“I can do that, Mr. Lenox.”
“Excellent. Here’s five days’ wages.” He handed over nineteen shillings. “Can you begin right away?”
“Yes,” said Skaggs.
Just at that moment, a woman walked in the door, dressed in a new bonnet and an old frock and carrying an infant.
“Is this the new baby?”
“It is. Sorry for the intrusion, Mr. Lenox, it’ll only be a moment.”
Skaggs began to gesture at his wife to leave, but she paid him no mind.
“This is Emily,” she said, and offered him to Lenox. “I’ve often seen your carriage through the front window, Mr. Lenox, but never to meet. I’m Mrs. Skaggs.”
“You have my sincerest congratulations, Mrs. Skaggs.”
“Thank you, sir. It was an ’ard labor, sir, but all worth it.”
“There can be no doubt of that,” Lenox said, smiling. “But I’m afraid, if you’ll excuse me, that I must take my leave.”
“Always a pleasure to welcome you, Mr. Lenox, sir,” said Mrs. Skaggs. “Can we have the girl get ye anything?” She blushed when she said
“No, thank you, but you have my warmest wishes.” He smiled. Then he turned to the husband, who was looking plaintively at his wife, still hoping she might leave the room. “Skaggs, you’ll begin soon?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He’s staying at George Barnard’s house in Clarges Street.”
“Yes, sir, I know the spot. Straightaway.”
“Good. I’ll expect to hear from you when anything comes to light.”
“Yes, sir.”
Lenox bowed to Mrs. Skaggs, nodded toward her husband, and left them in a minor quarrel, which began as soon as he closed the door, about the sanctity of his place of business. On his way to the path he handed the girl, who was on the porch and seemingly daunted by her responsibilities, a sixpence. She curtsied and blushed.
Skaggs was a man who could assume either an air of respectability or an air of disrepute, which made him infinitely useful, and he had ways that Lenox did not of squirreling into situations. For a day or two, at any rate, he could ease his mind about Potts.
The other members of the house? Barnard he could never question. But he would try to waylay Soames tomorrow, perhaps at the Parliament—Lenox was to eat again with his brother, who was so rarely in town; they had agreed after yesterday’s lunch—and he felt sure that he could question Soames in a way that didn’t appear to be a questioning.
Duff would be a harder matter.
There were a few hours until he was due to have tea with Lady Jane, and no way to fill them effectively. He had done what he could for the day thus far; at least until Graham explained what he had learned from the servants about Prue Smith.
Chapter 18
Once every so often—not frequently enough to call it a habit but not infrequently enough to call it a rarity— Lenox returned to his bedroom after he had eaten lunch, changed into a pair of pajamas, and slept for an hour or two. It was a nice thing to do when he was tired, or on a cold day such as this one, when the bed was warm. And while he thought it somewhat lazy, and refused to let himself nap other than as a treat, he dearly loved the days when he did.
He changed into fresh clothes when he woke, a black velvet jacket and gray trousers, and read in his library for a while, taking out maps to look at now and then—for he was reading a history of Persia—and waiting for Graham to return so that they could discuss Miss Smith’s social habits.
When he got restless with Persia, he opened his letters. There was one from Edmund’s wife, full of news about her sons, and another from a correspondent of his in Paris. The only note that he read twice, though, was from Barnard. Written yesterday, it read as follows:
Now this was unfair. Barnard had secrets from three quarters of London. He was known for his secrets. But in all probability he knew he was appealing to the part of Lenox that did hesitate to deceive anybody and was reluctant to conduct a case in such a back-handed way; in short, the part of him that was a gentleman. Though Barnard himself would have felt no such compunction, he knew that the amateur detective would.
So Lenox brooded over this letter, and read it again, but at last he set it aside, determined that the interests of Prue Smith could be favorably compared to the instincts of his own upbringing. The only question that remained with him, after this conclusion, was why Barnard had felt strongly enough to write him. It was another thing to remember, as the case grew more convoluted.
At the end of this conversation with himself, there was a soft step in the hallway and a knock upon the door, and when Lenox called out that the knocker should enter, Graham came into the room.
“How are you, Graham?”
“Very well, sir. The weather is more pleasant today than it has been recently, sir.”
“A sight better.”
“I have gathered the information which you asked me to, sir.”
“Have you? Excellent. Take a seat.”
Lenox was already behind his desk, and Graham sat in a chair facing him.
“What have you got?” said Lenox.
“Before I describe what I have learned of the victim, sir, may I add one note to the information I gave you last night?”
“Of course, of course.”
“There is one member of the household who is apparently, sir, without question
“Who might that be, besides Miss Smith herself?”
“One of the two nephews, sir, Eustace Bramwell.”
“Why, pray, is he so disbarred?”
“Numerous members of the staff who confided in me have confirmed independently that he never moved. He was painting a picture or eating lunch, but he never left the drawing room or the dining room for even the briefest moment.”
Lenox sighed. “Whenever I hear that someone is absolutely innocent, Graham, I tend to conclude that I have found my criminal. But I suppose in this case you’re right. I spoke with the lad this morning.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Offensive, but too essentially snotty and petty to make such a grand gesture as murder.”
“Shall I continue, sir?”
“By all means.”
“I went to the girl’s funeral this morning, sir.”
“Did you? I thought of going, but it wouldn’t have been quite right—her funeral, after all, not an excuse for me to do work. There are limits.”
“Yes, sir. Having known her, however, I felt I could strike a balance.”
