“See what you make of that,” he said.

  Sk­aggs read it aloud.

  SOUGHT: A man some­where be­tween 5'4" and 5'9". Dark hair, pos­si­bly thin­ning. 170 pounds, solidly built. For­mer boxer. Works on Blank Dock and per­haps else­where on Thames, in­clud­ing Sur­rey Quay. Pos­si­ble for­mer Aus­tralian trans­port. Likely to be a na­tive Lon­doner. May go by Ja­cob Phipps. May be dan­ger­ous. Five pounds to the man who finds him, five pounds also to whom­so­ever pro­duces him safely at 144 Curl Street, the Strand.

  Sk­aggs looked up at Lenox and whis­tled. “Ten pounds. That should fetch him, as I’m sure you in­tended. A for­mer boxer?”

  “One of your own.”

  “Eh,” said Sk­aggs dis­mis­sively. “I don’t know the name.”

  Box­ing was one of the most pop­u­lar sports in the city. Sk­aggs had been a light heavy­weight cham­pion in his youth, and his im­pli­ca­tion was that if Ja­cob Phipps had been any kind of se­ri­ous boxer, Sk­aggs would have heard of him—which was prob­a­bly true.

  “Still, it will mean he’s handy with his fists,” said Lenox.

  “I shall send it out along the usual chan­nels,” he said. “Do you think he is dan­ger­ous?”

  “I sup­pose we must pre­sume that he is. The good news is that I don’t think he sus­pects that any­one is on his trail.”

  The maid ap­peared again, hold­ing a lac­quered tray in the Ja­pa­nese style, laden with for­get-me-not-pat­terned crock­ery. She set it down and poured two cups of tea; Lenox took his with a thanks and tried a sip of the warm brew, which cut com­fort­in­gly into the cold of the out­doors, lin­ger­ing on his skin.

  “How sure are you of the name?” Sk­aggs asked, af­ter the maid had gone.

  “It’s a coin flip. I’m quite sure of the de­scrip­tion, and I’m start­ing to think the man I’m af­ter is Phipps,” Lenox said, “but even so I don’t know that you can put much stock in the name. I am fairly sure he has been work­ing at Blank Dock, and no­body I spoke to there had heard it. So he may be us­ing an alias. Won­der­ful tea, Sk­aggs.”

  “Ah, thank you, my own fa­vorite. Comes from As­sam. In­dia, you know. Do you want to tell me about the case?”

  Lenox did, giv­ing Sk­aggs a brief sketch of the whole busi­ness start to fin­ish, go­ing back to the mur­der of Martell. The old boxer nod­ded when Lenox men­tioned the Coach and Horses—there was no street in Lon­don he didn’t know pace by pace—and looked grave when Lenox de­scribed the vul­ner­a­ble older woman who had en­listed his help.

  Af­ter their busi­ness was fin­ished, the two caught each other up with news, the kind of frank pro­fes­sional ex­change they had been con­duct­ing for decades now.

  “We had a doc­tor out here in Sut­ton,” Sk­aggs told Lenox as he chose a tea bis­cuit, “who was mur­der­ing his pa­tients.”

  Sut­ton was a lit­tle far­ther south. Lenox whis­tled softly. “Good lord. How did I not hear of it?”

  “Hushed up. He swal­lowed a beaker of poi­son when we found him. Very re­spectable fel­low. Mil­liken. Had been at the uni­ver­sity in Ed­in­burgh.”

  “How many?”

  Sk­aggs tapped a pile of pa­pers. “I have found seven, but I think there are more.”

  “I know I have asked this be­fore, Sk­aggs, but you would not be in­ter­ested in com­ing aboard at the agency, would you? No, I see from your face that the an­swer is still no—say no more.”

  Lenox took a last sip of tea and picked up his hat. He and Sk­aggs shook hands. Sk­aggs had peo­ple all over the me­trop­o­lis—savvy street chil­dren, watch­ful innkeep­ers, gin-soaked layabouts—and Lenox knew this net­work would be their best chance of find­ing Ja­cob Phipps, if he was there to be found.

  Sud­denly a tin­kle of pi­ano floated down from an up­stairs room. Lenox glanced up and Sk­aggs, who had stared down the most fear­some men in Lon­don, blushed. “My daugh­ter,” he said.

  “Lovely ac­com­plished play­ing,” said Lenox, as the mu­sic con­tin­ued. “Surely that is Bach?”

  Sk­aggs him­self had been born on the wrong side of the sheets, in a dark and rat-in­fested base­ment near Wal­worth, one of seven chil­dren raised by an aunt and grand­mother. He had come far in the world.

  “Per­haps so,” said Sk­aggs. “Right proud we are.”

