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They hadn’t, according to Smith.
“And that was all they said to you?”
“Yes, sir. That was their final word. They left me alive, thanks be, and then must have bolted past Miss Randall on their way out.”
Lenox excused himself and ran from the room, scribbling a note that he handed to his driver, which asked Jane to take Sophia and go to her friend the Duchess of Marchmain’s—Dallington’s mother, who also happened to have one of the largest and best-guarded houses in London, with a vast staff.
When he returned he found that McCo
“Thank you, Thomas. You could go and tell her to get to Duch’s house, or yours, anywhere really. I doubt there’s immediate danger, and I did send a note—but you might beat it there, and I would feel more comfortable knowing she and Sophia were safe.”
“Of course,” said McCo
“Thank you for coming.”
“Of course. Good luck.”
As McCo
When this conversation was concluded they left Smith to rest, the loyal Miss Randall sitting with large worried eyes trained upon his pale face.
Downstairs in the lovely, impersonal hallway of his father, the new marquess thanked Nicholson and Lenox. “When do you expect to have this business wrapped up?” he asked.
“It’s impossible to say, My Lord,” answered Nicholson, his tone careful. “It could be hours or it could be years. We try not to hold out false hope. But in this case I’m optimistic that we might come to a solution within the week.”
“Excellent. The sooner it’s out of the papers … well, I’m sure you understand.” Travers-George hesitated. “It was port wine that killed him?”
“Yes, sir, we believe so.”
“Are you familiar with a friend of your father’s named Francis?” asked Lenox.
The lad frowned. “I’m not familiar with any of my father’s friends, blessedly,” he said. “Our relations were not close. We didn’t see eye to eye on several important matters pertaining to the family’s estate. Thankfully those matters are in my hands now.”
Thankfully! “What matters?”
Travers-George shook his head. “They ca
“What about the name Hartley? Does that ring a bell?”
“None whatsoever. I’m afraid I really will be of very little use in sketching out the details of my father’s personal life, unfortunately.”
“A final question, then. Did you know that he kept a hold on the Gu
“The ship where he was—was found?” For a moment there flickered into the son’s face a slightly more human aspect, as if it were just occurring to him that his father was gone not merely in name but in flesh. “What was he shipping?”
“We’re still trying to discover that information,” said Nicholson.
“I didn’t know that, no. I can refer you to Robert Barker, of Prowse Street. He manages our family’s investments—including my father’s. Although I ca
“Thank you very much for your time,” said Nicholson.
“I’m at your service,” said the new Lord Wakefield. He looked very conscious as he said this that the reverse was the case. Lenox could very nearly see his self-confidence expanding to fill his new, illustrious place in society—only faintly blemished by his father’s conduct, a blemish that his own sober deportment could efface very quickly. “You may find me here at any time.”
Out on the pavement Nicholson and Lenox paused. “What do you make of it all?” asked the man from the Yard. He was pulling a pipe and a packet of shag from his pocket, and soon he had lit up and was drawing the smoke into his lungs, then exhaling it with a great sigh of relief. “Strange business.”
“Do you really think the case will be solved within the week?” asked Lenox.
Nicholson smiled ruefully. “It’s best not to antagonize a fellow who could have your chief apologizing for you inside of ten minutes, if he wanted to. A lord and all.”
Lenox understood. “Of course. I only ask because in truth I’m as puzzled as ever.”
“Today’s attack seems straightforward to me. Francis, or his proxies, wanted to fetch the port before we found it—and possibly any letters they could find on Wakefield’s desk. Perhaps even the parcel with the gun in it, I suppose.”
“Why did they wait until two days after the murder?”
Nicholson shrugged. “Access to the house. There have been officers and visitors in and out since the day of the murder.”
“So they chose to enter in broad daylight?”
“It was bold, certainly. Misguidedly bold, it would appear, since they didn’t get the port and we have some clues as to their appearance. What I’m curious to know is who Wakefield was mixed up with.”
“Did you ask the neighbors whether they had seen anything of the two attackers?” asked Lenox.
“Yes, and they must be the blindest godforsaken neighbors in the whole of London, because again we came up nil, damn them.” Nicholson sucked on his pipe angrily. “Though in fairness it’s not as if the two men burst out of the house with drawn knives. They only needed to lower their scarves from their faces to their necks and they would seem like any other pair of fellows on foot in the city.”
It was a chilly night, the moon slender and shrouded, and soon they parted. Lenox told Nicholson that he meant to look into Asiatic Limited—something about that hold on the Gu
He arrived back at Hampden Lane with his heart beating more quickly than usual, wondering whether he should send Jane and Sophia and the servants down to the country for a little while, shut the house altogether, and take a room at the Savoy himself.
He was ruminating on this idea as the carriage turned into his street, and to his surprise he saw that his house looked busy inside and out. For a moment—one of the worst of his life—he thought they might be the police, that it might be a crime scene, but then he saw that they were workmen.
He mounted the steps of his own house as a stranger might, passed on either side by men who were busy with—well, with what? Some were carrying parcels, other tools. Several were propping up a tall ladder.
“Jane?” he called as he entered the house.
He found her in the dining room, consulting with a gray-haired gentleman in a suit. “Charles,” she said, “there you are. This is Mr. Clemons—shake his hand if you like, yes—he’ll be making our house secure.”