The Fleet Street Murders by Charles Finch Page B

do?”
    “Fairly well, thank you. I come from your house.”
    Of course she wouldn’t have been in her pale blue study, Lenox thought. She would have been at Toto’s side.
    “Yes?” said McConnell stiffly.
    With uncharacteristic directness—she was a tactful soul—she said, “You ought to return there this instant.”
    “Oh, yes?” he said, looking even more unhappy. “I believe that the household might be more comfortable if—if—”
    “Don’t be proud, for the love of heaven. Toto pines for you, and these are the hardest days of her life. Go back to her.”
    “Well—I—”
    “Oh!” She stamped her foot in frustration. “Men waste half their lives being proud.”
    Even in this fraught situation, Lenox felt a burst of pride that she was his—if she was, anyway.
    “Well—” said McConnell in a halting voice. “Good day, Lenox. Good day, Jane.”
    With that he left the room.
    Lady Jane went to the sofa in the middle of the room and sat, a heavy sigh escaping her lips as she did. “What lives we all lead,” she said. “Poor Toto.”
    Lenox went to sit beside her but did not embrace her. They were a foot or so apart. “How are you, Jane? Well, I dearly hope? Did you receive my letter?”
    “Yes, Charles, it reassured me. Still, these two days I’ve sat at Toto’s bedside—”
    Just then there was another ring at the door, and, as Lenox had instructed her to, Mary brought Dallington into the library.
    He was a cheerful-looking young man, a carnation in his buttonhole, and genially said hello to Lenox and Lady Jane. There were dark circles under his eyes, the legacy no doubt of a long and debauched night in some music hall or gambling room. He bore fatigue better than McConnell, however, being younger and, because of his long years of carousing, perhaps better used to it.
    “I hope I don’t interrupt your conversation?” he said.
    “No,” answered Lenox.
    Dallington went on, “I’m late, as I daresay you’ll have observed.”
    “John, will you say hello to your mother for me?” asked Lady Jane. “I’ve missed her twice in the past two days.”
    “Of course,” he answered.
    “Charles, I’ll see you in a little while?”
    Lenox half-bowed.
    “Then I must be off.”
    She hurried out of the room, and as she did Lenox thought of her usual movements, how graceful and languid they were compared to the agitation of her carriage now. It was the stress of seeing Toto, he thought, in combination with her doubts about their marriage. Jane Grey had striven for her entire life to act well and honestly, and she felt miserable when she didn’t see the right course ahead. Suddenly a solemn sense of fear overtook Lenox. He had to master himself before addressing the young lord.
    “Thank you for your telegrams, Dallington,” he said. “They were most welcome when the newspapers’ information lagged.”
    “Don’t mention it.”
    “What can you tell me about this young suspect?”
    “About Gerald Poole? Well, Exeter arrested him yesterday. You’ve seen the papers?”
    “Not yet. I’ve had a steady stream of appointments since getting back this morning.”
    “How is the campaign, incidentally?”
    The relationship between the two men was a funny one. Not quite friends, they had nonetheless been through more than most friends already—for Dallington had saved Lenox’s life, while Lenox had witnessed many of Dallington’s flaws firsthand; and though student and pupil, they knew too much of each other and moved too closely in the same circles to retain the formality of that connection. It was never clear whether their conversations should stay professional, but Dallington settled the matter by seeing that they didn’t. Still, Lenox never felt entirely comfortable confiding in the young man, whose tastes and habits were so different than his own.
    “Well, thank you. It will be difficult to win, but I have high hopes.”
    “I once gambled with old Stoke’s boy.”
    “Did