Lenox’s father had an eccentricity, which was that he truly loved to paint fences.
There was a common English belief that every landowner had one such eccentricity. Lenox’s friend Bartley was the son of an earl in Nottinghamshire who shaved his lawns—their many, many acres—with a pair of scissors. Just across the county here was a baronet named Bessenger who pleased himself by holding formal wedding ceremonies for his canaries. That was perhaps taking it too far, of course, though in every other respect he was a normal fellow; served in Parliament.
When Lenox arrived home two mornings later, his father was near the gatehouse of Lenox House, no doubt making old Carter, with his stone flask of tea and his morning newspaper, extremely uneasy. Sir Edward had on a smock and was painting the pure black of the wrought iron with delicate precision. Charles saw him first, and noticed the smile of inner happiness on his father’s face.
Nearby was a ladder. “Do you need a ladder-holder?” he called out to his father. He had walked from the station. “I offer myself for the post.”
“Charles! Yes, by all means. Do you want a paintbrush?”
“Oh, no, I’ll leave that to you.”
“Yes,” said Sir Edward with satisfaction, “I flatter myself I’ve got it down near a science.”
They stayed out until around lunchtime. They reminisced a great deal about their trip to St. Petersburg, which was fresh in both their minds. Lenox’s mother, sensing by some maternal magic that he was home—for he had only said he would get a train sometime that day—traipsed down the long avenue after a short while, bringing with her a footman who had three folding canvas chairs and a pitcher of iced lemon. It was a warm day.
“There you are, Charles!” she said. “How is London?”
“Still standing, I believe.”
The past few evenings hadn’t been entirely pleasant. Lenox could tell from the social gatherings he had attended that the shine was gone off him; he was only a detective, and a failed one at that.
“Elizabeth is at Houghton House, you know,” Sir Edward said.
“She mentioned that her father wanted her home until all of this had blown over.”
“Yes, I hear he was very firm.” The Earl of Houghton was their close neighbor, Elizabeth’s—Jane’s—father, and one of Sir Edward’s close confidants, though their politics were virtually diametric in every respect. “We ought to invite her to dine.”
“Naturally,” said Lenox.
“Yes, naturally.”
His father reached to apply his paintbrush to a high corner—it was a very slender paintbrush, and the black paint superbly glossy; he was particular about his tools—and winced, holding his chest. After only an instant he regained his composure.
That was one of two or three moments of weakness he saw in his father that week. For the most part, Sir Edward was in very good spirits. His mother was, too. It was a truly lovely summer, and people dropped in to play lawn tennis and have tea every afternoon. There were three or four times, when he wasn’t expecting it, that his mother embraced him and didn’t let go for forty or fifty seconds, laying her head against his shoulder. He felt very wise and old in those moments. Or perhaps it was that he felt very young and very afraid? The difference was so narrow.
When he had been in his old childhood room for five nights, his father told him, at breakfast one morning, that he had received a long letter from Sir Richard Mayne.
“Have you?” said Lenox. “Make him take you to court before you pay anything.”
Sir Edward laughed. They were both eating heaping bowls of oatmeal with healthy piles of brown sugar and cinnamon atop their undulating peaks. “He says you are gifted.”
“Does he?”
Lenox had been thinking a very great deal about his career all week. “Yes. He laid out the whole sequence of events in the clearest terms.” There was a pause. “He mentioned that you have taken a salary, too.”
“That is false,” Lenox said stoutly. The morning after Cairn’s final letter to the Challenger, he had gone into the Yard and retired.
“Is it?”
“I was forced to take half a pound a week from them. But I made it clear that I was not willing to continue the practice—and should remain a strict amateur.” He shrugged. “Anyhow, I doubt I shall continue in the profession.”
“Do you?” asked Sir Edward. “Oh, I don’t know. You sound from the letter to have a genius for it. I myself have never had a mind inclined to see hidden patterns. Nor has Edmund, I think.”
“Mother has.”
“Yes, she is good at puzzles. So is my father, your grandfather,” Sir Edward said, smiling. “He was a fearsome chess player.”
“I never knew that.”
“I don’t believe I ever beat him. In fact, I’m sure that I did not, though I have been playing these many years.” He smiled at the memory. “Anyhow, Mayne says that there have been developments in the—case, you call it, I believe? He asks me to invite you to call upon him should you wish.”
“Perhaps I’ll go up for the night, then.”
His father frowned. “You still have time for a ride, though? I had thought I might take you to Willingham Wood. I don’t think you and I have ridden there together. The view of the country is very beautiful, very beautiful.”
