“Will you?” said Edmund. “Excellent! I really am delighted to hear it. May I help?”
“We’ll see,” said Lenox. “There’s Dallington now.”
“You know, I’ve been asking for years if I could be your apprentice, Charles,” said Edmund with a frown.
“It would scarcely have suited,” said Lenox with a smile. He realized that for the moment he wasn’t thinking of Roodle in Parliament.
“It will be a diversion, I hope, from your regret.”
“About the election?” Lenox shrugged. “It stings a little, but I’m a grown man, after all. I can accommodate a little pain. My life hasn’t been so hard.”
“No,” said Edmund. “That’s true, and you have a great deal to look forward to. Your marriage.”
“Yes.”
Edmund’s eyes narrowed. “Has something happened?”
“Because I’m not as effusive as you?” Lenox took a sip of coffee. The pub was filling up with early customers. One of the lessons of Stirrington for him had been that there was no hour at which a pint of beer was inappropriate. “No, nothing has happened.”
Edmund stared hard at him. “Really?”
Lenox sighed. “Well — perhaps. It’s so minor I shouldn’t mention it, but she said — well, that she has doubts.”
“What sort of doubts?”
“I can’t say, really. Perhaps that we’ve known each other too short a time,” he added rather lamely, wishing he hadn’t said anything at all.
“You’ve known each other for hundreds of years.”
“So I told her. It
“It was a shock to her system,” said Edmund. “Women and men alike are subject to these things. I was nervous — exceedingly nervous — before I married Molly.”
“I recall,” Lenox answered, smiling at the thought of his brother soused to the gills and alternately saying he wanted to marry Molly that instant or flee to the depths of the Orient.
“I know what you’re thinking. Don’t talk to me about China, there’s a chap,” said Edmund with a grimace. “Listen, shall we walk around town a bit before we get the train back? Put a good face on things?”
“Of course,” said Lenox. He hailed and gave her a few coins.
“Ah, Mr. Lenox — before I forget, it’s another telegram for you. You’ll wear the machine out, you know,” she said.
“Thanks, Lucy.”
He tore it open and read it quickly, then went completely white.
“My God, what is it, Charles?” said Edmund.
He looked up. “It’s from Jenkins. Exeter is dead.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Christ,” said Edmund, sitting forward in his chair. “Can it be true? From all I had heard his wounds weren’t that severe.” Lenox shook his head, frowning, as he pored over the note. “Apparently he worsened overnight. An infection reached his blood, and he died quickly.” He looked up. “I hope not painfully.”
“What was he like, Inspector Exeter?”
“Did you never meet him? A bluff chap, proud — as a policeman he was determined and hardworking but never imaginative. He was a bully, I’m afraid. No use eulogizing him. Still, say this for Exeter,” said Lenox, thinking of the few times they had worked together, “he was always on the side of the law. He wanted what was best for London. People forget that Scotland Yard is still a young institution, bound to make its own mistakes before it improves.”
“Yes,” said Edmund.
Lenox shifted uneasily. “It’s a selfish thing to say, but I hope he wasn’t shot because of the case. I feel a sense of foreboding about my return to London.”
“It hadn’t even occurred to me,” said Edmund, a look of concern on his face. “Good heavens. Well, it’s simple enough — you mustn’t do anything more about the murders.”
Lenox shook his head. “No. I can’t do that. If Poole is guilty, I have to confirm it; if Poole is innocent, I have to prove it. I’ve deferred Dallington’s requests, but I cannot any longer. He saved my life, remember.”
“For which we’re all in his debt — but surely he wouldn’t want you to go about risking what he had saved, would he?”
“I’m afraid I must do what I think is right, Edmund.”
With a sigh, he answered, “Yes, you must.”
“Come, let’s go see Stirrington. The election doesn’t seem such a serious thing any longer, somehow.”
The two brothers spent the midday walking around town. At first they were somber and discussed the implications of Exeter’s death, but life is fluid in its nature, and it’s a rare mind that cannot cope with death, however sudden, however sorrowful. Soon their congenial natures took over, and they conversed as they were wont to do. Something funny happened, too — all day long people walked up to Lenox and congratulated him, as if he had won. Almost nobody offered condolences. He remembered that it was something in itself to run, to push the democracy along, and felt slightly better.
Soon enough it was time for the train. Graham had packed Lenox’s things, and all that remained left to do was say good-bye to Crook; he had already parted with Sandy Smith, promising to keep in touch and inviting Smith to visit him should he ever happen to be in the capital.
He ducked his head into the Queen’s Arms while Edmund smoked a pipe in the sun, but Crook was absent from the bar. Lucy, ever helpful, told him that Crook had asked that Lenox be referred to his house next door. So the detective went to the small house and made his way again into Nettie’s parlor. The maid went off to fetch Crook, and for the last time Lenox looked over Nettie’s embroidery and her watercolors, and he felt strangely moved by it all. It was an honor to have been accepted by these people. He was glad he had done it, win or lose. There had been so much generosity toward him, where there might have been suspicion or indifference.
“Well, how do you do, Mr. Lenox?” said Crook, coming into the room. He settled his great heft into a deep armchair and set about lighting his pipe. “Do you want a cup of tea or a cake?”
“We have to catch the train, unfortunately, and I can’t linger. Thank you, though.”
“Do you regret having come to Stirrington?”
“On the contrary, I was only just thinking how glad I was that I had.”
Crook furrowed his brow. “I’ll never understand how we lost, Mr. Lenox.”
“However it was, it was despite your efforts, Mr. Smith’s efforts, your friends’ efforts.”
“And your own. I mean it, though — we ought to have won. Really. It puzzles me more the more I think about it.”
“In any event.”
“I hope you take fond memories away, anyhow, and perhaps even visit again.”
“I shall,” said Lenox.
Crook stood up. “Well, I suppose you had better be on your way.”
Lenox stood up and felt the queer consciousness that he would never lay eyes on Crook again, though for two weeks they had been in constant conference, even friends. He tried to treat the moment with the dignity it demanded.
“Good-bye,” he said, “and thank you for everything you have done. I shall never forget it.”
“Thank you, Mr. Lenox. Next time, eh?”
On the train several hours later Lenox, Edmund, and Graham shared a medium-sized compartment and soon littered it with their newspapers and books. Edmund had read for an hour or so and then, because of his overnight train ride, had fallen asleep. Graham was taking a thorough inventory of the news (the train carried that morning’s papers), and Lenox spent his time reading and glancing out the window.
He had said the election didn’t seem as important after Exeter’s death, but despite the nobility of that
