Read Online A Stranger in Mayfair by Charles Finch - Free Book Online Page B

Betsy.”
    “So I understood. Why did he go out?”
    “To fetch the bootblack.”
    “Did he speak of meeting anybody?”
    “As I told Mr. Fowler, no.”
    “Is it normal for one of you to leave so soon before dinner?”
    “Oh, yes, sir. There are always last-moment tasks.”
    “Well, thank you, Mr. Collingwood.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    When Collingwood had walked down Frederick Clarke’s old hall, Ludo motioned Dallington and Lenox up the narrow staircase to the ground floor of the house.
    “Mr. Starling, is your family about?” asked Dallington.
    “Why do you ask?” said Ludo.
    “It would be useful to speak to them.”
    “The boys are out. They generally are at night. Elizabeth will have been retired this hour or more.”
    “Perhaps tomorrow,” said Lenox. “Would you mind if Dallington attended the funeral?”
    “No,” said Ludo, though looking as if he rather would. “You can’t attend?”
    “Meetings.”
    Ludo looked relieved. “Shall we just let the Yard handle it, after all?”
    “With your permission, I would like to keep an eye on it,” said Lenox. “Grayson Fowler is an excellent detective. Still. I can’t quite identify what bothers me so much, but it’s there.”
    “Well—all right.” They were now in the entrance hall. “Good night.”
    Just as Lenox and Dallington said good night, however, a voice stopped them. “Who’s there?” rang out from the drawing room in a cranky old tone.
    “Only a couple of friends, Uncle Tiberius,” said Ludo in an agitated way. “We’re on our way out.” He added in a confidential tone, “I’ll come along and go to my club. I rather fancy a hand of whist.”
    “Wait!” cried the old man. He appeared in the doorway, holding a candle and dressed in a rumpled suit. “Is it the inspector again? I want to speak to the inspector!”
    “No—only my friends,” said Ludo. He looked irritated. “John Dallington, Charles Lenox, may I please introduce you to my father’s uncle, Tiberius Starling.”
    “How do you do?” the two visitors asked.
    “I remembered something to tell the inspector.”
    “It can wait until tomorrow.”
    “We’re acting as inspectors, too,” said Dallington mildly, earning for his troubles a look of pure vexation from Ludo, who was almost physically harrying them out. They paused by the door.
    “Good, good,” said the old man. “I remembered something about Clarke. The packets.”
    “What packets, blast them?” asked Ludo.
    “Under the servants’ door,” said Tiberius. He looked at Dallington. “I sit down there, you see, because they have that cooks’ fire. It warms up these old bones. One day I was alone down there—it was Sunday morning—and a packet came under the door. I hobbled over to fetch it for ’em, and it was unsigned. I opened it, and what do you think was inside?”
    “What?” asked Dallington.
    “A note! A white note, worth a pound! Not even a coin!”
    Money. All notes issued by the Bank of England were printed in black on one side and blank on the reverse and were called white notes.
    “Oh?” said Lenox.
    “I thought it was empty—that’s why I opened it—but down marched Frederick Clarke, who by rights should have been out on a Sunday, and he told me it was his, he was expecting it. I asked what was inside, to test him, you see, and he told me. Well, I had no choice but to give it to him then.”
    “You said packets, plural.”
    “It happened again two Sundays later, but he was there to scoop it up before I did.”
    “Why did you never tell me this, Uncle?” said Ludo.
    “Forgot. But now he’s dead—rich as he would please.”
    “How much did you pay him a year, may I ask, Ludo?” said Lenox.
    “Twenty pounds.”
    Dallington was shocked. “My God, how dismal!”
    “It’s on the lower side, yes, but that includes room and board, of course,” said Ludo, bristling.
    “I’m sorry—quite sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. I haven’t any idea what any servant