“Sir?”
“The bookseller across the way.”
“I’m familiar with the gentleman, sir, but I don’t understand your question.”
A wave of irritation passed through Lenox before he realized how stupidly reliant on servants—on Graham—he was. “I could probably take care of it. Graham didn’t brief you on that?”
“Mr. Graham has been so busy in Whitehall, sir, that I see very little of him.”
“I generally pop over there and pick up books, and Chaffanbrass puts me down for them in his ledger. Graham goes over to pay.”
“With what funds, sir, might I inquire?”
“Do you not have any ready money?”
“Enough to pay the deliverymen, of course, sir.”
“I’d forgotten Graham went to my bank and withdrew cash for himself.”
Kirk looked shocked to his core. “Oh, sir?” was all he managed.
“We developed our own little ways, as you can tell.” Lenox smiled. “There’s money on my dresser—would you settle with Mr. Chaffanbrass today, and explain why it’s late? He counts on Graham coming in.”
“Of course, sir.”
“I hope I don’t ask too much of you. I’ve rather forgotten what’s usual.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You heard about the baby?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well—excellent, excellent.” They stood awkwardly for a moment.
“Yes, sir. Will that be all?”
“Of course, go.”
Lenox went down to Whitehall and had his meeting, though after the long night he had trouble keeping his eyes open—and trouble, truth be told, caring much about the taxation concerns of the rich, blustery bankers who were speaking.
After it was over he intended to go straight to the McConnells’ house. Instead he found himself walking, almost involuntarily, toward Scotland Yard.
It was only a few steps away. Whitehall, the imposing avenue between Trafalgar Square and the Houses of Parliament, contained all the most important buildings of government (and was indeed now a word in Lenox’s mind that conjured not a street but an entire small world and its structure, rather like Wall Street in America), including Scotland Yard. The Yard stood originally in two rather modest houses along Whitehall Place, which were constantly stretched to include new property in all directions around them as the Metropolitan Police expanded in size. It was an untidy warren of rooms, with its own smell—dusty paper, old wood floors, wet coats that had never been aired out, dormant fireplaces.
Lenox knew the constables who manned the front desk and simply nodded at them on his way to the back offices. He passed what had once been Inspector William Exeter’s office, which now stood empty and bore on its door a plaque in the murdered man’s memory. Without saying hello he also passed the office of Inspector Jenkins, the sole man at the Yard with much sympathy for Lenox’s methods or interference.
Fowler’s office was empty, but just momentarily—a cup of tea steamed on the desk, and a lit cigarette smoldered in an ebony ashtray. As Lenox stood uncertainly in the doorway a voice spoke to him from down the hallway.
“What are you doing in my office?”
“Hallo, Fowler. I thought I might have a word with you.”
“Did you?”
He was distinctly unfriendly. This wouldn’t have surprised the vast majority of people who knew Grayson Fowler. He was an essentially disagreeable man, not particularly handsome, slightly snarling, always half-shaven, and poorly dressed. Nevertheless, with Lenox he had, in the past at any rate, been affable enough, because Fowler was sharp and valued the quality in others.
“It’s about Frederick Clarke.”
“I imagined it might be.”
“Can I come in?”
They were standing rather awkwardly in the doorway, with too little space between them. “I’d just as soon you didn’t,” said Fowler.
“I don’t want to tread on your turf. Ludo Starling is an old friend of mine, and asked me some time ago whether I might—”
“I believe since then he’s advised you to let Scotland
“The bookseller across the way.”
“I’m familiar with the gentleman, sir, but I don’t understand your question.”
A wave of irritation passed through Lenox before he realized how stupidly reliant on servants—on Graham—he was. “I could probably take care of it. Graham didn’t brief you on that?”
“Mr. Graham has been so busy in Whitehall, sir, that I see very little of him.”
“I generally pop over there and pick up books, and Chaffanbrass puts me down for them in his ledger. Graham goes over to pay.”
“With what funds, sir, might I inquire?”
“Do you not have any ready money?”
“Enough to pay the deliverymen, of course, sir.”
“I’d forgotten Graham went to my bank and withdrew cash for himself.”
Kirk looked shocked to his core. “Oh, sir?” was all he managed.
“We developed our own little ways, as you can tell.” Lenox smiled. “There’s money on my dresser—would you settle with Mr. Chaffanbrass today, and explain why it’s late? He counts on Graham coming in.”
“Of course, sir.”
“I hope I don’t ask too much of you. I’ve rather forgotten what’s usual.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You heard about the baby?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well—excellent, excellent.” They stood awkwardly for a moment.
“Yes, sir. Will that be all?”
“Of course, go.”
Lenox went down to Whitehall and had his meeting, though after the long night he had trouble keeping his eyes open—and trouble, truth be told, caring much about the taxation concerns of the rich, blustery bankers who were speaking.
After it was over he intended to go straight to the McConnells’ house. Instead he found himself walking, almost involuntarily, toward Scotland Yard.
It was only a few steps away. Whitehall, the imposing avenue between Trafalgar Square and the Houses of Parliament, contained all the most important buildings of government (and was indeed now a word in Lenox’s mind that conjured not a street but an entire small world and its structure, rather like Wall Street in America), including Scotland Yard. The Yard stood originally in two rather modest houses along Whitehall Place, which were constantly stretched to include new property in all directions around them as the Metropolitan Police expanded in size. It was an untidy warren of rooms, with its own smell—dusty paper, old wood floors, wet coats that had never been aired out, dormant fireplaces.
Lenox knew the constables who manned the front desk and simply nodded at them on his way to the back offices. He passed what had once been Inspector William Exeter’s office, which now stood empty and bore on its door a plaque in the murdered man’s memory. Without saying hello he also passed the office of Inspector Jenkins, the sole man at the Yard with much sympathy for Lenox’s methods or interference.
Fowler’s office was empty, but just momentarily—a cup of tea steamed on the desk, and a lit cigarette smoldered in an ebony ashtray. As Lenox stood uncertainly in the doorway a voice spoke to him from down the hallway.
“What are you doing in my office?”
“Hallo, Fowler. I thought I might have a word with you.”
“Did you?”
He was distinctly unfriendly. This wouldn’t have surprised the vast majority of people who knew Grayson Fowler. He was an essentially disagreeable man, not particularly handsome, slightly snarling, always half-shaven, and poorly dressed. Nevertheless, with Lenox he had, in the past at any rate, been affable enough, because Fowler was sharp and valued the quality in others.
“It’s about Frederick Clarke.”
“I imagined it might be.”
“Can I come in?”
They were standing rather awkwardly in the doorway, with too little space between them. “I’d just as soon you didn’t,” said Fowler.
“I don’t want to tread on your turf. Ludo Starling is an old friend of mine, and asked me some time ago whether I might—”
“I believe since then he’s advised you to let Scotland
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