asked his brother was whether he was on a case.
Lenox walked through St. James’s Park and then went a short distance along the Thames to Westminster.
He loved going to the Houses of Parliament. He and his brother had gone with their father as children, and he still remembered eating lunch there and watching the debates from the visitors’ galleries. These days, he often visited his brother or one of his several friends there.
The buildings had burned down in 1834, when he was a boy, and had been rebuilt over the next few years. And then they had added the tall clock, called Big Ben, only five or six yearspreviously—was it 1859? For Lenox’s money, Parliament was one of the two or three most beautiful buildings in London, in that yellowish stone unique to England, with its high towers and intricately carved walls. Its vastness alone was comforting, as if generations could rise and fall but these eight acres, these halls and rooms, would keep England safe. Nobody, on the other hand, would ever care about Big Ben.
The public, when it visited, entered at Westminster Gate, but Lenox went to a small door on the other side of the building, facing the river, and there, waiting in the hall, was Edmund. This was the members’ entrance—straight ahead, up a staircase, were the chambers of government. To the left and the right were the members’ rooms, which were closed to the public. If you took a right, you went to the dining rooms and smoking rooms of the House of Lords and the Queen Empress; to the left and you were in the branch dedicated to the House of Commons. The two brothers turned left, to Bellamy’s.
Bellamy’s was a large spacious restaurant looking over the river. Dickens had written about it—the butler Nicholas and the provocative waitress Jane—in Sketches by Boz, and their father had always told them that William Pitt’s dying words were, “Oh, for one of Bellamy’s veal pies!” It had old dark mahogany tables and smelled of cigar smoke and the waiters’ pomade. A lot of grizzled old men sat around talking grumpily, sticking as close to the fires as possible, and a lot of animated younger men took drinks at the bar.
Lenox and his brother sat at a table next to a window, under a portrait of Fox, and Edmund, staying true to form, immediately said, “Well, dear brother, and what are you working on?”
Lenox smiled. “Lovely to see you too, as always. Are young Edmund and William well? And Emily?”
“Don’t be that way, Charles, what have you got? Why, only the other day in the country we had a silver thief.”
“A silver thief! In mild Markethouse! And was he caught?”
“Well, it was not so much that there was a silver thief as that there was a matter of misplaced silver.”
“Who could have misplaced so much silver? Did you think of insurance fraud?”
“It was a fork, to be precise.”
Lenox raised his eyebrows. “One fork, you say?”
“But a serving fork, you know, so it was really quite large. And of good silver. Very well made. And old. An heirloom, really.”
“How many men were assigned to the case? Did you break up the silver ring?”
“It had fallen under a chair, you see. But I only read that the next day.”
“So it was touch and go for a turn of the sun?”
Edmund smiled. “Have your laugh.”
Lenox did laugh, and then put his hand on his brother’s arm. “Shall we order?” he said.
“Yes, yes.”
They each decided that they would have the same thing, the only thing the chef did decently: roasted mutton with new potatoes and buttered peas under, and a flood of gravy over the entire thing.
“And a bottle of claret?” said Edmund.
“Unless you have the business of the people to attend to, this afternoon?”
“No, we’re in committee.”
“Then yes.”
“Now really,” said Edmund, “stop delaying, and tell me what happened with the forgery. The Yard has refused to leak it to the press.”
“It was Isabel Lewes.”
Edmund gasped. “It
Lenox walked through St. James’s Park and then went a short distance along the Thames to Westminster.
He loved going to the Houses of Parliament. He and his brother had gone with their father as children, and he still remembered eating lunch there and watching the debates from the visitors’ galleries. These days, he often visited his brother or one of his several friends there.
The buildings had burned down in 1834, when he was a boy, and had been rebuilt over the next few years. And then they had added the tall clock, called Big Ben, only five or six yearspreviously—was it 1859? For Lenox’s money, Parliament was one of the two or three most beautiful buildings in London, in that yellowish stone unique to England, with its high towers and intricately carved walls. Its vastness alone was comforting, as if generations could rise and fall but these eight acres, these halls and rooms, would keep England safe. Nobody, on the other hand, would ever care about Big Ben.
The public, when it visited, entered at Westminster Gate, but Lenox went to a small door on the other side of the building, facing the river, and there, waiting in the hall, was Edmund. This was the members’ entrance—straight ahead, up a staircase, were the chambers of government. To the left and the right were the members’ rooms, which were closed to the public. If you took a right, you went to the dining rooms and smoking rooms of the House of Lords and the Queen Empress; to the left and you were in the branch dedicated to the House of Commons. The two brothers turned left, to Bellamy’s.
Bellamy’s was a large spacious restaurant looking over the river. Dickens had written about it—the butler Nicholas and the provocative waitress Jane—in Sketches by Boz, and their father had always told them that William Pitt’s dying words were, “Oh, for one of Bellamy’s veal pies!” It had old dark mahogany tables and smelled of cigar smoke and the waiters’ pomade. A lot of grizzled old men sat around talking grumpily, sticking as close to the fires as possible, and a lot of animated younger men took drinks at the bar.
Lenox and his brother sat at a table next to a window, under a portrait of Fox, and Edmund, staying true to form, immediately said, “Well, dear brother, and what are you working on?”
Lenox smiled. “Lovely to see you too, as always. Are young Edmund and William well? And Emily?”
“Don’t be that way, Charles, what have you got? Why, only the other day in the country we had a silver thief.”
“A silver thief! In mild Markethouse! And was he caught?”
“Well, it was not so much that there was a silver thief as that there was a matter of misplaced silver.”
“Who could have misplaced so much silver? Did you think of insurance fraud?”
“It was a fork, to be precise.”
Lenox raised his eyebrows. “One fork, you say?”
“But a serving fork, you know, so it was really quite large. And of good silver. Very well made. And old. An heirloom, really.”
“How many men were assigned to the case? Did you break up the silver ring?”
“It had fallen under a chair, you see. But I only read that the next day.”
“So it was touch and go for a turn of the sun?”
Edmund smiled. “Have your laugh.”
Lenox did laugh, and then put his hand on his brother’s arm. “Shall we order?” he said.
“Yes, yes.”
They each decided that they would have the same thing, the only thing the chef did decently: roasted mutton with new potatoes and buttered peas under, and a flood of gravy over the entire thing.
“And a bottle of claret?” said Edmund.
“Unless you have the business of the people to attend to, this afternoon?”
“No, we’re in committee.”
“Then yes.”
“Now really,” said Edmund, “stop delaying, and tell me what happened with the forgery. The Yard has refused to leak it to the press.”
“It was Isabel Lewes.”
Edmund gasped. “It
Similar Books
