“And his family?”
“He was my second cousin, of course.”
“Other than you?”
“His mother is dead — which, thank God, if you don’t mind me — and his father has been dead many years. Half of the doors in Plumbley were open to him, of course, by way of cousinship or friendship.”
“Who was he close to?”
“The lads his age, of the Royal Oak, I suppose.”
Lenox made another note. He was circling back inward now, slowly beginning to despair of finding any clue here on the green. “And the man who found the body …”
Here was the most interesting fact of the case. Oates’s face, which Lenox glanced up to see, darkened. “Captain Musgrave, yes.”
“He is amenable to being interviewed, I suppose, this afternoon?”
“He had damned well better be.”
“Then perhaps we should go there directly. I can see nothing on the green itself of much interest. Unless —”
“Mr. Lenox?”
They were in the corner of the green closest to the church and the police station next door, meaning they were also close to Weston’s rooms. “Where is his doorway? Does he have one from the outside?”
Oates pointed to a small alcove behind an iron gate in the police building. “Just there.”
Lenox started to walk the line, examining the ground as minutely as he had examined the green. The deputies around this part of the green made way for him, men he didn’t recognize. “Was he found in shoes, or barefoot? In nightdress, or in a suit of clothes?”
“In shoes, and in a suit of clothes.”
“Suggestive.” His eyes were glued to the ground. “Had anyone seen him at the pubs?”
“No, and I know that he went to his rooms after we knocked off, at six or so. Said he was tired.”
“There you are!”
“Sir?”
Lenox was stooped over. Just by the iron gate was a small pile of cigar ends. Carefully he picked one up. “These are the cigars he smoked, as I recall — correct? Yes? He was in shoes and clothing, you say, at such an hour of the night. I think we may conclude that he was waiting for someone. For at least twenty minutes or so, judging by how much he smoked. On the other hand there are no cigar ends on the green. Either he stopped smoking or the meeting was short.”
Oates seemed to go pale. “If Weston was waiting to meet someone — does that mean he knew his murderer?”
Lenox nodded. “I fear so.”
“It may have been the vandal himself who asked him to meet,” said Oates.
“The thought had crossed my mind. Come, I want a look at his rooms now.”
“Yes, sir.”
Suddenly, with a spark of comprehension, he knew what it was that had been bothering him all day, that vexing near-thought that had thrummed in his brain. “Oates,” he said.
“Sir?”
“Something occurs to me. About Weston and the vandalisms.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The date today, do you know what it is?”
Oates’s face crunched with confusion, until it dawned on him what Lenox meant. “That Roman numeral, the bastards,” he said. “It’s the twenty-second, isn’t it?”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Before they went into the rooms where Constable Weston had lived, Lenox had a thought. He walked toward Fripp, who was positioned in sight of his storefront. “Will you do me a service?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Fripp immediately.
“You’re here every day. Would you knock on doors in the square, whether you like the people behind ’em or not, and ask if they saw anything strange last night? Oates has already canvassed them, but a second try can’t hurt.”
The fruit-and-vegetable man nodded. “If they saw anything you’ll hear of it.”
“Thank you, Mr. Fripp.”
The rooms Weston had occupied in life lay directly behind the police station, through a large walnut door or, alternatively, through the side gate where the cigar ends had been dropped. Lenox and Oates took this second point of entry.
There were two rooms, as bare and tidy as monks’ cells, leading one into the other. In the first there was a small round table with three much-scratched chairs around it, a comfortable armchair by a grate, the coals in it half-gray, still usable, and along one wall a shelf of thirty or forty illustrated novels. Lenox flipped through these carefully, looking for odd scraps of paper, but Weston had evidently been too organized for that.
“I take it he liked these stories?”
Oates nodded toward the book Lenox was holding. “That one, there, was his favorite. Dick Turpin.”
The illustrations were garish and violent. Dick Turpin had been England’s most famous highwayman during the century before this one, and his tale was still widely told. Oates was right; the spine of this book was creased from use. “Most of the books are about criminals.”
“He never wanted anything but to be a police officer,” said Oates. He spoke stiffly.
“Then I am heartily glad he was able to do it, while he was alive.”
“I suppose.”
On the walls of this first room there was only one framed image, a mezzotint showing the cathedral at Salisbury. “Constable,” said Lenox.
“Sir?” said Oates, who was standing behind him.
This play on words had been inadvertent; instead of trying to explain, he said, “Is there a kitchen attached? I see he has the leftovers of a meal here.”
Indeed, there was a plate with lamb and peas sitting on the table, as well as half a candle and another illustrated novel, this one about the thief-taker Jonathan Wild. It was marked with a blank scrap of paper.
The second room, like the first, was largely vacant but not without its comforts. There was a soft bed, still made, presumably, from the day before — Weston had never gotten into it before his meeting in the small hours. Lenox knelt to the ground and looked beneath. Stored there was a stout low-slung trunk, which, when opened, proved to contain his clothes, nothing else. On the nightstand was another book.
“The world can ill afford to lose such a reader,” Lenox muttered.
“Yes.”
“And yet—”
“Sir?”
Lenox sighed. “I hope these tales of adventure didn’t tempt him into some rash or reckless crack at heroism.”
“Such as?”
“Meeting the vandal alone, for instance. Would he have come to you?”
“Oh, certainly. He was never a rebellious sort, you know. Very respectful.”
“Mm.”
The walls in this room were entirely bare, and the only remaining furniture in the room was a desk. It had no drawers, but on top was a stack of papers. “Shall I look through those?” said Oates. “Him being my cousin.”
“I think we had better both do it,” said Lenox.
The constable looked pained. “But it seems wrong, don’t it, to—”