Charles’s heart leapt with a child’s happiness. “Oh no—as to that, I have all the time in the world,” he replied casually. “I could even leave it until tomorrow.”
Lenox and Graham did take the evening train back to London, however. The next morning, they presented themselves at Mayne’s office. A reading of the papers on the way—there were fewer in the country, which had been surprisingly pleasant—showed that Theobald Cairn, the perfects, Walnut Island, the Ophelia, Corcoran, all of it remained very much in the news. NOT RECOMMENDED FOR FEMALE READERS, blared one headline, Lenox presumed because of the discovery that the second woman in the water had been—a man.
Sir Richard greeted them with solemnity. “How do you do, Charles?” he said.
“I hope you don’t think I’m reluctant to show my face,” Lenox said. It had been preying on his mind. “I take full responsibility for letting Johanssen go.”
“I do not blame you. You were the youngest man there by some years and the least experienced by even more.” Sir Richard glanced at the door. “Inspector Exeter’s limitations are known to me.”
Lenox didn’t quite know how to reply to that—if he had started, he could have elaborated upon those limitations for a while. Instead, he said, “What new information do you have?”
“Ah! Yes. Well, three pieces, really. First: there was never a Peter Leckie. He was an invention of Cairn’s, it would appear, as we suspected. Cairn must have taken the night train to and from Scotland several times to keep the ruse going.
“Second, Corcoran’s will, found in his desk, did indeed name Cairn as his heir. Rather a bright stroke, in fact—let me see—yes, here is the line, ‘It is not out of any particular affection that I bear for Mr. Cairn, loyal that he has been, but because the business has been a second child to me, and Mr. Cairn alone knows the strength of will it takes to run.’ Rather plausible, in its way.”
Lenox nodded gravely. “Just so.”
Mayne sighed and looked down at his paper. “We have been looking into his history, his rooms. It all seems rather mild on the surface. But I’m not sure it was. He came to London from his hometown under some cloud—apparently a neighbor’s livestock was mutilated, someone Cairn was known to bear a grudge against. Not just killed, mind you, but butchered. Threats written in blood.”
“Good gracious.” Lenox paused. “Has there been any sighting of him?”
Mayne shook his head. “Here is the circular that is going to every British port.”
Lenox looked at the paper, which bore a very good likeness of Cairn, and a description of his disguise as Johanssen. The eyes that looked at him were lifeless—not because they were printed in black and white, but because they were so accurate—and in that moment, he vowed to himself that whether or not he remained a detective, he would find Theobald Cairn. He didn’t care if it took twenty years. His first case couldn’t end in this irresolution—nor his last. Either way, he was honor-bound. And even as Mayne went on, in his mind, Lenox began to formulate his plan.…
“Then there is the third matter. It is a job offer,” he heard Sir Richard say.
Lenox stiffened. “I had hoped that I made my feelings clear on—”
“Oh! No, no. I’m sorry. Mr. Graham, the offer is to you. I would like you to come aboard as an inspector as soon as possible. My vision of the department demands men of just your energy and skill.”
Graham looked surprised. For some time, he did not speak. “I am deeply conscious of the honor your offer does me,” he said.
“I have never been happier to make such a one.”
“I must decline, however.”
Mayne laughed. The step from service to the position of inspector at Scotland Yard was so profound that he assumed Graham was joking. Then his laughter subsided and he looked uneasy. “Excuse me?”
Lenox looked at Graham, alarmed. “Well, Graham—don’t—take time to think about it.”
“Yes, you may take your time,” said Sir Richard in a slow voice.
Graham shook his head firmly. “I can tell you again that I have rarely been more honored in my life—but my answer is definite. I must decline.”
Now Mayne looked baffled. “I see.”
“Thank you, sir.”
After they had departed, they walked back to Lenox’s rooms. Most of the walk consisted of Lenox’s reproaches to Graham.
At last they arrived at the door. Mrs. Huggins greeted them. “Mr. Lenox! How pleased I am to see you. There is a list of trifling matters, not more than twenty-three on my list, referring in most cases to the practices of Lady Hamilton’s house. I know for a fact that you are not scheduled to do anything this morning.”
Lenox looked around wildly for an excuse, until he saw that he had been caught, at long last. He could not decline Mrs. Huggins’s demand again.
He followed her toward the admittedly welcome scent of tea and toast. “Now I see it,” he muttered to Graham, “how could you have given up all this grandeur?”