  The mu­sic con­tin­ued, a vari­a­tion on the first notes. “You ought to be,” said Lenox. He rose from his chair. “Give her my re­gards. And please let me know when you hear any­thing, will you?”

  On the drive back into Lon­don, Lenox looked idly over the menu for that night’s sup­per. Fried soles in tar­ragon but­ter sauce, it said, and sad­dle of mut­ton with a spicy jam, and a dozen dishes be­sides. Dessert was to be sponge cake in rum sauce, but Jane had crossed this out, so per­haps it would be a sur­prise. Then stil­ton with cel­ery and milk-bread.

  A far cry from what An­gela and Sari had eaten in In­dia. He sat back and watched the sub­urbs give way again to busier streets. He loved cross­ing the river from the south, back into his part of Lon­don. Long ago this city only had four parts on maps: this one, then known as South­wark, the City, West­min­ster (which was the West End, where Lenox lived) and “That Part Be­yond the Tower.” But moder­nity was on its quest to name ev­ery­thing for them, these days.

  There was a com­mo­tion around the bridge—a florist’s cart had over­turned—and Lenox, his cab paused, ex­am­ined the city, its in­hab­i­tants so wildly oc­cu­pied, so fully alive, mil­li­ons of them in their own ab­sorb­ing sto­ries—from fried soles in tar­ragon but­ter sauce to Bach in South Lon­don to the lilies strewn over the cob­ble­stones, which would never ar­rive at their des­ti­na­tions now—and he, quiet at the cen­ter of it all, watch­ing.

  CHAP­TER NINE­TEEN

  The bright day turned into a sparkling Lon­don early evening, shafts of pink light bril­liantly flar­ing into gold along the streets, the air cold but clear, the whole city avid with Sat­ur­day ac­tiv­ity.

  Lenox, still at­tempt­ing to stay out from un­der­foot, forced him­self to ad­dress the tot­ter­ing pile of let­ters on his desk; he had a sup­ply of sta­tionery in his right-hand drawer and took out a stack. He filled these very swiftly, an­swer­ing each let­ter as he opened it. Many of the re­quests were rather ex­otic (no, he wrote, he could not travel to Cara­cas to solve a mur­der there, but thanked the gov­ern­ment for the re­quest) which was a de­vel­op­ment he at­trib­uted to the Amer­i­can case.

  But when he heard the first car­riage roll up out­side, he set down his foun­tain pen and went into the front hall, know­ing that at last he could be of use.

  It was not of­ten that Charles and Jane opened their doors to peo­ple in any great num­bers, and there was tan­gi­ble ex­cite­ment in the house­hold. Ex­tra ser­vants had been hired at dou­ble pay, the Sat­ur­day night rate, most of them from Ed­mund’s house a few streets over. They wore the fa­mil­iar dark green Lenox liv­ery.

  Eight foot­men stood out­side on the steps in ser­ried or­der, wait­ing to as­sist. Lenox and Lady Jane stepped out­side to the top of the steps, where they, too, awaited their first guest, both smil­ing. His heart­beat was steady; but he re­mem­bered the im­mense stakes of so­ci­ety when he was younger, and thought of An­gela and Sari up­stairs, don­ning their new dresses, choos­ing bracelets and ear­rings, won­der­ing whom they might meet.

  “Only fam­ily would ar­rive ex­actly on time,” Lady Jane mur­mured, link­ing her arm in Charles’s.

  It was true: a small older woman was de­scend­ing from a tiny white car­riage, his el­derly cousin, known through­out the fam­ily as Aunt Matilda, who had been born Matilda Grace Lenox ninety years and three months be­fore; but was still per­fectly sharp.

  “Matilda!” said Jane glow­in­gly.

  “I’m not deaf,” said Matilda, climb­ing the stairs on the arm of the stoutest of the foot­men. “How do you do, how do you— Jane, you do look lovely, that shade of blue suits you per­fectly.”

  Matilda had come in from Shrop­shire, where she lived, solely to set eyes on the freshly ar­rived cousin. She would turn back around the next morn­ing and go home, with a prized new cor­re­spon­dent—for Matilda was a vo­lu­mi­nous and trea­sured let­ter-writer, who still wrote to Charles and Ed­mund each once a week, as she had ever since they learned to read. She al­ways wrote in the same vivid three-para­graph for­mat: per­sonal sta­tus, com­ment upon some mat­ter of art or pol­i­tics, and fi­nally what the broth­ers called “item of fam­ily news.” This last was of­ten vi­o­lently ex­cit­ing, since she knew ev­ery bit of gos­sip from the south coast to Hadrian’s Wall.

  “Hello, Char­lie,” she said, ac­cept­ing a kiss on the cheek. “Will you show me a chair some­where quiet where I can spend the party? Not in a cor­ner.”

