The next morning was a Saturday, which meant, per his custom, that Lenox was due, at eight o’clock exactly, in the most feared place in England.
At seven he sat in the little drawing room where he took his breakfast, a chamber directly opposite his study in which he occasionally entertained friends and family, if they numbered fewer than half a dozen. It had a fireplace and a cabinet piano, which, closed, showed a painting of Lenox House set in the countryside surrounding it.
Here he sat, a steady rain still whispering against the windowpanes, eating eggs, toast, and porridge and having his tea. The morning’s newspapers were in front of him.
PEER ALIVE AND WELL!
Duke of Dorset Recovered Safely; Police Mystified
No suspects taken into custody, questioned;
Duke recalls no details of captivity;
Ransom unpaid;
Reward of 500 pounds offered for capture of criminals
That was the loud, confused, and rather confusing set of headlines stacked above a drawing of the 15th Duke of Dorset in the Illustrated London Morning News. This was a paper of greater vulgarity than the Times, and therefore often much more interesting. Not just to Lenox.
He looked away through the window and sat, eating his porridge and thinking. He and Bonden had spoken at length the night before and were going to meet again after the weekend. The young detective was determined to find the lost painting.
It was one of those mornings—the rain trickling down the windows, the gray skies—when for whatever queer reason he felt the loss of his father.
As he was meditating on this, Mrs. Huggins and Lancelot entered the room.
Lenox put down his fork. “What have I said about this room?” he said.
“That only Graham may enter it in the antemeridian, sir, but—” said Mrs. Huggins.
“And you told me that you’d use a shotgun on anyone who comes in but Graham, especially me,” Lancelot added scrupulously.
“Sir!” Mrs. Huggins exclaimed. “Did you really? For shame, sir.”
“I hate an informer,” Lenox said darkly to Lancelot. “What is it, Mrs. Huggins?”
“Your brother is here, sir.”
“Oh! Send him in.”
“Yes, sir,” said Mrs. Huggins.
Lancelot ran after her, no doubt to ask Edmund for money—which he would receive, since Edmund was, in the first place, a soft touch and, in the second, deeply grateful that he had not been imposed upon to house Lancelot for two weeks himself.
Sir Edmund Lenox had assumed his father’s baronetcy eighteen months earlier, still a young man, birth-side of thirty. Nevertheless, he had subtly changed since inheriting Lenox House and the tangible and intangible legacies that came with it. He was still his cheerful, rather countryish self, stouter than his younger brother, and gentler, too, easier to smile, full of goodwill, never most at home in London.
But there was a new, decisive authority in him, and a note of service. He strove every day—silently, Charles knew—to be as good a squire to the land and its people as his father had been. It couldn’t be easy.
“This is one of those nice surprises you hear about,” said Lenox. “How are you?”
“Oh, very well,” said Edmund, setting his cane and his hat on the windowsill. He poured himself a cup of tea. “This rain is a treat, isn’t it? It was hot as Satan’s hoof in Parliament yesterday.”
“Lancelot is still here.”
“Yes, he just asked me for a pound.”
“Did you give it to him?”
“No. Four shillings. Had to draw a line.”
“That’s twice his weekly pocket money, you idiot,” said Lenox. “I just wonder how they’ve kept him at Eton! Some of the stories he tells—they would have buried us alive when we were at school. Did you know he and his friend put a snake in the headmaster’s study?”
“A snake!”
“Then gave each other alibis. He told me this with utter confidence that I wouldn’t tell anyone. Which he’s right about, blast him. Schoolboy code.”
“Still, it’s just another day or two,” said Edmund sympathetically.
“You know very well it’s six. I do wish he were staying with you. You’re a father!”
Edmund took a piece of the stack of buttered toast between him and Charles. “I suspect that in fact Mother and Eustacia settled on you for exactly that reason.”
“Please, help yourself to toast. But how’s that?”
“Mother thinks you ought to be settling down.”
Lenox laughed. “And that Lancelot will persuade me of it! What a scheme. If anything I’m going to spend the next several decades on a remote Greek hillside studying scripture in silence, like a monk.”
“Not many murders there, unfortunately,” said Edmund, who, perhaps exclusively among Charles’s acquaintance, had never even once faltered in his support of his brother’s idea of a career. “Coincidentally, on that subject…”
“Murder?”
“Well, no,” said Edmund. “It’s about Dorset.”
Lenox frowned. “What about him?”
“He was at the Carlton this morning, apparently.”
“Already! You weren’t there?”
“Of course not.” The Carlton was for conservatives; Edmund sat for the other side, in the family seat. “But the word reached me quickly enough that he was saying very foul things about you.”
“Such as?”
“It was Capability Elliott who told me. I ran across him in Pall Mall and came straight here.” Elliott was an ambitious young conservative, affable, full of the latest gossip. “Dorset didn’t go quite so far as to blame the kidnapping on you, but he came close. Said he had asked you to consult upon a private matter, but that you were a pirate. That he had misplaced his trust, was thinking of firing his secretary. Is it really old Ward, from school?”
“A pirate!”
“Yes, Elliott emphasized that word.”
This could only mean that the duke wanted his version of events spread early and quickly, to counter any tales he suspected Lenox might tell.
“Yes,” said Edmund. “Of course, your friends will know that he’s wrong.”
“Not many people remain your friend if they have to pick between you and a duke,” said Charles, smiling.
“Ah, but there is every kind of gossip abroad about him, you know,” said Edmund. “His credibility is low. If I had to guess, I would say you stand a decent chance of coming out ahead.”
“Hm.” Lenox sat back, arms crossed. “Well, thank you for telling me. I’m grateful.”
“In brighter news, I was hoping I might speak to you and Jane, actually—two birds and all that—about Molly’s birthday. I thought it would be nice to have a party for her. A surprise. Jane is such a dab hand at that kind of thing.”
Molly was Edmund’s wife. “What a thoughtful soul you are, Edmund. Nobody would believe that you used to chase me with that cricket bat.”
Edmund reddened. “You called me fat.”
“You were fat that year.”
“I was growing into my build, and it was rude of you to point out.”
“I’ll see if she can come.”
Lenox got up and went across the hall into his study. He tapped on the wall in code: twice, once, twice. Come if you can, but no rush. Then he returned to the breakfast table.
Not two minutes later, Lady Jane arrived. Both brothers stood up, smiling happily at their friend.
“When it’s raining, for shame,” she said.
“Oh! I am sorry,” said Lenox, and he was. “I hadn’t even—”
“No, it’s fine. But what is it? Hello, Edmund, dear fellow. How are you?”
“He wants help planning a birthday party for Molly.”
Jane, in an overcoat, brightened. “A party! Oh, and for Molly. Nobody could deserve it more.”
“I’ll have to leave you two to the planning,” Lenox said, taking a last sip of tea. “I’m due for an appointment.”
“Where?” asked Edmund.
“It’s Saturday morning. I’m—”
His brother made a horrified face. “Oh, don’t say the name. Don’t say it. I’d forgotten. Well, go if you must.”