A Beautiful Blue Death

“He had high potential,” said Newton Duff, MP, a friend. “The country is losing a valuable servant.”

Lenox read this with mild interest. He paid closest attention to the quotes. Stearns was a good fellow, but it surprised him to hear Duff’s praise, never given lightly.

The rest of the papers added very little except for a penny paper called the Post, which was of low repute but high circulation. It offered the same eulogistic tone, the same descriptions of Oxford, the Army, Parliament, and the Pacific Trust, but at the end it contained a variation:

It is painful to bring up now, but we must be True to our faithful readers and write that there was some gossip out of turn concerning the late Member’s finances. To put it plain, People have been whispering that Soames was at the end of his means and that the Creditors, though they could not touch him while Parliament was sitting, as the law demands, were prepared to land on him as soon as the session was over. People spoke, as they will, of the Turf, and of expensive habits on slender means—in short, it was widely reported that he had no further money left.

It is the honor of the Post to report otherwise. A confidential Source at a certain bank revealed that Mr. Soames had been continuing at his usual rate of getting and spending. In point of fact, this rumor was incorrect; in truth, Mr. Soames was very comfortable, as befits a former Hero on the oar and a distinguished Member of Parliament. We are glad to put the rumor of the only blemish on this fine man’s character to rest, especially as it would be hard to hear Mr. Soames ill-spoken of after his death. The Post, as usual, has now Set the Record Straight.

This last phrase was the paper’s motto, which they repeated in nearly every article, whether it was relevant or not.

Now here was an interesting fact. People far and wide had said that Soames was definitely broke—far and wide enough even to reach Lenox’s ears, and Lenox was by no means a gossip. Everybody had mentioned it, here and there, as a known fact: his brother, Lady Jane. And yet, if The Post was to be believed—and rag or not, it generally was, Lenox found—it was all false. It was really a rather remarkable thing.

He had laid down the last of the papers and was again thinking, his hands behind his head, when Graham knocked once more and entered.

“Sir Edmund Lenox, sir,” he said.

“Downstairs already?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Drat. I need to dress,” he said, getting out of bed. “Tell him I’ll be a moment. Offer him some tea, please, or some breakfast if he hasn’t had any. Oh, and give him those papers,” he said, gesturing to the nightstand.

“Yes, sir.”

Graham left, and Lenox put on the clothes that had been laid out for him on the armchair; black cloak, gray pants, and a homburg. He took the time to tie his tie neatly but otherwise rather rushed, so it was only a short time later that he went downstairs to join his brother.

Chapter 37

Have you glanced over the papers yet?” said Lenox, coming through the double doors of the library.

Sir Edmund was sitting in one of the two armchairs before the fire.

“It’s really terribly cold out,” he said crossly.

“Oh, Edmund, I’m sorry,” said Charles, trying not to smile.

“Well, all right, all right.”

“Those are the demands upon the investigator, you know. Harsh weather, for one.”

Now this seemed to appease Sir Edmund. “Really?” he said. “By Jove, yes, I suppose that’s right. Well, at your service, then.” He mimicked a salute.

“Have you looked at the papers?”

“Oh, yes, the papers. Well, The Times.”

“Not the Post?”

Sir Edmund shuddered. “Gracious, no.”

“Take a look at it,” said Lenox, sitting down in the other chair and gesturing at the papers Graham had left on the small table between them.

His brother studiously looked over the article and went so far—which Lenox had admittedly not thought he would do—as to open the paper and read the entire story.

“Most interesting,” he said, after a moment. He was smoking his pipe while Lenox smoked a cigarette. “Yes, very interesting. Although the popular gossip has been wrong before, Lord knows.”

“Millions of times. But I find this intriguing. What triggered this particular gossip? Was there any event? Any indication?”

“None at all, I think,” said Sir Edmund. “In fact, I remember it only started when he won a bit at the Derby. People said it was a good thing he had.”

“How odd, really! Isn’t it?”

“I don’t see why—”

“Well, leave it, then,” said Lenox. “Would you like anything to eat? Or a cup of tea?”

“Coffee would be lovely. I’m due back at the House this afternoon, and I shall have to stay awake, I suppose.”

Lenox called for Graham and ordered a pot of coffee.

“Now, Edmund, I called you over this morning.”

“I know you did. I had to walk across half of the South Pole to get here. Hyde Park too.”

Lenox laughed. “It’s for a good reason, I think. I’d like to hear an exact account of your evening before they discovered Soames.”

“Poor chap,” said Sir Edmund, ruminatively. “Well, ashes to ashes, I daresay. Now, let’s see, my evening. Yes. Well, I arrived only in time for the dance, as you know. And you told me to follow those two cousins. I was perhaps overzealous at first—don’t laugh, it’s not kind—and followed too close upon them, because Claude kept looking at me and making faces.”

“Faces?”

“Yes, like an animal. So I backed off a bit. I got a glass of wine and sipped it pretty slowly and watched them. Claude danced with any number of girls, whereas Eustace seemed to be lecturing elderly men about something or other, I can’t imagine what.”

“I can,” said Lenox.

“You’ll know, then. Well, that was how it went. They only talked one time—in the doorway between the ballroom and the salon. For ten seconds or so. Then Claude hit Eustace, rather hard. Most uncousinly.”

“Why, I remember you hitting Cousin Ronald on the nose!”

Sir Edmund reddened. “Totally different situation. And it’s ungentlemanly of you to bring it up.”

“Well, it was ungentlemanly and uncousinly to hit Ronald in the nose!”

“Dash it all, if Ronald would insist on commenting on perfectly nice parlor maids all the time, it’s not my lookout what happens to him.”

“Oh, yes, that’s when you loved that parlor maid… what was her name… Mary?”

“I did not love her at all. A fine manly affection, yes. A fondness for the extra dessert she slipped me now and then, certainly.”

Lenox laughed. “I apologize. Will you tell me what happened?”

Sir Edmund tried to master his emotions and deliver the rest of his report. “After that, I tracked only Claude, because Eustace went into the salon, and you had told me Eustace was less important.”

“I did. Now. You’ve done very well, Edmund, but there remains work to do.”

“There does?”