The Fleet Street Murders by Charles Finch Page B

said.”
    “Of course it was, Thomas. Nobody could have predicted it.”
    “Well—be that as it may.”
    “Nobody could have predicted it!” said Lenox, driven to a high tone. “Has it occurred to you that Toto asked you to leave because she feels responsible, she feels as if she disappointed you, Thomas? Good Christ, for an intelligent man . . .”
    McConnell looked chastened. “Do you think so?”
    “I know it’s not because she blames you.”
    “Well—thank you, Charles. Excuse me for arriving in that—in that state.”
    The tension in Lenox’s face relaxed slightly. “I’m pleased to have you here. Lord knows I need help.”
    “I hope I can work on your behalf.”
    “I’m running against a brewer. Roodle, his name is. Apparently not well liked, but the local attitude seems to run along devil-you-know lines.”
    “Have you any chance?”
    “Not a week ago the men who proposed I run were optimistic. Giddily optimistic, even; but Stoke’s death has lengthened my odds considerably.”
    “Did you see the Times , by the way?”
    “No, what?”
    “They ran a small piece about you and Hilary leaving in the dead of night.”
    “How funny!”
    “It referred to you as—let me remember—as ‘Charles Lenox, notable for his successful intervention in the infamous murder of Bill Dabney and the disappearance of George Payson, as well as the final capture of the so-called September Society.’ In the clubs there was quite a buzz about your campaign.”
    “What did people think?”
    “That it was celebrity chasing by the Liberals, I’m afraid. Those who knew you emphasized your long interest in politics, but the general opinion was derisive, unfortunately.”
    “I’ve dealt with worse, of course.”
    Lenox saw McConnell eye the Scotch whisky. At that moment Lucy, the energetic waitress, sailed by. “Eating, Mr. Lenox?”
    “I’d love something. Whatever looks good,” he said.
    “Straightaway.”
    “Is there much talk of Pierce and Carruthers?” asked Lenox.
    “Well—you’ll understand I haven’t been lazing about Pall Mall. I only went by my club yesterday afternoon to escape the house. I do know Shreve”—this was the McConnells’ funereal and corpulent butler—“has been censoring a great deal of below-stairs gossip. I can’t imagine there’s any more tact evident in the high houses.”
    Lenox laughed. “Of course not. Oh—I say, McConnell, would you mind if I was rude for a moment? I’ve been carrying this letter about with me all day looking for a moment to read it.”
    McConnell acceded with a wan nod. It was the letter from Lord John Dallington, who for the space of four months or so had been filling an awkward and new role; he was Lenox’s apprentice.
    It was a strange fit. Dallington was well known in London as a dissolute and disheveled, if charming, scion of the aristocracy and the eternal worry and disappointment of the Duke and Duchess of Marchmain, whose youngest son he was. The duchess was one of Lady Jane’s very closest friends, and so for years Lenox had known Dallington without ever paying him undue attention. He was a short, trim, and handsome man, whose face was unblemished by his dissipation, dark eyed and dark haired, something of a dandy; a perfect carnation always sat in his buttonhole.
    Most third sons of the aristocracy chose the military or the clergy, but Dallington, in part encouraged by his parents’ leniency, had repudiated these traditional paths and instead devoted the first years of his twenties to the Beargarden Club and pretty young girls. Then, shockingly, one day in September he had approached Lenox and requested an education in detective work. Lenox had warned the lad that it was a profession whose only rewards were internal, that it took dedication to work at a vocation held in such low esteem. Dallington pointed out that his own reputation was not high, and Lenox had taken him on. Since then, the lad had been surprisingly adept at his new