Home by Nightfall by Charles Finch Page A

you leave Mr. Hadley’s house?” he asked.
    â€œAt five o’clock,” she said. “Same as every day, sir.”
    â€œWhen you left, was there anything chalked on the steps of the house?”
    She shook her head, face firm. “No, sir. Absolutely not. I would have seen. I always sweep the steps, last thing, before I go.”
    â€œWas the day unusual in any way?”
    â€œNone at all, sir.”
    She had so far evinced no desire to know who they were, or why they were questioning her—apparently Hadley’s presence was enough to vouchsafe them—but now Lenox said, “We’re hoping to get to the bottom of this missing bottle of sherry.”
    She quite mistook his tone—and perhaps felt herself worried that she would have to pay the bill of the doctor, who was known to travel in a coach led by a horse, too, and she flushed red and said, “I never took it! I swear it before Jesus Christ our savior himself!”
    â€œMrs. Watson, be calm, please,” Hadley said. “These gentlemen don’t think you stole anything.”
    â€œI didn’t!” she said.
    â€œI’m very sorry,” Lenox said. “I ought to have phrased it differently: We believe someone stole the sherry, not you, and hope that with your help we might find the person.”
    â€œI didn’t steal it.”
    â€œWe have no suspicion whatsoever that you did,” said Lenox, though from the corner of his eye he could see that Edmund did.
    Ah, that was different, Mrs. Watson said; she would be only too happy to help. She poured more tea into Lenox’s cup.
    It was at this moment that the sound of hooves came clicking up the small street, and a moment later a small fly led by a single horse arrived at the door. Dr. Stallings dismounted from the conveyance. They waited for him in the doorway, and he inclined a deep bow toward Edmund.
    â€œSir Edmund,” he said. Then he turned to Charles. He was a round, very well dressed man, bald but for a fringe of hair around his ears, with half-moon spectacles. He gave Lenox a slightly shallower bow. “Mr. Lenox. I hope that the reports in town are correct, and I may be the first to congratulate you on your permanent return to the county. For your health, you could not have chosen more intelligently.”
    â€œI’m only here for a visit,” Lenox said, but Stallings had already turned toward Hadley and was addressing him.
    Mrs. Watson, driven to distraction by this accumulation of distinguished visitors (Had the physic said Sir Edmund? she muttered to herself, to herself but audible to all), spoke in a long, ceaseless, meaningless rattle, whose gist eventually shepherded the doctor into her overheated kitchen.
    Lenox knew that Stallings was a fair physician. He radiated the complaisant good cheer of a man whom life had treated kindly—who hadn’t missed a meal in many years, nor lost a bet, nor thrown a shoe, nor shed a tear.
    The doctor approached the patient very gravely, sat in the chair next to him, and proceeded to make a considerable examination of him, as they all looked silently on: pulse; temperature; responsiveness of the eyes; examination of the gums; test of the reflexes; and much more beside.
    At the end of his inspection, he patted the boy on the arm, stood up, turned toward the adults in the room, and said, in a loud, clear voice, “He’s faking.”
    â€œFaking?” said Edmund.
    â€œYes. Faking, shamming, putting it on. However you prefer to put it. He’s in more or less perfect health. His most serious ailment at the moment is the castor oil I believe he may have swallowed. Was it as an emetic, young man? Well, never mind. I hope you have managed to avoid whatever you wished to avoid. I will wish you good day, Mrs. Watson … Mr. Hadley … Mr. Lenox … Sir Edmund.”
    â€œGood day,” Edmund said. “The bill to me, mind you.”
    â€œOf