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Authors: Charles Finch
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heirloom.”
“I should think so. It’s shined smooth from use on the outside.”
“What is it?” asked Ludo, still in the hallway.
“You can come in,” said Lenox.
“I’d rather not.”
The detective flipped the ring. On the reverse of the griffin were two initials: LS. “I think perhaps you’d better,” he called out to Ludo.
“What is it?”
Lenox went to the hallway, holding the ring up between his thumb and middle finger. “Does it look familiar?”
For a long time Ludo peered at the ring uncomprehendingly. “What is it?”
“I believe it’s your ring. Unless there’s another LS in the house.”
Realization dawned on Ludo’s face. “The thieving bastard! That’s an old Starling family ring. I had it engraved when I was at university.”
“You didn’t give it to him?”
“Give it to him! Never in a century of Sundays!”
“Then I’m afraid he may have stolen it. I’m surprised, however. Would his duties as a footman have taken him near a jewelry case?”
“Anything’s possible.”
Lenox frowned. “Perhaps somebody else took it and put it here.”
“It even could have happened after Clarke’s death,” said Dallington.
“Yes.” Lenox examined the ring, holding it an inch from his eye. “Ah—or perhaps not,” he said.
“Why not?” asked Ludo, still in the hall.
“There’s another engraving, on the bottom inside of the ring, opposite your LS. FC. ”
“Frederick Clarke,” said Dallington.
Lenox nodded.
“The ruddy nerve,” said Ludo.
“Did you wear it often?”
“That? No. That doesn’t mean I intended it as a present for a footman.”
Lenox peered around the room, the ring now in his clenched fist. He gave the bed a tentative prod and thought over what he had seen. From the kitchen a sound of heavy washing filled the room’s new silence.
“It’s strange,” he said. “A strange room.”
“Why?” asked Dallington. “Strikes me as in the normal run of things for a footman.”
“Does it really? It’s extremely spartan, for one thing. I doubt the other servants’ rooms are as unadorned as this one. Could he possibly have been here four years and left so little a mark?”
“Perhaps he moved between rooms?”
“I doubt it. Ludo?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“I think he’s one of those people who lives a life of the mind. Did he often take books of this sort from your library?”
“Yes, quite regularly according to Collingwood.”
“Yet contrast that with this ring.” Lenox held it up again. “Why take such a personal bauble for himself? From everything this room has to show, he cared nothing at all for physical comfort or ornament, but this is what he chose to steal?”
“Worth a damn lot of money,” said Ludo.
Lenox shook his head. “No. It’s not about the money. He engraved his initials on it. That shows he valued it.”
Dallington said, “Of course.”
“Something odd was happening in this young man’s life. Intelligence combined with menial labor…I wonder, is it possible he had found his way into crime?”
“Of course he had,” said Ludo. “My ring.”
“Not that, no. Think: a well-tailored suit, a signet ring…it looks to me as if he might have been playing the young aristocrat. Some scam or other, couldn’t it be?”
“Perhaps that’s why he reads,” added Dallington excitedly. “To impress people—to seem like a varsity man!”
“I say, could I have that ring back?” said Ludo.
“Of course, here it is.”
After handing Starling the ring, Lenox stood in the doorway of the room for a long time, thinking. Nobody spoke. The rhythmic sound of washing—what must have been the sound of Frederick Clarke’s life—wore on like the blank, unvarying noise of an ocean.
“Something deep is happening here,” said Lenox. “Deeper than I realized at first.”
Chapter Ten
An interview with Jenny Rogers left Dallington perhaps half in love—she was extremely soft-spoken, with an endearing way
“I should think so. It’s shined smooth from use on the outside.”
“What is it?” asked Ludo, still in the hallway.
“You can come in,” said Lenox.
“I’d rather not.”
The detective flipped the ring. On the reverse of the griffin were two initials: LS. “I think perhaps you’d better,” he called out to Ludo.
“What is it?”
Lenox went to the hallway, holding the ring up between his thumb and middle finger. “Does it look familiar?”
For a long time Ludo peered at the ring uncomprehendingly. “What is it?”
“I believe it’s your ring. Unless there’s another LS in the house.”
Realization dawned on Ludo’s face. “The thieving bastard! That’s an old Starling family ring. I had it engraved when I was at university.”
“You didn’t give it to him?”
“Give it to him! Never in a century of Sundays!”
“Then I’m afraid he may have stolen it. I’m surprised, however. Would his duties as a footman have taken him near a jewelry case?”
“Anything’s possible.”
Lenox frowned. “Perhaps somebody else took it and put it here.”
“It even could have happened after Clarke’s death,” said Dallington.
“Yes.” Lenox examined the ring, holding it an inch from his eye. “Ah—or perhaps not,” he said.
“Why not?” asked Ludo, still in the hall.
“There’s another engraving, on the bottom inside of the ring, opposite your LS. FC. ”
“Frederick Clarke,” said Dallington.
Lenox nodded.
“The ruddy nerve,” said Ludo.
“Did you wear it often?”
“That? No. That doesn’t mean I intended it as a present for a footman.”
Lenox peered around the room, the ring now in his clenched fist. He gave the bed a tentative prod and thought over what he had seen. From the kitchen a sound of heavy washing filled the room’s new silence.
“It’s strange,” he said. “A strange room.”
“Why?” asked Dallington. “Strikes me as in the normal run of things for a footman.”
“Does it really? It’s extremely spartan, for one thing. I doubt the other servants’ rooms are as unadorned as this one. Could he possibly have been here four years and left so little a mark?”
“Perhaps he moved between rooms?”
“I doubt it. Ludo?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“I think he’s one of those people who lives a life of the mind. Did he often take books of this sort from your library?”
“Yes, quite regularly according to Collingwood.”
“Yet contrast that with this ring.” Lenox held it up again. “Why take such a personal bauble for himself? From everything this room has to show, he cared nothing at all for physical comfort or ornament, but this is what he chose to steal?”
“Worth a damn lot of money,” said Ludo.
Lenox shook his head. “No. It’s not about the money. He engraved his initials on it. That shows he valued it.”
Dallington said, “Of course.”
“Something odd was happening in this young man’s life. Intelligence combined with menial labor…I wonder, is it possible he had found his way into crime?”
“Of course he had,” said Ludo. “My ring.”
“Not that, no. Think: a well-tailored suit, a signet ring…it looks to me as if he might have been playing the young aristocrat. Some scam or other, couldn’t it be?”
“Perhaps that’s why he reads,” added Dallington excitedly. “To impress people—to seem like a varsity man!”
“I say, could I have that ring back?” said Ludo.
“Of course, here it is.”
After handing Starling the ring, Lenox stood in the doorway of the room for a long time, thinking. Nobody spoke. The rhythmic sound of washing—what must have been the sound of Frederick Clarke’s life—wore on like the blank, unvarying noise of an ocean.
“Something deep is happening here,” said Lenox. “Deeper than I realized at first.”
Chapter Ten
An interview with Jenny Rogers left Dallington perhaps half in love—she was extremely soft-spoken, with an endearing way
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