Charles Lenox Mysteries 04 A Stranger in Mayfair by Charles Finch

Author:Charles Finch [Finch, Charles]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Minotaur Books
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Five

Walking down Curzon Street, they saw Ginger leaning against the wall of a small alcove in front of the house he worked in. He had a pouch of tobacco in his hand and was loading a pipe with it.

“John!” he called out in a theatrical whisper.

“Hiding?” Dallington asked when they were close.

“The butler’s strict.”

“Have you heard about Collingwood?”

Puffing away now, he said, “Everyone in China’s heard of it, much less Curzon Street. I can’t believe he attacked Starling!”

“Mm.”

“We’ve all wanted to do it, mind, to our masters,” added Ginger with a dark grin, “but it’s sheer madness.”

“You still think he did it, then?” asked Lenox.

“Collingwood? Of course. They found the apron and the knife in his larder.”

“Does nobody but the butler go into the pantry?”

The lad shook his head. “They’re afraid of theft, these rich families.”

“Doesn’t it puzzle you that he attacked Ludo? What would his motivation have been, for heaven’s sake?”

“I’ll tell you what it is. He knew he was going to get pinched, and he wanted to turn attention away from himself.”

“By hiding the evidence in a place that could only be attached to him? I don’t think so.”

Ginger shrugged. “Well, he was the only person with any reason in the world to kill poor Freddie.”

Unless the lad had a secret life, thought Lenox. They had to get to that boxing club.

First, though, they went to Newgate Prison. A quick, silver-laden handshake with a jailer Lenox had known for a decade and they were through to a bare room with two battered tables and four battered chairs in it.

When an unseen hand shoved Collingwood through the door, it was apparent instantly that the last hours had robbed him of the dignity of office and person he had borne during their previous encounters. He would have been searched for weapons, had his money taken from him and—possibly—been entered in a logbook, had his hair shorn off, and been bathed in cold, filthy water. As a remand prisoner he had been permitted his old clothes, but they looked rumpled and now absurdly formal after the travesties of the day.

Collingwood’s face fell when he saw Lenox and Dallington. “Hello,” he said, the “sirs” dropped from his speech.

“How do you do, Collingwood?”

“I had hoped it might be Mr. Starling, or perhaps my brother.”

“No, I’m afraid not.” Lenox didn’t have the heart to tell him that prisoners could only receive two or three visits a year, and that unless his friends had ready money only his lawyer would visit. “We came to ask you whether you murdered Freddie Clarke.”

For a tense moment, everything hung in the balance. Then the man spoke. “No, of course not. The idea is outlandish.”

“Did you attack Ludo Starling?”

“Mr. Lenox, my father was butler to Mr. Starling for twenty-five years. I myself ascended to that position upon his death and considered it the fulfillment of my only professional ambition. Both my father and I, and my brother, who is a butler in Sussex for the de Spencer family, take tremendous pride in our work.

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