enough as I spoke to people, and stuck in your oar once or twice. Be gentle, I think—she seems quite fragile—and more importantly, when she looks like she’s wanting to speak, for heaven’s sake don’t say anything.”
“Well—excellent, then.”
They waited for her in a cluster of armchairs in a private corner. Lenox ordered tea and sandwiches. When she arrived to meet them she looked terrible, wracked by grief. She declined food and let a cup of tea sit untouched on the table before them all.
“I fear I cannot help any of you,” she said. “Not Mr. Fowler, nor you, Mr. Lenox. What am I meant to believe? That Mr. Collingwood killed my son?”
“What do you think?” asked Dallington.
She turned her eyes on him. “If I had an opinion I would be a great deal less unhappy, young man,” she said. “And don’t think I don’t remember you, at my pub—breaking glasses—carousing—inviting loose women into the bar. Sent down from Trinity College, weren’t you? Lord John Dallington! Out of respect for Mr. Lenox—a man in Parliament, no less—I’ve held my tongue, but I don’t want you asking me what my opinion might be. I want help!”
He blushed furiously and stammered out something less than cogent. It was true that Cambridge had expelled him, not so long ago. “Younger days—terribly sorry—new leaf—broken glasses a terrible expense—please allow me—” and so forth.
“Your scout, Mr. Baring, paid for the broken glasses. Your tab as well. He took it from the pocket money your father sent him instead of you. You ought to be ashamed for it, too.”
“I am,” said Dallington in a low voice.
Lenox, who had at first been inclined to smile when Mrs. Clarke began her rebuke, saw how gravely affected the young lord was and stepped in. “I’m sorry we can’t help you,” he said. “I wish we could.”
“Yes—well.” Momentarily her fragility was covered up by something hard and angry.
“We had a question, actually. That might help.”
“About Frederick?”
“After a fashion.”
“What is it, Mr. Lenox?”
It was Dallington who spoke. “Who is his father?”
“Frederick Clarke Sr. Of course.”
With a gentle frown, he said, “Is that—is it quite true? Might his real father be Ludovic Starling?”
She first looked taken aback, then crumpled into tears. It was a moment before any of them spoke again, and as Lenox had advised, Dallington stayed quiet. It was she who broke the silence.
“Yes…but I can’t believe he told you.”
“He d—”
Lenox interrupted Dallington. “How did it happen?” he asked.
Crying again, she said, “Oh, when I was a pretty little fool in Cambridge. He was a student at Downing, where I was a maid.”
“There was no uncle, was there?” asked Lenox. “The money for the pub?”
“No. It was his money. Ludovic’s.”
Lenox remembered her calling him Ludovic the last time they spoke, a little too intimately. “Why did you go to work for him?”
“We were still—I thought we were still in love. I said he had to let me work there, or I would tell his new wife.”
“It must have been a miserable time,” said Lenox.
“Miserable?” She let out a sob. “How can you say that when Freddie came out of it all? Dear, wonderful Freddie?”
“And when you were—with child?”
“I was six months pregnant when I moved to London, and only stayed for about two months. It was a terrible ordeal to watch him build a new life without me, but