A Stranger in Mayfair - Charles Finch [94]
Lenox shook his head gently. “It’s no good, Ludo.”
“What do you mean?”
“We know far more than we did—enough, I should say.”
“What do you mean?” he said again. He was seated at his desk still, not having risen to greet them, and Lenox could see the stress in his visage—of lying, of guilt, of sleepless nights.
“You’ve reached an agreement with an inspector of Scotland Yard. You paid him money in order to conceal a crime. Both of you will appear before the bench for it. Your trial will be in the House of Lords, yes”—this was customary for all members of Parliament and the nobility—“though I don’t know that it will matter. What sickens me is that you’ve let Jack Collingwood sit in Newgate Prison, wondering whether he’ll be hanged by the neck until he’s dead.”
“No!”
“Even though he’s an innocent man.”
“How do you—how do you think you know this?” asked Ludo.
“It’s no use bluffing. Between this and Frederick Clarke’s true identity—as your son—I thought it was time to consult with Scotland Yard. Because we’re acquaintances I wanted to give you the chance to confess first.”
At last now Ludo broke down. “I didn’t kill the boy,” he said. “I gave him money, for heaven’s sake! I looked after him! We were—well, friends, you might say! I only paid Fowler because I was trying to protect someone I love.”
“Was it—”
Lenox silenced Dallington’s question with a look. It was always best to let them ramble on.
“You must believe me, Charles.” A pleading look came into his eyes. “You must. I didn’t kill him. I wouldn’t have, never.”
Very gently, still not wanting to intrude upon the confession, Lenox said, “Paul? Did you want to protect Paul?”
“Paul’s gone,” was all Ludo said.
“He isn’t,” bluffed Dallington. “I checked at the docks.”
Ludo shook his head. “He’s gone. Collingwood can come out of jail.”
“I checked the docks!”
Lenox quietly said, “He’s in Wiltshire, isn’t he. Starling Hall. I imagine Elizabeth couldn’t bear to see him go overseas.”
Ludo nodded just perceptibly. “Yes.”
“Ludo inherited it last year,” said Lenox to Dallington. “It’s empty, other than staff, of course. I imagine Paul could stay well concealed there for some time.”
It was all clear enough. Paul Starling had killed Frederick Clarke. Since that awful moment Ludo had scrambled to protect his younger son, shifting the blame to anyone he could, paying out money to whomever he could.
There were two things Lenox didn’t understand, still. The first was motive. It had seemed so clear: Ludo killed Clarke because the sudden appearance of a bastard son would have destroyed his plans for a title to pass on to Alfred—perhaps for a title at all. Paul, though—what did Paul care? Whether Frederick Clarke or Alfred Starling was next in line surely was irrelevant to the youngest son, wasn’t it?
The second point was even more puzzling: Who had attacked him, Charles Lenox? The plan to steal Paul away to Starling Hall had already been set in motion. Had Ludo wanted to clear his own name, too?
“Who attacked me?” Lenox asked. “Were you trying to give yourself an alibi? But no,” he said to himself, “that doesn’t make sense. You already had an alibi from the butcher attack.”
“I didn’t know anybody was going to attack you,” said Ludo mournfully. He sank back into his chair and put his face in his hands. “There’s so much I would take back if I could—I should never have protected—”
There was a sound outside the door, a “shush!” in a woman’s voice.
And suddenly Lenox put it all together, what had been invisible for so long. It wasn’t Paul Starling who had killed Freddie Clarke. He was innocent.
I only paid Fowler because I was trying to protect someone I love.
The wound on Tiberius’s face, and a dozen other details.
It was Elizabeth Starling who had attacked Lenox.
It was she who had killed Frederick Clarke.
Chapter Forty-Seven
A dozen things crowded Lenox’s mind: Elizabeth’s occasional temper, which he had seen over the past weeks, Ludo’s seemingly inexplicable tangle of actions, her ironclad alibi