A Death in the Small Hours

was James Hilary, who substantiated the news.

He was a young man, very handsome, with blond hair and a riding stick under his arm, having apparently come by horse through Hyde Park, on his morning exercise. “I gave the speech three years ago, you know — fearful bother, hours upon hours of preparation — and once I stood up and began to declaim the thing it all seemed wrong, but there you are.”

“You did a very fine job, as I recall.”

“Ah, well, who can say. Do you know what you want to speak about, chiefly?”

“Poverty, I think.”

“Oh?”

It was the single issue that most interested Lenox, but he knew that Hilary, ambitious and powerful, would have a list of other subjects he might want raised on behalf of the party, so Lenox added, “And other things, of course, education, the navy, Ireland …”

“Ah, the general approach. Very sound. Listen, I’ll leave this here.” It was a black leather dispatch bag that bore the royal seal. “I want you to sketch yourself in on its contents before you write your speech.”

“What are its contents?”

“You’ll see soon enough.”

Lenox understood that to mean they involved state secrets. He nodded. “Thank you, James.”

The next visitor was a Tory member, Bottlesworth. He had a large, conical head, which tapered toward a magnificently hairless crown, and small round spectacles. There were also several chins gathered around his neck. Both sides of the aisle credited him with tremendous perspicacity, though as far as Lenox gathered the man only ever spoke about eating.

“The great matter is sustenance,” he said when seated, hands carefully steepled before him — when they weren’t darting out for one of the cakes the housekeeper had placed on the table in Lenox’s study. “I tell you this as a member of the opposition party, quite freely, you see, because I feel that in the end we are all pulling in the same direction. I hope we are, anyhow.”

“Hopefully,” said Lenox, and smiled.

“What you’ll find,” Bottlesworth went on, a picture of seriousness, “is that a half pint of porter is not enough to sustain you. There, the great secret of oratory, at your feet! You will need at least a pint of porter, perhaps even a pint and a half, and I have known great men, very great men indeed, to take two pints of porter, ere they speak before the House. Which is to say nothing of sandwiches, of course.”

“Of course.”

“I needn’t mention to a man of your experience and wit the importance of sandwiches.”

“No.”

“Horseradish and roast beef I find to be too upsetting to the insides. Perhaps you will have a stronger constitution than I do, though I very much doubt it.” He laughed at the idea that Lenox’s constitution might exceed his own, eyes screwed shut with merriment and spectacles bouncing. When he had recovered, he said, “What I find is that a gentle ham sandwich, even a tomato sandwich, answers capitally. You see the picture?”

When Bottlesworth had left, carrying in a handkerchief the scones that the butler had thought to bring in just before the Tory’s departure, there was almost immediately a third ring at the door.

It produced another member of Parliament, this time from Lenox’s own party. This was Phineas Trott; and where Bottlesworth found assurance and strength from victuals, Trott — a flustered, red-complected gentleman, who was thought to own more horses than any other claimant in Warwickshire — found them in hunting and the Lord. He, too, took a place upon the red couch near the fireplace.

His approach was direct. “What these speeches want in them is more of Jesus.”

“D’you think so?” said Lenox.

“I do. Country sports and Jesus — all of our problems could be solved by one of the two, Mr. Lenox.”

“Not the Suez question?”

“Jesus.”

“Education?”

“Country sports.”

“What, you want the coal miners’ children to go hunting?”

Trott frowned. “No, that wouldn’t do. Perhaps they could go beagling, though.” His face brightened. “They’ll certainly want Jesus, I can promise you that.”

In his mild way, never given over to much show, Lenox was a God-fearing Christian. Nonetheless he felt compelled to say, “I think they want better food, milk without chalk in it, and not to go to the factory at the age of five, that sort of thing.”

“Well; I suppose,” said Trott, doubtfully. “I wouldn’t put that about too much in your speech. This is England, after all, we’re not a raft of Hindoos.”

“What do you think I should say, then?”

“It starts with Jesus,” replied Trott, more firmly now. “Stick to Jesus, and country sports, and you’ll get through it very well.”

“Thank you ever so much, Mr. Trott.”

Trott went; and in his place came the worst of the lot, Lord Brakesfield. This white-haired, tenebrously attired fellow, born to a butcher in Ealing, had succeeded in making himself one of the richest men in London by exporting soap of startlingly poor quality to all of the country’s counties. The most recent New Years’ Honours had seen him receive a lordship for services to Her Majesty’s Government, and he had immediately released a soap called Brakesfield to capitalize on the notoriety of his newly bestowed name.

“Mr. Lenox, I have found in business that honesty is the best course.”

“No doubt.”

“Here is my proposal, then. I will pay you a hundred pounds if you mention Brakesfield soap in the first three paragraphs of your speech.”

Lenox almost laughed out loud. “But I don’t want a hundred pounds,” he said.

“Nonsense. Everyone wants a hundred pounds.”

“Not I.”

“You don’t?” the lord asked incredulously.

“No.”

Lenox’s guest considered this turn of affairs. “Perhaps I might raise my offer to a hundred and fifty pounds.”

“I don’t want a hundred and fifty pounds, either.”

“Hm. Your way, then, make it a hundred if you simply mention my name — don’t have to say anything about soap — but it has to be in the first two paragraphs.” The lord sat back, well-satisfied with this gambit. “Can’t say fairer than that, get the Brakesfield name out there. People know about the soap already, after all, but a mention in the opening address to the House of Commons would give it such a touch of dignity.”

“I’m afraid I won’t be able to accept your offer,” said Lenox.

After Brakesfield left — also with a handkerchief full of scones, for he had never turned down the opportunity for something free in his life — there was still another knock at the door. Lenox sighed, and felt that if the days leading to the speech would all be this way, they could have it back.

This knock, however, brought a more welcome guest: his older brother, Edmund.

“Thank God it’s you,” said Charles.

Edmund chuckled. “Have you been receiving guests?”

“You wouldn’t believe it if I told you. And a dozen more have left their cards for me down in Whitehall, Graham says, all to talk about the blasted speech. It will be the death of me.”

Edmund and Charles looked rather alike, though the older brother — the ninth baronet in his line, and the heir to Lenox House, where both had grown up — was haler; his cheeks were red and he always looked fresh from the country, which was indeed where he generally would have preferred to be. Despite that preference he had risen to be very powerful in the Commons.

“Is it you I have to thank for this opportunity?” asked the younger brother. “I’m grateful, of course.”