The men handling the Murder at Paddington Station—as the papers had decided, in a rare piece of unanimity, to call the case—regrouped at Scotland Yard at five o’clock.
Lenox was looking forward to sharing his information, but as it happened the canvass of local witnesses that Dunn had supervised had actually produced a scrap of evidence. A porter at the Great Western hotel had seen a man with longish dark hair depart the station at around midnight on a bright white mare. He had worn a frock coat, just as the faux conductor of the 449 had—though, to be fair, hundreds of thousands of men in London also did.
The porter had noticed the rider for two reasons, according to Dunn’s interview: first, because it had still been pelting rain; second, because it was rarer and rarer these days to see a man on horseback within London town, and he had ridden well and fast. The porter was from Shropshire and had particularly noted the man’s comfort in the saddle.
“What does it tell us?” asked Sir Richard.
He looked exhausted. There had been a string of knifepoint robberies in Pall Mall over the past few days, and most of his attention—and the journalists’—was set upon that.
“Perhaps that the murderer is from the country,” Dunn ventured. “Not many Londoners ride well. Also that he didn’t want to take a cab—be remembered by a cabman.”
Dunn was sharp, Lenox realized. He was also arrogant. He had taken the seat exactly opposite Mayne, implying, with his body language, that it was a meeting between the two of them, merely to be audited by his subordinate at the Yard and the upstart crow of an amateur.
“More than anything,” said Lenox firmly, “it means that he was prepared. He had made plans earlier in the day to escape from Paddington. A horse would have given him good maneuverability and speed. What’s more, he must have had an accomplice, since the horse was waiting for him.”
“He might have stabled it at Paddington and then gone north to find his victim,” said Dunn.
“But that would have involved far more witnesses than hiring a hansom cab,” said Lenox. “I also have a bit of new information to add on this point.”
He then told the men present—including the railway official, still nameless to them—what he had deduced from the sack coat and socks, and what he had learned from Willikens about the man with the white hair and the American accent.
A satisfying silence came over the room.
“You’ve been busy,” said Mayne.
“These Americans,” said Hemstock. His voice was surprisingly bitter. “What are they messing about in London for? They should stick over to their side. They wanted it certain enough to bloody our noses for it twice.”
Lenox remembered—from a dropped word at the pub, early in their acquaintance—that Hemstock’s older brother had died in the War of 1812, near the city of New Orleans.
“With respect to that, it struck me as curious that our victim was coming from Manchester rather than Liverpool,” Lenox said. “I should imagine ten thousand Americans see Liverpool every year, and not a tenth of that number Manchester.”
“Then what could he have been doing there?”
“Anything you care to imagine,” said Dunn. “It doesn’t matter a whit where he was if we don’t know who he was. Perhaps he was doing a Navajo dance in the middle of Cheetham Hill Road. Perhaps he was handing out flyers for Franklin Pierce. Perhaps—”
“Who is Franklin Pierce?” asked Hemstock.
Dunn looked at Hemstock as if he were too stupid to be ambulatory. “The president of the country across that big watery bit to our west right now.”
“Oh.”
“My point,” Dunn said, “is that we have no idea why an American was in Manchester, so it’s a fact of minimal use to us at the moment.”
There was some truth to this, but Lenox said that he had nevertheless ordered the last week’s papers from Manchester—just in case. They ought to be waiting for him at home.
“You’ve done well,” said Mayne. “But still I cannot see that we are very close to solving the murder. What do you propose to do next?”
“I am going to visit the American consulate in the morning.” Even to Lenox’s own ears this sounded rather uninspired, so he added, “I am hoping they have been expecting a visitor to London who has not arrived. Many Americans write ahead to inform their government that they shall be in the city.”
“Not ones who ride in the third-class carriage and come in from the blasted bloody north,” said Dunn.
He was right, unfortunately.
“I suppose it’s worth a try,” said Mayne.
Lenox hadn’t wanted to tell them about the advertisement asking about missing Americans in London, in case it proved fruitless.
But he told them now. Mayne responded with more enthusiasm than he had expected—the Yard was apparently loath to place ads, but Mayne thought they were often effective. He added that of course Lenox would have to sort the wheat from the chaff.
“Of course, sir. I have the time,” Lenox said.
Sir Richard nodded. “Very well. All speed please, gentlemen. Haase’s family is in great distress. Two of his daughters visited me themselves—fine girls, graceful and elegant manners—both engaged—I felt obliged to see ’em, but it was damned awkward not to be able to give them any hope.” He shook his head. “A white horse. There can only be a million or so in the country.”
Lenox walked back home through St. James’s Park in a contemplative mood. The rains had left it a lovely emerald-green color that was rare to see so late in the year, the limbs of the trees just whispering in the cool early evening wind.