  He of­fered his arm, which she took. “We have cho­sen one al­ready.”

  “Have you been stabbed again?” she asked as they went in­side the house.

  “Not in the last fort­night.”

  “That’s some­thing.”

  He ac­com­pa­nied Matilda to the large sit­ting room, which was staged for the im­mense party—but eerily empty now. He fetched her a hot rum with wa­ter and brown sugar, the drink he had been mak­ing her at fam­ily gath­er­ings since he was ten.

  “And where is this young An­gela?” she asked. “Oh, poor Jasper—he never would write me back.”

  “Did he not? Not ever?”

  “Not since, oh, ’65 or so. Though I kept on send­ing let­ters.” Matilda took a small sip of the drink and smiled. “Ah, that puts the warmth back into me.” She fo­cused on Lenox, hom­ing in on him with her clever long-lived gaze. “Tell me, did she say any­thing of Jasper’s life out there?”

  Lenox heard a rat­tle on the cob­ble­stones out­side. “I’m aw­fully sorry, Aunt Matilda,” he said, “but I must leave you for a mo­ment. You will have to ask her your­self—she will be down be­fore long.”

  This sec­ond guest was an­other rel­a­tive, Jane’s tall, young, ami­able cousin, Lord Car­bury, twenty years old and rather hand­some. Also the most dra­mat­i­cally ill-in­formed per­son Lenox knew. Jane still called him Georgie in pri­vate—of­ten sternly, in re­cent times, for the rea­son that he was an ex­tremely el­i­gi­ble bach­e­lor and had used that fact to “tan­ta­lize” (Jane’s word) dozens of young women across Lon­don, in what she con­sid­ered a most un­gen­tle­manly way. For his part, he told her, he liked ev­ery sin­gle one of the girls, and what’s more couldn’t see the point of meet­ing fewer peo­ple in the search for the one he would take as his wife be­fore God.

  Now he was sec­ond at the party, no doubt, Lenox thought, to tor­ment what­ever young ladies would be there.

  Sud­denly it oc­curred to him that the young lady he wished to glimpse might be An­gela, of all peo­ple, and for a mo­ment he felt pos­i­tively an­gry at the young man.

  “Well, Car­bury?” he said briskly, tak­ing over for Lady Jane, who was al­ready half­way back to the street to meet the next car­riages. It was vi­tal she be there when the Princess ar­rived. “Over­turned any horses to­day?”

  The young lord red­dened. “I say, sir, that was when I was only six­teen, you know. A fel­low puts one foot wrong and hears about it for the rest of his life!”

  Lenox guided him up the stairs. “What will I fix you to drink?”

  “Oh, a brandy sir, if you please,” said Car­bury, who wore a pris­tine black tail­coat, with a white silk tie so care­lessly beau­ti­ful that an­gels might have sewn it. “It would take the edge ever so off. As if I needed to tell you. Good­ness. Thank you. And how is my cousin?”

  This Car­bury said bravely, know­ing that he was held in poor re­gard by Lady Jane just at that mo­ment. “Jane? She is— But there is the door, Car­bury, here is your drink, and please ex­cuse me, I shall be back with who­ever it is in a mo­ment. Leave the maids alone. Talk to Matilda.”

  Car­bury looked at him wide-eyed, and then glanced over at Matilda on the op­po­site side of the room. “Oh I say, the maids! Sir, re­ally! I would never—”

  “Yes, yes,” said Lenox testily.

  Soon the car­riages mul­ti­plied. The foot­men were fly­ing up and down the stairs. As for Lenox and Lady Jane, they were con­stantly shut­tling be­tween the sit­ting room and the street, and al­ways be­hind in ev­ery con­ver­sa­tion, as they tried des­per­ately to greet ev­ery­one with the same warmth—for it was a pa­rade of their friends, and the women all looked beau­ti­ful, care­fully bro­caded and pat­terned into their dresses, the cold of the air putting red in their cheeks, while be­side them the gen­tle­men wore cheer­ful night-out smiles.

  There was a brief mo­ment of respite at about ten to eight, and Lenox stood at the top of their steps, breath­less, watch­ing the light daz­zle and wane in the west, fall­ing through the bare branches of the trees. He had ended up with a whisky and soda, and took a sip. He felt the pleas­ant stiff­ness of his shirt at the wrists and col­lar—a for­mal feel­ing.

  Just then Toto Mc­Con­nell came up and sur­prised him, giv­ing him a squeeze on the fore­arm. “Hello,” she said.

  “Oh, hello, Toto!,” he said. “I didn’t see you ar­rive. Why have you come back out into the cold?”

  Her eyes scanned the street. “Thomas men­tioned that he might drop in. I thought I would come and see if he had ar­rived.”

