according to the local operators.”
“He might have done any of these things under a false name, however,” said Dallington.
Lenox shook his head. “Why? He spread it far and wide that he was going to Geneva. No reason to cover his trail, was there?”
“Moreover, I wired to Geneva — I haven’t had to go, because there was plenty of evidence on these shores — and he never arrived at the conference he was meant to attend,” Skaggs said.
“He might have gone anywhere on the Continent.”
“If he had left Felixstowe,” said Skaggs. “He might have gone to another port, though again, why go to the trouble of doing that? No, I firmly believe he never left England. Or London, for that matter. I think he took his carriage to the edge of town, so that everyone could see he had left, turned around, and came home with the curtains drawn over the windows. Even at night, perhaps.”
“Surely he’s in the countryside, then?” asked Dallington.
“London,” said Skaggs stubbornly.
“Why don’t you believe he left the city?”
Skaggs smiled. “Horseshoes.”
“What do you mean?” Lenox asked.
“I visited his stables. His horses’ shoes haven’t been changed for two weeks, I discovered in the course of an idle chat with the groom, and when I picked up one of their hooves there was practically no wear on the shoe. They haven’t traveled more than a few miles, I’d reckon.”
“Wonderfully done,” said Lenox, smiling.
Rather dismally, Dallington said, “I’ve much to learn, I see.”
“Why would he have pretended to leave town?” asked Lenox thoughtfully.
After half an hour or so in which the three men discussed the subject, Skaggs left, gracefully accepting Lenox’s compliments, and shortly thereafter Graham returned from Barnard’s nearby house, flushed red with the cold.
“Well?” Lenox asked.
“It’s completely dark, sir, the house. Only two maids are there, who will stay until the new tenant arrives.”
“New tenant?”
“Ah — the most consequential part of it, sir — Mr. Barnard has sold his house. The staff understood that he was retiring permanently to the country and have been telling all visitors as much. They have been packing his things for the past several days.”
The idea of Barnard living outside of London was laughable — it was his home and his solace, the center of his spiderweb, and he despised the northern life he had sloughed off when he came to the metropolis to make a success of himself.
Why, then, between Geneva and the country, was he trying so hard to persuade everybody that he was gone forever?
The three men sat and discussed it for some time before finally agreeing that they would reconvene in the morning. Lenox felt discouraged; it all seemed so opaque.
Then, in the middle of the night, long after Dallington’s departure, Lenox woke out of a dream and sat bolt upright.
Suddenly he understood it all.
“Of course,” said the detective softly. “It’s the only reason he took the job in the first place, I’d wager. The cunning fox.”
He stood up and hurriedly began to throw on clothes, in the absolute certainty that even at that moment, George Barnard was somewhere amid the wide corridors and large offices of the Royal Mint —
Robbing it.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Lenox was peering down the long, narrow stairs that led to the basement and the servants’ quarters. He had rung a bell as soon as he woke and heard noises below.
“Graham? Graham?”
“Sir?”
“Come here!”
“Just a moment, sir.”
“Hurry!”
Poor Graham, who was a deep sleeper, struggled as quickly as he could to fit into a suit and appeared a moment later.
“Yes, sir?”
Lenox explained.
“What do you propose to do, sir?”
“Go there, of course! Don’t be daft! I need you to go fetch Jenkins — there’s not a moment to lose!”
“Yes, sir. Are you certain that you wouldn’t prefer to wait for the inspector?”
“No,” said Lenox. “It will be dawn in two hours, and Barnard’ll only feel comfortable working at night — probably he’s been there every night since he supposedly left for Geneva. I only hope he isn’t gone already.”
“Are you certain of all this, sir?”
“Of course I am — he wants to make one last fortune before he leaves London, Graham. And I was also thinking as you dressed, do you remember that I found all of the articles under Barnard’s file in that pub?”
“Yes, sir.”
“One of them was about the history of the building, the layout and architecture! What if Barnard asked Carruthers to write that article, as a way of obtaining the information without asking for it himself?”
“Perhaps, sir,” said Graham doubtfully.
“Oh, bother — listen, I know it! I know his mind! He won’t be easily able to extricate his investments if he disappears, which he’s evidently chosen to do in a great hurry, and every fiber of his being will be yearning for more money! I know his mind, I tell you!”
“Yes, sir. I shall be close behind you.”
“Will you get my brown leather kit?”
“Of course, sir.”
It was a long ride east, just past Tower Bridge, to get to the Royal Mint Court in East Smithfield, and Lenox spent it contemplating the Thames through his window and slowly rubbing out the imperfections of his reasoning until it was satisfactory to him. His mind was roiling with possibilities.
At length he directed his driver to stop, one street short of his destination, and walked the rest of the way. He stopped when he saw the broad facade of the Mint; it was a long building made of limestone, with a high, stately arch at its center, a building that managed to seem at once distinguished and entirely uninteresting. A black wrought-iron gate, firmly clasped shut, stood between its courtyard and Lenox on the sidewalk. He began to walk the fence, looking for a point of access.
The Royal Mint held an exalted place in the history of England, and it had been a great pride of Barnard’s to know its history inside and out. It was Alfred the Great who had first gathered in hand the muddled system of moneyers’ workshops in Anglo-Saxon times and founded the London Mint, in 886. By 1279 the Mint was firmly entrenched in the safest single place in England — the Tower of London, where it remained for five centuries. In 1809 it had moved to a vast, golden-stoned building in East Smithfield, where it stood regal, imposing, and remarkably well guarded.
It had been a coup for George Barnard to attain the post of Master, which was traditionally held by a great scientist or an aristocrat — and occasionally, as in his case, by an important politician. (The leader of Lenox’s party