At home, Lady Jane was waiting in his study. She sat in a white dress covered in small purple flowers, flipping through a handsomely illustrated catalogue from Tattersall’s, the horse auctioneer.
“Are you planning to buy a horse?” she asked as Lenox came in, tossing his hat toward his desk and missing.
“No. I would buy the name of an American if you’re selling one.”
“George Washington. That will be one shilling.”
“He was British.”
She frowned. “I imagine he would take issue with that, but as you like—Samuel F. B. Morse. He sent the first telegram.”
“Yes, I know he did, damn him. It’s the name of a specific American I’m after.”
She closed the catalogue and looked at him. “Paddington, is it?”
He had gone to the small mirror-topped liquor cart near the window and poured a bit of brandy into a glass. For Lady Jane’s part, she had been sumptuously provided with toasted teacakes and jam by Mrs. Huggins. He sat down.
“Paddington,” he said, nodding. “By the way, I’m awfully happy that Deere will be here for a spell.”
“So am I. And I have exactly the thing to cheer you up, Charles.”
“Jane, I cannot get married tonight.”
“It wouldn’t be tonight.”
“It’s an extremely inconvenient time.”
“Even you must eat supper! And she’s different, Charles. I spoke with her at length this afternoon, and she’s lovely.”
“Like Mary Elizabeth Sharples?”
This was the giantess from Lady Sattle’s, who was so in love with old Blake, bless her. “She is not like Mary Sharples.”
“No? What a relief.”
“I’m not too proud to admit that I may have erred regarding Miss Sharples. There. Now will you come?”
He slumped down a little lower in his armchair. It had been getting quite cold outside as six passed, and the warmth of the fire and the brandy had brought a stinging into his cheeks. “Answer me sincerely—please. Is there some reason for this concerted effort to get me a wife?”
Lady Jane just looked at him. He had a strong affection for the frank, level gaze she cast upon him in moments like this, as if she cared too much for him to be honest.
“There is, actually. Your mother is anxious,” she said. “She passed the word to me. Perhaps to one or two of her friends as well. Subtly, I promise—at least in my case.”
Lenox was astonished. “My mother! Can she really be the cause of such a stir? Why is it even on her mind?”
“You’re twenty-seven.”
“Yes, I know, right on death’s door. But what does it matter to her if I’m married now or at twenty-nine? I shall still have a full year of life left then.”
Jane shook her head. “Perhaps it’s your career, Charles.”
“My career?”
Jane looked upset, as if it were hard to be as delicate as she would like. “I don’t know. Yes. Either concern that it has precluded you from the right match, or … or hope that a marriage would stop you from risking your life.” She hesitated. “To be perfectly honest, Charles, I think she hopes that a wife will make you give it up.”
Despite thinking he was immune to this criticism, Lenox found himself going bright red—he could feel it.
“Does she?” he said, in a voice trying too hard to be indifferent.
“She has already lost your father. If—”
“I understand, Jane,” he said, sharply.
She paused. “I would like to see you happy, too,” she said.
“I am happy enough, I think. My life is very full.” He thought of Pride and Prejudice and said, “I dine with four-and-twenty families—at least, at least.”
She smiled at that. “But it would be infinitely easier on me to plan dinner parties if you were paired.”
“Ah!” He took a sip of his tea. “That is a sensible argument. The first one I’ve yet heard.”
“She really is different, Charles—Kitty Ashbrook.”
Lenox tried to remember if he’d heard the name. “Ashbrook?”
“She is the Marquess of Doulton’s great-niece. Her father was in the navy, I believe. She has ten thousand pounds, and very pretty eyes, and she dresses better than nearly anyone I know. You know I do not say that lightly.”
“I’m only offended that you’re holding back from me the women who dress themselves better still than Kitty Ashbrook.”
“They’re married. Or perhaps they don’t exist. She really does, I mean it—as if she were Parisian.” This was the highest compliment one woman in London could pay another’s sense of dress, during this particular moment of the city’s history. “Listen, there’s supper and dancing at Martha Quentin’s tonight. Will you come? It is quite open to you, I know—I saw her earlier. James and I would be so happy of your company.”
Lenox looked at his watch. “What was her name?”
“Catherine Ashbrook. Kitty.”
He could feel his notes in his breast pocket. The thought of sitting here with them in the gloaming seemed suddenly a little hard to bear, however.
“Very well,” he said. “Give me a moment to change.”
“Oh, good! We’ll go shares on a ride over—let me go tell James. You’ll like her, I promise.”
“My hope is that I will love the woman I marry.”
Lady Jane laughed. “You’ll love her, then—just come, and you’ll fall in love.”
“There’s no chance I fall in love with Miss Catherine Ashbrook, Jane. I pledge that to you here and now. Make a note of it somewhere.”