  “Not yet.”

  “No,” she said qui­etly.

  There was a pause. At last, Lenox said, “I thought I had grown old enough to wit­ness the changes of young peo­ple dis­pas­sion­ately—but I find it jar­ring that you young women wear jack­ets now.”

  She laughed. “It is very good of you to in­clude me among their num­ber, Charles, as I scurry to­ward forty. I like my jacket, you know.”

  He shook his head rue­fully. “Yes, of course.” It was a snug white gar­ment of silk and fur. “Yet you will ad­mit it is aw­fully mod­ern. I can re­mem­ber the vast shawls and capes my mother wore to visit in Sus­sex … of course, a win­ter ball was treach­er­ous in those days, you might have got­ten stuck some­where.”

  “And it was the coun­try,” Toto pointed out.

  “Yes, very true. Un­de­ni­able.” He spot­ted a new car­riage turn­ing up Ham­p­den Lane. “Look, there is my brother.”

  “Could I have a sip of your drink? I feel I need it if I am to speak with the Prime Min­is­ter.”

  Lenox frowned. “The Prime Min­is­ter?”

  “Look.”

  And there, in­deed, was the seal of the of­fice, whip­ping raggedly in the wind. It had to travel along in any con­veyance a Prime Min­is­ter took, from ships of state down to Ed­mund’s car­riage.

  Toto rarely drank much, but she took a good swig of his whisky and soda. “Your cousins shall have some­thing to write back to In­dia about their first party, any­how. Per­haps Glad­stone will lec­ture at them about the con­sti­tu­tion and all that dry old— Hello, Prime Min­is­ter!”

  CHAP­TER TWENTY

  Lenox, too, greeted the for­mer Prime Min­is­ter and Ed­mund, and with a smile on his face—for he was gen­uinely happy to see his brother.

  The pair po­litely and for­mally said hello, Glad­stone so­cia­ble in his usual se­vere way. Ed­mund dis­tract­edly said they would be a few min­utes while they dis­cussed some­thing.

  “Would you like to use my study?” Lenox asked.

  The wind was whip­ping along into them, and Glad­stone al­ready had his coat pulled tight with his gloved hands. “A highly el­i­gi­ble idea,” he said. “Much obliged, Lenox mi­nor.”

  Af­ter see­ing them into his study, Lenox went back to the party, which was grow­ing into its shape. The tenor of the room rose a notch when Ed­mund ar­rived in the sit­ting room with Glad­stone fif­teen min­utes later—still, fa­mil­iar as he was to many of them, the Prime Min­is­ter him­self, af­ter all—and then in­flected fur­ther still when Princess Alexan­dra ar­rived.

  Lenox saw her com­ing from the tall half-cir­cle win­dows that over­looked Ham­p­den Lane from the sec­ond floor. She leapt nim­bly from her car­riage, and was up the stairs be­fore poor Jane even had a chance to re­al­ize she was there.

  This was her style—spon­ta­neous, buc­ca­neer­ing. She came in with Jane, dressed both ex­pen­sively and nakedly, as Jane Austen had put it, in a pink and blue dress cut in at the waist, cal­cu­lated to look a bit out­ra­geous. She ac­cepted Charles’s hand with a curtsy and re­ceived the bow of the for­mer Prime Min­ster with equal brevity, and then of all thirty or so other peo­ple in the room gladly and in­ti­mately, with a small laugh, be­fore re­tir­ing as quickly as pos­si­ble to a cor­ner where she could be with her par­tic­u­lar friends.

  An­gela and Sari came down at the ap­pointed hour, seven o’clock. There was an in­stant of hush at their ap­pear­ance, too, and then a sud­den re­newal of ev­ery con­ver­sa­tion at a louder pitch, out of cour­tesy.

  Charles stud­ied them for a mo­ment. Of the two, Sari was in­fin­itely eas­ier to speak with; An­gela was at times al­most ob­sti­nately un­will­ing to con­verse. Her long blond hair con­cealed her face when she wished. Pri­vately, Lady Jane had ex­pressed some worry about the girl, who was per­haps not beau­ti­ful enough to be plucked im­me­di­ately from the har­row­ing bat­tle­field of the ball­room, nor so­cial enough to con­quer the moth­ers and aunts sit­ting on the side­lines at such gath­er­ings. What would be­come of her?

  Lenox had not yet told Jane of the ad­di­tional dif­fi­culty: that An­gela wasn’t in­ter­ested in mar­riage to be­gin with.

  “You both look won­der­ful,” Lenox said to them in a quiet voice, guid­ing them into the room. “Don’t be ner­vous—only friends here, and to be­gin with you must come and meet Aunt Matilda, who has trav­eled ex­pressly to meet you. She loved Jasper.”

 

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