The September Society (30 page)

The hours passed agonizingly slowly. The edge of apprehension in the air gave the time an aura of adventure, but as the minutes crept by the feeling dissipated. At last they had been there two hours with only two to go; then suddenly there was only an hour to go, and their whispers grew hesitant and even softer; then there was half an hour to go before the meeting, and neither of them dared speak; and then, just as they both began to die a little, there was a footfall in the front hallway.

It was a thrilling, terrifying moment.

Lenox didn’t recognize the man’s face—he was just able to see the left half of the room—but he was obviously a member, of the right age, with the same military bearing Lysander had. Perhaps this was the enigmatic Theophilus Butler?

It took fifteen minutes for the rest of the members to arrive, first in ones and twos and then in a great flood. Lenox could hear himself breathing and tried desperately to quiet himself. While the majority of the men drank glasses of wine and traded stories, at the far end of the room, away from the windows, a smaller group was in deep conversation. Lenox guessed that these were to be the meeting’s conductors. Among them he recognized only Maran.

Lysander wasn’t anywhere to be seen.

In all there were twenty-two men present. Every one of them had the well-fed appearance of a contented middle age, far removed from the battlegrounds of the East. They scarcely looked dangerous—merely self-satisfied, lords of all they surveyed, a mood Lenox knew could be dangerous in itself. They looked like the kind of men who could justify any action to themselves, given a moment or two.

It was Maran who opened the meeting.

“Welcome back,” he said. “You are all very welcome indeed. In a moment I’ll turn this meeting over to Major Butler.” He nodded at a doughy, narrow-eyed gentleman standing just behind him. “But first, please raise your glasses in a toast
to the 12th Suffolk 2nd, in a toast to India, and in a toast to September.”

The men drank each other’s health, and then Butler stepped forward. Whether it was prejudice or not, Lenox didn’t like the look of him.

“Gentlemen, how do you do?” His voice was startlingly high-pitched, with a cold maliciousness obvious in its slightly giddy, laughing tones. “This meeting finds us all in good moods. Our income is consistent, our plans move along smoothly, and Maran has done his work admirably.”

A small ovation went up at this.

“There is only one situation of real concern to report on, as you are all aware.”

A murmur of agreement and alarm moved around the room. “But our junior friend has handled it, hasn’t he? All’s set up just at this moment, isn’t it?” A small man, tiny, wrinkled, and sun-baked, said this.

“Yes, it’s all been smoothed over. But there’s another aspect to the problem. A man we all once knew has indeed returned to London, and his problematic reappearance has only one solution. I trust that we all know what that solution is and remain in concord as to its execution.”

“Hear, hear” went up the cry.

“We must find him and kill him.”

Lenox’s blood chilled. He understood very little of what Butler was saying, but here was tangible proof of what they had known from the start: that this Society was capable of murder.

“Yes, but where is he?” said a member from the side of the room.

“We know that he has left Oxford.”

Returned to London? They were obviously talking about Canterbury—but did that mean that Canterbury wasn’t Lysander? Where was Lysander?

“Where would he hide in London?”

Butler waved his hand. “The key is Dabney.”

“No!” said several people at once, and several excited side conversations broke out.

“Can we end this farce?” said the man at the side of the room. “The solution to our problem is here with us, isn’t it?”

Butler said mildly, “I thought it might not hurt to discuss our plans before that, but yes, as you wish.” He turned to the door. “Friend, step in!” he shouted.

And with a sickening thud Lenox realized what had happened.

But our junior friend has handled it, hasn’t he? All’s set up just at this moment, isn’t it?

Tomorrow, then. Meet me here tomorrow at five in the afternoon
.

Can we end this farce? The solution to our problem is here with us, isn’t it?

The man obviously had a brightness and quickness that were going to waste in his job. The perfect spy, in other words
.

It was Hallowell.

“Oh, Lord,” Lenox said softly, unable to help himself. He tried to signal out the window for Jenkins, but didn’t know if it had worked.

“Come in, come in,” Butler said genially. “Where did you say they were?”

Hallowell’s voice was loud and clear, with none of the frightened quiver it had when he had left them to hide in the room. “Behind the curtain and the wardrobe respectively, Major.”

“Thank you, Lance Corporal,” said Butler. “Will you do the honors?”

“Dabney, run!” Lenox shouted.

