Charles Lenox Mysteries 02 The September Society by Charles Finch

Author:Charles Finch
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Macmillan
Published: 2010-03-31T22:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

McConnell’s report on the inquest of Peter Wilson arrived at Oxford the next evening. It had been a discouraging day for Lenox. Inspector Goodson’s sergeants had searched to the south of the town past Christ Church Meadow, not quite as far as Faringdon and Didcot, asking in pubs, post offices, and inns, but nobody had seen Dabney or Payson. Lenox’s suggestion had been well reasoned, Goodson said when the two men met, not adding that it had failed nonetheless.

“Did you search the fields?”

“Aye, and asked the locals too. Nothing there.”

“Perhaps it’s best to restrict the search—bring it back in within a quarter mile of the meadow and search that quarter mile very thoroughly.”

Goodson shook his head. “We don’t have the manpower. We’ll have to follow other leads.”

“What has there been?”

“We’re focusing now on the man who met Payson at the Jesus College dance that Saturday evening.”

“Just so. Anything on him?”

“That’s a bit better—but only a bit. We’ve tracked him to an inn at Abingdon, we believe, and he left his name there as Geoffrey Canterbury.”

“A man of at least small literary knowledge, then.”

“Aye, The Canterbury Tales, we thought so, too.”

“Any further description of him?”

“Only that he looked about fifty, dressed well, had very dark hair, a mark on his throat, and carried a heavy pocket watch that looked to the landlady—Mrs. Meade—expensive, perhaps ornamental. He seemed to check it and handle it constantly.”

“Still, better than nothing. What did he leave as a forwarding address?”

“Only a steam liner bound for India—which, it turned out, departed a month ago for Delhi.”

“Was he tan?”

“Pale.”

“And not military by the look of him.”

“No, not according to Mrs. Meade.”

This conversation had taken place at the police station a little after one o’clock. Waiting for Dallington, Graham, and McConnell all to report back, Lenox had no choice but to resume his dull research at the Bodleian. Nothing else had come to light, and he had given it up as a bad job a bit after four. Now it was five, and a bellboy had brought in McConnell’s note with the evening post. Graham was still out on Hatch’s trail, but had assured Lenox he only needed one more day to see what he could find out about the elusive professor.

The parcel contained three things: a short note on yellow writing paper, a more formal letter on long paper, which evidently appraised the coroner’s report, and then the report itself, which Lenox would have to return to Jenkins at Scotland Yard. The short first note turned out to be from Toto. It read:

Hallo Charles! I’m with Jane (it’s about 9:00 in the morning here, when shall this get to you?) and she thought we ought to tell you that I’m healthy and that I mean to call the baby Malory if it’s a girl. Isn’t that a sensible and lovely name? Malory McConnell—I think it sounds awfully well. P.S. Do return soon, and stop Thomas poring over reports all day! Affectionately, TM.

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