Lenox frowned. “Who are the other inhabitants of the house?”
“There are a butler, a parlor maid, and a cook. All of them have been with Arthur Waugh since he moved into the Priory, which is what he calls the house.”
“They predate her, then?”
“Yes.”
“And all three swore that the first Mrs. Waugh fell to her death?”
Dallington’s eyes were screwed up tight in concentration. “Tell me, what are you getting around to?”
Lenox shrugged. “I’m not certain myself, to be honest.”
“What would any of the servants stand to gain from Arthur Waugh’s death, if it comes to that?”
“I don’t know. I would only say — and from this very comfortable chair, with a glass of port at hand, which is not the same thing as being in the mix of things as you have been — that he seems perhaps to have had a complicated relationship with these three people. The butler, the maid, and the cook.”
“Yes.”
“Let me ask you a question: Did Florence Waugh fall ill, after supper?”
“In fact she did, though her complaint was very mild. She hadn’t eaten much.”
A thought formulated in Lenox’s head. Slowly, he said, “Perhaps there’s another angle to look at it from, in that case — what if she was the target?”
Dallington whistled. “You believe the servants were trying to kill her? And made a hash of it?”
“Perhaps they mixed up the meals, yes. Or perhaps they were trying to kill both Waugh and his wife! Could they have stood to gain from the two deaths in conjunction? Are they remembered in Waugh’s will, perhaps, and is he the automatic recipient of anything she leaves behind? He’s a solicitor — it should be written up somewhere.”
Dallington was writing furiously in his small notebook. “You’re a pip,” he said. “I hadn’t considered any of that.”
Lenox shrugged. “It may be a blind alley, of course, but when there is a large sum of money attached to the scene of a crime, it’s often as well to look at the money from every angle.”
“First thing in the morning I shall go and look at Waugh’s will, and Florence Waugh’s too.”
Lenox smiled. “Not a late night here, then?”
“D’you know, when I’m on a case I find that I never come here other than to dine with you. Funny, that.”
The waiter came in then and cleared away the table. The rain still lashed violently at the windows, while inside the two men smoked their small cigars.
“It’s nearly ten,” said Lenox with a sigh. “I suppose I had best be off home, soon. Have you any other case at present?”
“I don’t. Have you heard of anything?”
“Nothing, no. Ah, but I tell a lie — my uncle has written from Somerset, complaining of vandals in his village. You know how it is in places like that. If they find themselves sixpence shy of the usual tally in the church collection they cry out for Scotland Yard as if Jack the Ripper has moved in above the local pub.”
Dallington laughed. “Are you going to look into it?”
“No, no. I’m far too busy in Parliament. There will be an up-and-down vote on the naval bill in three weeks’ time, among other things. I can’t chase about after a gang of bored schoolboys on their hols.”
Dallington smiled gently. “And yet you miss it?”
“Can you tell so easily? I don’t mind confessing that I rather do. I’d be curious to clap eyes on this Florence Waugh. For one thing, how did she grow so rich? Is there a dead husband in her history?”
“No. I asked, in fact, and verified her story. Her father was a brewer in Birmingham and brought her to London after he retired. Died two or three years ago, and entailed all the money very specifically upon her and her heirs. Unusual, you see.”
“Quite so.”
As his carriage rolled him over the cobblestones toward home, the rain somewhat abated but still steady, the night fearsomely cold for so early in September, Lenox thought about his old profession. He had had cause to renew his endeavors in detection twice: once for a friend, once on board a ship bound for Egypt, when of course no member of the constabulary was close to hand. Those cases had been a few years apart, years that had seen him married and, now, a father. In truth he was out of the game.
His meetings with Dallington always filled him with a strange blend of regret and pride. Lenox’s father and brother had both taken the family seat in the House, and served with great distinction — in fact his brother was one of the Prime Minister’s leading confidants at the moment — and he was pleased to join their ranks. Many members of his small social world had looked upon his work as a detective as folly, more embarrassing than admirable, and though he had put a brave face on the embarrassment he was glad to be distanced from it. There again, he knew Jane was happy, too, for his change of career, though she didn’t mention it. It meant an end to the knives and beatings and guns he had encountered through the years.
He also loved politics, but for all his pleasure in the long debates and the hushed hallway conversations of his present life, Lenox had never quite felt as viscerally engaged with Parliament as he had with crime.
The house on Hampden Lane was quiet when he returned, dark but for a flicker of light in two upper windows. Lenox entered quietly and found that his political secretary, Graham, was sitting in the hallway, waiting for him. Graham was a small, sandy-haired man, deeply intelligent; he had for many years been Lenox’s butler, but after trying and failing to find an enterprising young man to manage his political affairs, Lenox had given him this unorthodox promotion. So far it had worked beautifully.
“Have you been at the House?” said Lenox.
“Hello, sir. I thought I might catch you here. Yes, I was down with Frabbs, going over the bills for the new session.”
“I haven’t missed a meeting, have I?”
“No, but something has arisen.”
“What is it? You look grave.”
“You mistake me, sir,” said Graham. “I’ve good news.”
“What is it?”
“Mr. Hilary and Mr. Gladstone have invited you to open the speeches this session.”
Lenox’s eyes widened. “Is this a rumor? Or a confirmed fact?”
“Mr. Hilary’s secretary”—James Hilary was the young and ambitious Secretary of State for the Colonies—‘has confirmed it for a fact.”
Lenox whistled, taken aback by the news.
It was a signal honor, usually assigned to a member of the cabinet. In such a speech Lenox could lay out his own political philosophy, like Burke or Fox or Palmerston before him, and address the great issues of the day. The House would be full. His party would be reliant upon him, and all of the papers would print the speech in its entirety.
It felt like an enormous responsibility, but even as he thought as much he realized that he was ready for it. He had been in Parliament for years now, working his heart out, and there would likely never be a time when he knew more or felt more deeply passionate.
“In the past,” said Graham, “men who have given their party’s opening speech—”
“I know,” said Lenox.
Graham soldiered on. “They’ve become prime ministers, sir, cabinet members, been elevated to the House of Lords …”
Lenox smiled. “Not much to live up to, then. I suppose I had better get to work.” He turned toward his study, forgetting, for the moment, that he had intended to look in on his sleeping daughter and wife.
CHAPTER FOUR
The next day, the skies having cleared, brought instead a new kind of downpour: one of visitors. First there
