“Of course.”
“That was where he dished himself,” said Dallington. “He’d have been better off washing it and putting it back in his drawer.”
“It might still have been matched to Weston’s wounds, however,” said Lenox.
“Throwing it into the woods, then.”
“It was foolish, but one can imagine his reasoning. Musgrave was already suspected in Plumbley, and indeed made himself the prime suspect by fleeing the village altogether. The knife must have seemed like the final clue that would decide me — all of us — against Musgrave.”
“I have a question. If Wells wanted Carmody to tell us about the horses, why did Oates pass him over?” asked Dallington.
Lenox shrugged, but Frederick knew. “They hadn’t had time to speak yet. Wells mentioned that. Said he would have told Oates to bring Carmody to you later that day.”
They talked for an hour more, perhaps two, smoothing over all the details of the case to their satisfaction, until it clicked together like a puzzle in all of their minds.
By now it was getting late. The wind whistled outside, the rain tapped the windows: It was a good night for a heavy sleep. “I suppose I had better retire,” said Lenox at last. “Certainly you should, Uncle Freddie.”
“Oh, I don’t need as much sleep these days, and my head hardly smarts at all. John, will you sit up with me for another glass of hot wine? I wouldn’t mind something else to eat, either.”
They were the kindest and least reserved words the squire had spoken directly to the young lord, who smiled — he loved to be liked, and hated to have a bad reputation, though he always seemed to acquire one anyhow. Still, here was a chance; perhaps his ignominious arrival at Everley could be forgotten. “With great pleasure,” he said. “It was the finest toasted cheese I’ve ever had.”
“Mustard is the key,” said Frederick as if revealing one of the secrets of the ages.
Lenox looked at him fondly and then rose. “I shall leave you to it. Good night, gentlemen.”
Just as he reached the door, however, the butler appeared again.
“Nash?” said Freddie.
“It is a telegram, sir. For you and Mr. Lenox.”
Frederick took it. He absorbed its contents quickly and crumpled it in his hand, eyes on the far wall. “It’s from Archer,” he said. “They’ve found Oates.”
“But not Wells?” asked Dallington.
Frederick shook his head. “Oates was shot dead not far from the Wild Bear. They discovered his body a few hours ago. There’s no sign of Wells at all.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
The shock was over quickly; it couldn’t have been plainer what had happened. Dallington said it. “He wanted all the money for himself.”
“And Oates was in no condition for conspiracy, with his drinking and his chatter,” added Frederick. “Down to Gehenna or up to the throne, he travels fastest who travels alone.”
Lenox shook his head. “Poor soul. It is probably for the best, after all. He was ill-conditioned to live with a bad conscience.”
Indeed, what had been the point of all this? It was hard to imagine a life more comfortable than Oates’s; he lacked a wife but he had friends and family, a decent job of good work. Men like Wells, men of ambition, Lenox could understand their turning to crime. But Oates?
He went upstairs with a heavy heart, and knocked on the door to make sure he wasn’t interrupting Jane. “It’s Charles,” he said.
He heard her lovely voice. “Imagine you knocking, Charles! Come in! I have just been to see Sophia, she is blooming — has no idea what kind of day her father had. You could not call her very interested in the affairs of others yet. I’m afraid in fact that she’s rather a narcissist.”
Lenox laughed and they met halfway across the room, where she leaned up to kiss him. “As we rode home I was thinking how sad it shall be when we can no longer spend as much time with her. Or when I cannot, in plain truth.”
“What do you mean?”
“A mother always has a place in a nursery, but I don’t believe I know a father who sees much of his children, at any rate not for longer than an hour in the evenings. That was as much as Ed and I saw of our father, though we loved him more than the world. Every day that she gets older I feel as if I am coming to the end of a wonderful voyage.”
“She’s only a few months old, Charles.”
“You’re right. There’s time yet.”
She heard him, and leaned her head into his chest. “We can be any kind of parents we like,” she said, though both knew it was not precisely true.
“Yes. Perhaps I will make her have breakfast with me in the mornings, and convention be damned.”
She laughed. “I call that a fine plan, but how are you feeling, my dear? Come, sit with me, I can put my feet under your legs — they’re cold.”
“I’m tired, but fair enough otherwise. Oates though — I have not told you of Oates.”
He did, and she reacted with the same surprise, quickly trailed by comprehension, that the men had downstairs.
When Lenox had arrived home — covered in mud, with Chalmers’s blood still upon him, and in Lady Jane’s hand a telegram from the West Buckland constable that offered just enough information to scare her — his wife had been sitting by the pond outside the house, waiting to greet him in an uncontained flurry of grief and worry. She was a woman who seldom wanted for strength. When she had ascertained that he was alive she had ordered a bath for Lenox, had cleared the drawing room so that Eastwood could consult with Frederick, and had arranged for food and drink all around.
Once Lenox had rested for a while they sat together on this sofa for an hour or two, until at last she was satisfied that he was here — corporate, solid, unharmed — and then she had given him an embrace and sent him downstairs, to speak with Dallington and Frederick.
Now her worry was back, he could tell. “Are you quite unhappy?” he asked.
“I like it much better when you are sitting on the benches in the House, dozing off, without much more danger than crossing the street to bother you.” She paused. “Francine Hudson lost Jonathan last year, you know.”
“I remember.”
“She is still in black, of course. And their child only two.”
“I’m not a soldier in India, however, Jane. That is the flaw in your analogy, I have spotted it for you.”
She smiled weakly. “Very humorous, I’m sure.”
He took her in his arms. “I love you,” he said.
“I love you, too,” she said.
When he woke the next morning he was sore and sorrowful, but two pieces of good news greeted him when he went down to the dining room for breakfast.
Frederick was there — feeling very well, thank you, no the head is slightly sore but not too painful — and put down his gardening journal when Lenox entered. “Chalmers is well, according to your veterinarian. No fever. Eastwood is on his way over later today.”
“That is excellent.”
“And if you believe in good omens, here is one: Sadie has returned.”
Lenox was in the midst of lifting a piece of toast to his mouth, but it stopped in midair. “Sadie? Your horse?”
Frederick smiled. “The very one.”
“She must have been thirty miles away!”
