had come to stay with Barnard while the two men discussed issues of the mint, I believe, and also because they are close friends in the circles in which they move.”
“Anything peculiar? I know him, more or less.”
“One thing, sir. This may or may not be related to the case, but Mr. Soames, according to the latest reports, is in dire financial straits.”
“Soames! But he’s a bachelor with a fair property, I believe. The House doesn’t pay him, of course, but his constituency must.”
“I fear not, sir. And I hear his property is mortgaged.”
Lenox frowned. He had known Jack Soames for two decades, perhaps longer: a large fair-haired man and former athlete who was well-liked, if not entirely respected, by his acquaintances.
“There was also,” Graham said, “one more political figure in the house, sir.”
“Who is it? Disraeli, I suppose you’ll say, and he owes his tailor two shillings.”
“No, sir, Newton Duff.”
Lenox frowned again. “Duff? Really? Seems so unlikely.”
“He has been there a week. As you know, sir, he is not well-liked, even by members of his own party, but he has been, from what I understand, an effective politician—”
“An understatement. He carried the India bill by sheer will.”
“He may have some political business with Mr. Barnard, sir.”
“He may. Is he meant to stay until the ball?”
“Yes, sir. Although he has his own lodgings, too, from what I understand.”
“I see.”
Newton Duff was, like Soames, a large man, but the resemblance ended there. Soames was fair, Duff was dark; one was friendly, the other gruff; one was ineffective, the other was furiously effective; one was known to drink and dissipate, the other was of an iron constitution. Soames and Duff under one roof?
“And is he impoverished, Graham?”
“On the contrary, sir, he grew immensely richer this week because of the positive turn in the stock market.”
“He trades?”
“Heavily, I understand, sir. I believe his largest holdings are the Star Company and the Pacific Trust, two companies that deal in speculation on overseas goods. In fact, I think both Mr. Duff and Mr. Soames have some relationship to the Pacific company; it might bear looking into.”
“No, I think the answer is probably closer to home. It doesn’t sound like much of a time, between Soames, who’s always drunk, and Duff, who growls if you look at him, and this lad Eustace Bramwell, who’s no doubt covered with spots and wears thick glasses. Did Barnard seek out any better company?”
“There is the other nephew, sir.”
“The other?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Lady Jane always says that nephews are a plague, sent to humble us before God, Graham.”
“No doubt she is correct, sir.”
“What’s this one called?”
“Claude Barnard, sir. He is the son of Mr. Barnard’s younger brother, Stephen.”
“I met him.”
“Sir?”
“This morning. He swore in front of me and said it was early, even though it was eight o’clock.”
“The younger generation, sir, is notoriously lax.”
“Is this other nephew bookish, as well?”
“On the contrary, sir, he frequents the Jumpers at all hours, and it was he who paved his cousin’s way into the club. Otherwise Eustace Bramwell might have been blackballed, from what I learned, sir. Cambridge men are unpopular there.”
“Claude is popular, then?”
“Yes, sir. He is twenty-five and still studies at Oxford, but comes down to London to stay whenever the feeling takes him, or so it seems to the members of the household.”
“What does he study?”
“First he studied to enter the clergy, sir, then he changed to history and then to the study of literature.”
“Not botany?”
“No, sir.”
“It’s a shame. Unless—are he and his cousin close?”
“Not at all, sir. Beyond the effort of paving his way into the Jumpers, they barely know each other.”
“Curious.”
“Yes, sir. I understand there is some question of rivalry between Mr. Barnard’s younger sister and his younger brother, though both are on good terms with Mr. Barnard himself for self-evident reasons.”
“Rich as Croesus, twice as old.”
“Precisely, sir.”
“Although really he’s only sixty or so.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ten years ago he was only fifty. And fifty is quite young.”
“Quite, sir.”
“And who is the last guest, Graham?”
“A surprising one, sir: Colonel Roderick Potts.”
“Ah,” said Lenox. Potts. That complicated things. He was a steel manufacturer, and the richest untitled man in the whole of the British Isles.
Chapter 13
The first two days of the case had been cruelly cold, but when Lenox woke on the third morning the winter sun was shining through his windows and the sky was blue, crisp, and cloudless. The fire in his bedroom’s grate had died down, but he felt warm beneath his covers.
He lay still for a few moments, unwilling to begin the day. But at last he roused himself with the prospect of eggs and kippers—and perhaps a pot of coffee—and descended the stairs to the dining room in his robe and slippers.
Ellie, the cook, had not stinted with breakfast. Placed along the wide table, which was covered with a plain blue tablecloth, were the foods that had inspired him to get out of bed, along with toast, butter, marmalade, and a bowl of plums. Lenox happily ate his eggs, which he liked scrambled, and even took a second helping of kippers, which were, as befit Ellie’s own bias, slightly burnt.
Only when he leaned back in his chair, with a second cup of milky coffee in his right hand, did he think about the case. He ignored the morning paper, which was tucked beneath the tray of toast, and he ignored the letters that sat on the side table, knowing they would find their way to his desk that afternoon if he had not yet read them.
What did he know? A great deal and very little, it seemed to him. If he was going to speak to the residents of Barnard’s house he would have to ambush them, which was not a prospect he relished. It might be all right for Soames, and even for the gaggle of nephews, but not, probably, for Duff, although they were acquaintances. Potts was a trickier matter altogether. He might talk, and then again, as the mood took him, he might not. And clearly, Lenox had already received all the help he would get from Barnard.
And yet he knew more than Exeter, to be certain, and if he had had a few days in Barnard’s house he felt he could have solved the case. He knew the means of the murder, and he knew the source of the poison, which was, in all likelihood, Oxford. But did that point to Claude, the wild young student? Or to Eustace, who was a botanist and
