Dallington and Frederick had been sitting in armchairs by the fireplace; now Lenox took their spot, though not before pouring himself a healthy tot of whisky from the table of bottles nearby. He rang the bell and requested a spoon, some small boxes, and some string, and when they arrived he carefully apportioned a small amount of the powder into two separate parcels, writing a note to go with each, one to Dr. Eastwood, which he would send down in the morning, and one that would travel to London and McConnell. The notes asked if either doctor could identify the powder. He had more faith that his friend would arrive at the answer, but of course Eastwood was closer by.
After he had accomplished this he took the knife and made up a second package for his friend, and included a note, on a piece of blue-bordered Everley writing paper, that said, simply,
He rang again — for Nash, this time, the butler — and handed him the parcels. When this was just done, Dallington returned to the library. He sat down in the other armchair, eyes on his notes, without as much as a glance at the table of alcohol. Funny, that. Lenox had known men who were saintly fathers and husbands but couldn’t be within fifteen yards of a quarter pot of beer without becoming different creatures, while Dallington, if he had work in front of him, seemed entirely indifferent toward his intermittent vice.
“Where shall I begin?” he asked.
“First of all tell me what you did when you left this morning,” said Lenox.
“Did Oates tell you I sat with Fontaine for a while?”
“No. Did Oates himself let you in?”
“No, he’s got a temporary constable, a man named Hutchinson who has a small farm nearby. Apparently his son can operate the place for a few weeks without much disruption.”
“Did Fontaine speak?”
“Not to me. I tried all of the old tricks you taught me,” said Dallington. “I told him about myself. I misstated a few facts about Paris, where I’ve been — to see if he would correct me.”
“Did you have a pack of cards?”
“Yes, and I dealt out a hand of Beggar-Your-Neighbor, thinking he had to know it. I even started playing for both of us, and he looked down at the cards but he refused to take the bait.”
“That was a dry well, then.”
“Quite so. I had a bit more luck on his background, however.”
Lenox took a sip of his whisky. “How did you proceed?”
“I went out to the farm where he worked. There were half a dozen Frenchmen there, and when I saw them I can tell you that my heart fell, thinking that they would all be mum on their compatriot’s behalf. As it happened, they couldn’t talk quickly enough. His wife was first in line.”
“Why?”
“They dislike Fontaine. He came over because his cousin worked here, a man named Theodore Celine. Celine died last winter of consumption, but Fontaine stayed on. He was a good laborer, apparently, and in the early stages anyhow, a good husband. Lately he’s been cruel to her, however, sullen and violent with the others, and skived his work.”
“But he had a great deal of money when he was arrested, didn’t he?”
“That’s what’s odd,” said Dallington. “Six months’ wages, easily. Some of it was bad coin, some good — that’s one of the charges they have him up on in Bath, in addition to disturbance of the peace, a row with the constable, refusal to pay his bill at a chop house, and public indecency. Apparently he had a prostitute out with him in one of the nicer streets in Bath and was trying to redeem his payment then and there. She was — let me look at my notes—‘quite a decent one, too,’ according to the man in Bath, which I think is a testament to her long standing in town and relative modesty rather than to her professional skill. I laughed at that nevertheless.”
“You went to Bath? Very thoroughly managed, John.”
“Thank you,” said Dallington, with a diffidence that seemed to betray, to Lenox at least, an ardent hope for redemption. “Shall I tell you what they said in Bath, or shall I—”
“No, tell me what they said on the farm.”
“They didn’t know why he had such an unusual amount of money, but they were certain that he came by it foully. He spends his wages the instant he gets them apparently. As do they all, in fairness.”
“None of them had an idea how he got them? His wife?”
“She only said that he was absent more than usual.”
“It’s a wonder he wasn’t fired.”
“It was for-hire work, not a permanent position.”
“Evicted, then?”
“His wife and her two cousins, also French, live in the house. A hovel, really, you would call it. I felt badly for them with the winter coming up. Not a switch of wood to be seen.”
“Who is the landlord?”
“Yates.”
“Yes, I always heard he was a hard man. Did they give you any other information?” Lenox asked.
“I asked whether he could ride a horse. He could.”
“Well done.”
“I also asked whether he spoke of any business in town. He hadn’t. On the other hand they knew that he came into the money on the morning he was arrested, some three weeks ago, because he had been boasting about it for a few days beforehand quite brazenly.”
“So it’s a recent job. How do the dates line up with the vandalisms?”
“He was arrested after the first, before the second two. So he might have been involved, but he wasn’t the chief actor, I suppose you could say.”
“Still, it’s telling.”
“Do you think so?” asked Dallington hopefully.
“Money and crime are rarely cohabitants of the same neighborhood at random. What did they tell you in Bath?”
“Not much, sadly. I asked around at the places he spent his money, too, hoping that the alcohol had loosened his lips, but no such luck.”
“Well, it’s inconclusive, then.”
Dallington mastered a look of disappointment on his face, and said, “I thought so, too. I had hoped it might dovetail with something you learned.”
“It still may. I think it a promising lead, don’t you?”
“I don’t know enough of the case to say. Perhaps you would fill me in.”
Lenox stood up and poured himself another splash of whisky. “Would you like a glass?” he asked.
“Not just at the moment,” said Dallington.
Lenox sat down again and described the stages of the case to his apprentice more comprehensively than he had before. Just as he was reaching Carmody’s account of the horses, his story was cut short by the door of the library flying open.
It was Frederick.
“It’s happened again,” he said.
Lenox and Dallington both rose, alarmed. “Not another murder?” Lenox asked.
“No, no,” said Frederick. “Another vandalism has happened, and they nearly caught the man who did it. Come with me, I’ll tell you on the way.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Lenox realized he hadn’t seen Jane or Sophia since he came back to the house, and as Frederick led them through the front hall he asked for word to be sent up that he had come and gone again already. Part of him — the part that had consumed three fingers of whisky, in all likelihood — yearned to stay in, to stall the adventure by a few hours of sleep. It had been a long day.
