The single stupidest person Lenox had ever met was Georgie Cholmondley, now Lord April, who had been at Harrow at the same time that he and Leigh had. He wasn’t bad-natured—and a fine shot—but when you conversed with him it seemed a wonder he could stand upright, he was so dull-witted. And yet he had sixty thousand pounds a year, a hundred thousand acres, and probably eight seats in Parliament at his disposal.
When Lenox saw that the associate headmaster he was taken to see—the headmaster himself being occupied in the classroom, at that moment—was named Alfred Cholmondley, he felt some trepidation.
“Are you any relation to Lord April?” Lenox said, entering a small, book-lined office and shaking the younger man’s hand.
“George? Lord, yes. My cousin. From the much richer and slower part of the family, however.”
Lenox laughed. “He’s an excellent sportsman.”
Alfred Cholmondley—pronounced Chumley—smiled. “That’s very true. He always sat a horse beautifully. I think he is the ideal lord, don’t you? Not personally ambitious—scrupulously polite—dutiful—a wonderful husband and father—not likely to gamble away the title—content with his obligations and responsibilities, never shying from them. For my own part I cannot imagine anything less appealing.”
“You’ve hit the nail on the head,” said Lenox, sitting and accepting with a gesture the offer of a tot of whisky that Alfred made from the sideboard. “He’s a brick, Georgie. You must be an Old Harrovian, too?”
“No, I was at Westminster. But after university I found that I was in want of a profession and a place to hang my hat, and there was an advertisement in the Times that the school wanted a professor of modern languages, with very generous pay. I had spent several years in Germany and France. And I must say that it is a comfortable place to work—a lovely place.”
“Do the boys take to modern languages, I wonder? We only had the option of the classical ones, as I recall.”
“Yes, it’s new. Some rather like it. It’s an option for Fifths and Sixths. I think they find it particularly useful if they mean to have a career in the army or if they are planning to enter your own field—politics.”
Lenox smiled. “My field! Yes—well spotted, I was once in Parliament.”
“Oh, yes, we are very honored to have you back—many of the boys know the name, as belonging to two brothers from the school who have subsequently taken their place in the national dramas the newspapers deliver to us, as a consequence of their service in Parliament. I warn you that I am a conservative, myself.”
“Like your cousin! Yes—that is me, or us,” said Lenox, “though you are being too generous when you assign me a part in the national dramas to which you refer. My brother’s career in Parliament has been more brilliant than mine. I am once again a private detective.”
“And may I ask if it is work or personal inclination that brings you back here now?” asked the schoolmaster, in what Lenox thought was rather a neat way.
“Ah. Yes. The truth is that I am here on some business for a very old friend. A Harrow friend, to be precise.”
“Who is that?”
Lenox had cultivated the storyteller’s gift in the years he had been a detective. It was essential to have it, he felt—one of Polly’s few weaknesses, for she was more inclined to directness. He started by telling Cholmondley about his schooldays with Leigh, and then slowly built up to the events of the last year. He sketched these in vaguely, leaving room for interpretation.
The associate headmaster shook his head with good-natured consternation, hearing this story. “Dear me,” he said. “A very interesting tale.”
But anyone could see that he was undeceived. He was no fool, this fellow. Lenox decided to play his trump card, before asking his question. “I have a letter from Leigh here. It is—well, have a look.”
The associate headmaster took it and read it quickly, frowning with concentration. He smiled when he reached the end, and then looked up. “An interesting letter. Its connection to your visit here is unclear to me, however.”
Lenox smiled too, and took it back, glancing at it once more. Leigh had given it to him to allow Lenox to interview people from the Society on his own.
February 1877
With this letter, I, Gerald Leigh, the undersigned, grant to Charles Lenox authority to act on my behalf in any way he sees fit, legally, morally, etc, in all matters, though he cannot accept a knighthood for me. Please assist him.
Below this was a signature and an address, as well as the seal of the Royal Society, which was Leigh’s rightful appendage, now that he had finally consented to become a fellow.
Lenox had nearly invited Leigh to come along that morning; but his old friend had betrayed a certain diffidence, in their many conversations at the end of the winter, about the past. His whole mind was bent upon Rowan.
“It is this,” said Lenox. “I would like to see his old school records. In particular, his billings.”
“He does not have them?”
“No—he does not, and they may be of material use in the investigation I am conducting on his behalf.”
“How so?”
“Ah—that is more difficult to answer.”
“I see.”
Cholmondley studied him. He was in an odd position, Lenox knew. Among the members of their class, there was a particular secrecy attached to all things private, but above all to matters of money. Lenox, sensing that the answer might be no, said, slowly, “I suppose I can tell you one thing: The person who paid his school bills may, unfortunately, be the same person who wishes him harm.”
This blurred the line of the truth, but Cholmondley looked as if his interest was piqued. “Is that so? Rowan?”
“Not Rowan—one of Rowan’s allies at the Royal Society.”
“I see.”
“You have my word that I have nothing but Leigh’s interests at heart, Mr. Cholmondley. We may write him together, if you wish, and await his permission—or simply tell him that I have come here to do this. I will leave the letter in your possession. And honestly, what harm can there be in looking at a bill from thirty years ago?”
The associate headmaster sat motionless for several seconds, and then—whether it was Lenox’s person, his name, the letter he bore, his story, for whatever reason—nodded slightly.
The school’s record room was situated within the large basement of the same house, an impeccably clean space with long rows of shelves, lit by bright gas lamps. The archivist, Travers, was also the school’s historian and comptroller, and his office was several floors up, but he had no trouble in taking Lenox down to the basement, where they retrieved Leigh’s file.
“You are lucky in your choice of dates,” Travers said as they walked back upstairs to his office. “Anything before 1830 and it’s more likely than not that we wouldn’t have it.”
He took the file from its bound portfolio, after untying its crossed strings carefully, and then began to sift through the pages. There were ten or twelve of them.
Cholmondley’s one injunction had been “nothing disciplinary.” Lenox had assented to the condition readily. Now Travers was passing through pages of information, which Lenox guessed must have to do with Leigh’s expulsion. A shame, these. Harrow had alienated one of its finest minds, which a tenderer overseer than Tennant might have nurtured in its infancy. Even Lenox had nearly noticed that Leigh was out of the ordinary.
Travers’s face brightened when he reached one of the last pages. “What is it?” asked Lenox.
“Got it!” Travers said.
He read for a moment and then slid the sheet of paper across the smooth desk.
Record of remittance of fees
Student: Gerald R. Leigh
Term: Michaelmas 1846
House: Lyon’s
Rate: 79 pounds sterling per annum; 19 pounds boarding
REMITTED 8/8/46
Drawn on Bank of Cornwall,
account of P. Wilkins
£98.
At the bottom of the page were a stamp and then, in a scrawl dripping with loose ink, “Fees partially refunded 11/12/46. Garnished at pro rata. Student departed Harrow School 11/14/46.”
“What about the same for the year before?” Lenox asked.
“The next sheet.”
He took it from Travers and saw the same name: Wilkins.
After all this time, a name! Lenox, studying the paper, realized that he would need to go to Cornwall.