A Beautiful Blue Death

spoke of it, but there was an allegiance between them because of that strange week, perhaps even stronger in Lenox than in Graham. He was honored that Graham had trusted him.

Their relationship had always been what was proper and right between two men of their positions: friendliness without familiarity, comfort without excessive fluency And soon after Lenox came to London, he stumbled upon the Charterhouse case, which involved the loss of some crucial papers in connection with the government, and in the solving of that crime, Graham had played a small but critical role by befriending a young lady in service with the criminal and extracting from her a vital piece of information.

Since then, Lenox had occasionally asked for Graham’s help on cases. When he did not, the butler went about his normal work, but when asked he always fulfilled his duty excellently. As in this case, he had an uncanny ability to gain the trust of talkative maids and footmen.

Thus the situation stood. The truth was that they had known each other for more than twenty years and had been through the major events of their lives together, and while there was always a correct distance between them, they each felt at times that it was appropriate to set aside the barrier and act as what they truly were to each other, should all concerns of rank, money, class, and society be demolished—namely, friends.

Chapter 19

It was after four o’clock by now; Lenox had been to Lady Jane’s and had his tea and his hot muffin, and the two friends had chatted comfortably for a little less than an hour. He told her about Barnard’s two nephews and said that they confirmed her worst suspicions about that species, but he did not tell her about the information that Graham had given him about Bartholomew Deck. He had decided to protect her from it unless it became material to the case—which, he feared, was a real possibility.

For her part, Lady Jane told him she had been to the girl’s funeral that morning. She had seen Graham, she said, who had only bowed to her. Very few people had been present, and it was James, Prue’s fiance, sitting in the first pew, who wept. Lady Jane did not add that she herself had cried; but then, it was not the sort of thing she needed to add for Lenox to understand.

It was perhaps unusual for her to go to the girl’s funeral—Lenox could think of no other woman of her class who would have done so—but Lady Jane simply was unusual, in her persistent refusal to remarry, in her close relationship with Lenox, in her ability to do what she felt was right—even if it meant skipping lunch with a duchess to attend a maid’s funeral—and maintaining her rarefied position at the same time. It was simply who she was. Her strength was in the integrity of her actions; she never compromised what she believed she ought to do.

They sat together on the rose-colored sofa for quite some time and talked, also, about Jack Soames and Newton Duff, and, more happily, about Sir Edmund and his two sons. Both Lenox and Lady Jane planned to return to the country soon—Lenox to visit Edmund and Lady Jane to visit her brother, who sat at the family seat—since her father’s death a few years ago—as the Earl of Houghton. They agreed that they would plan their trips to coincide, though Lenox, for his part, wanted a little time to hunt as well.

He left her house at a few minutes before five o’clock. Though it had been a long day, the cold was unobtrusive, compared to the last two days, and he still had energy left. Therefore he stepped into his carriage and directed the driver to the Bull and Bear.

Lenox’s mind had that quality which many great minds have—the ability to consider several opposing ideas at once—and, though he felt stifled in the case thus far, he had begun to consider its nuances, the possible relationships that may have existed, in secret, in Barnard’s house. And while Bartholomew Deck played no role in the beginnings of these thoughts, Lenox now admitted the young man to his mind as another possibility. It was one idea that was best either to dismiss or to embrace as quickly as possible, which was why he placed the task of visiting the tavern at the forefront of his plans.

The carriage crossed the Thames and made its way toward the docks as the sun fell. At last, in front of an empty pier, it drew to a standstill in front of a large well-lit pub, with a placard of the Queen protected by a bull and a bear on either side hanging above the door, and cheerful noises coming through its windows. Lenox got out and went inside.

It was an old makeshift building, and there was a sign over the bar, to the left, that said THE BULL AND BEAR SURVIVED THE FIRE OF 1666. Several men sat at the bar, rivermen, mostly, who trawled the Thames from these docks, ferrying passengers, searching for treasure, and drinking at the end of the day. Behind the bar were a row of wooden barrels tapped for ale; the last barrel was darker and said MILD in white stencil on its side. There were chairs and tables scattered around the warm room, and at the main table there was a game of nine-men’s morris going on. The place served some kind of food; Lenox saw a young woman by the door eating a plate of pickles, ham, bread, cheese, relish, cabbage, and egg.

Behind the bar was a young man, polishing the pewter tankards the beer was served in and, it seemed, crying.

“A pint of bitter, please,” said Lenox, and sat down at the bar.

The man behind the bar was handsome and fair, and upon Lenox’s request he took one of the tankards he was cleaning, gave it an extra wipe, drew full from the tap of a barrel, and said, “A penny, please,” crying all the while. If any of the customers seemed to see anything peculiar about his behavior, they did not show it, much less mention it. Occasionally one of the young waitresses nipped around the bar and kissed him on the cheek, but this seemed to have no effect on him beyond impeding his free movement among the barrels and taps.

To the man on his left, Lenox said, “Do you know why he’s crying?”

“ ’E’s sad,” said the man.

“How long has he been crying?”

“All evening.”

“Ah.”

Lenox stood up and finished his pint. He went down to the darkened end of the bar, where there were no patrons, but several empty stools and a dartboard that had fallen into disrepair. When he was seated, he beckoned to the young man behind the bar, who looked around for other customers and then walked toward him behind the bar.

“Bartholomew Deck?” said Lenox.

“I’m ’im.”

“I’m Charles Lenox. I’m investigating the death of Prue Smith.”

Deck leaned his head over the bar and continued to cry.

“May I ask you a few questions?”

“Why not,” said Deck, with a gesture of futility.

“How did you know the girl?”

“I loved her. Nobody knows what love is.”

“This is an unpleasant question, Mr. Deck, but I ask it nevertheless: Did you kill her?”

To this Deck had a not altogether unexpected reaction; he whipped around the bar, and his hands flew toward Lenox’s throat. Nobody in the room looked their way. Lenox blocked his left hand but caught a blow on the chin. Then he put his foot behind Deck’s knee and pushed him backward, tripping him, and pinned his hands to his chest.

“I know it’s unpleasant, Mr. Deck, but I’m afraid it’s necessary.”

Deck had given way entirely to tears and didn’t struggle at all against Lenox’s grip on him. Weakly, he called out, “Fa?”

After a moment, a man appeared through the door.

Lenox released Deck, prepared, if need be, to leave as quickly as possible. But Deck only said, “Cover me, would ya?” The older man nodded and Deck began to walk toward the front of the bar, apparently with the expectation that Lenox would follow him—which he did.

Out in the cold air, the young man seemed to sober up. He lit a small cigar and tucked it into the left side of his mouth. “Sorry,” he said.