His words were cut off as the bullet struck him.

L
enox fell out from behind the curtain and into plain view, and although he was in pain he was conscious. It was obvious that there was some commotion at the door, a thudding. He saw Hallowell move the gun toward the wardrobe where Payson was concealed, and then saw somebody burst into the room and tackle the doorman.

It was Dallington.

Following on his heels were Jenkins and half a dozen police constables. Lenox reached futilely for his gun while the twenty-two members of the September Society raised their hands in bewilderment.

It only took a moment for Jenkins to calm the situation down, despite Butler’s and Maran’s repeated, slightly hysterical claims that Lenox had trespassed on private property and that he was a burglar. At the same time, Dallington rushed over to Lenox and kneeled beside him.

“Where did they get you?” he said. His eyes were rimmed red with a hangover, but he seemed alert and energetic.

“How did you get here?”

“Look, Lenox, I’m sorry about yesterday. I don’t even remember seeing you. A relapse. It won’t happen again.”

Lenox laughed wryly. The pain was starting to become more intense. “Don’t mention it. How did you find us?”

“McConnell.”

Just then Lenox saw McConnell rushing up, a look of deep concern on his face and his battered leather medical bag in his hand. “Charles, good God, you’re shot! Where did they get you?”

“My chest, it went just between my chest and my left arm.”

McConnell tore away the shirt and then breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank the Lord, Charles, only a grazing wound. Painful, but you’ll survive it.”

Dallington was everywhere, pointing out various members of the September Society, directing Jenkins and the constables, barking at Hallowell as he searched his pockets.

As McConnell went about bandaging the detective up, Payson began to come out, but Lenox motioned him to stay behind the cupboard. Jenkins came over and had a word: Everybody in the room would be taken as a witness, to begin with, except for Hallowell. He would be charged with attempted murder—and, if Lenox had anything to do with it, the murder of Bill Dabney. What had Payson said about the man he had seen running from Dabney’s body? Dressed as if he were a valet or a waiter, graying hair. The description matched.

After the bandage had gone on securely, Lenox stood up and staggered to the couch, where he sat down heavily.

“We still have something to do,” he told Jenkins, who had just come over as the members of the September Society filed out.

“What?”

“Canterbury. I know where he is.”

“Where?”

“I don’t want to say too much, in case I’m wrong.”

But he knew he wasn’t. There was a surprise left in the case yet, even after all this drama.

“I’ll have to stop off and see my brother to get the address. George,” Lenox went on, calling to Payson, “you had better come, too.”

“George?” said Jenkins, and as Payson emerged from his hiding place an astonished Dallington said, “Payson! Good God!”

Payson said, “Is that you, Dallington? Haven’t seen you since last fall. How did you come to be mixed up in this?”

“Gentlemen,” said Lenox, “George Payson.”

Briefly Lenox explained the past week of the lad’s life.

“What a blow to Dabney’s parents,” said McConnell, grimacing.

Payson looked down at his feet. “I wish I could have done it all differently,” he said. It was the final hint of a reproach anyone made.

Questions all answered—Jenkins in particular had a few points he wanted cleared up—about fifteen minutes later Lenox, Jenkins, McConnell, Dallington, and Payson left. Jenkins had given his constables detailed instructions about the care of the prisoners and witnesses at the scene, and McConnell had checked on Lenox’s wound and reluctantly pronounced the detective fit to move.

They took McConnell’s carriage to Parliament, and Lenox dashed inside and had a word with Edmund. They came out a moment later together, and Edmund joined the miniature carnival. As they bumped along eastward, Lenox smiled inwardly. Only yesterday he had considered himself all alone in this endeavor, and now he was surrounded by friends and allies.

“I was stupid to trust Hallowell,” Lenox said. “From the
beginning he was so eager to speak with me. I assumed he was simply bored with his job, but the Society must have seen me before I saw them, so to speak—must have had their handyman out to meet me for precisely such a scenario.”

“I wonder that you thought of it before he came in,” Payson said.

“Still, not quickly enough. It wasn’t a total loss, though, thanks to Dallington. We overheard them talking cold-bloodedly of murder. And if I’m not very much mistaken there are two serious financial crimes involved—one ancient and one ongoing—which we’ll learn about shortly.”

Pressed for more though he was, Lenox refused to say anything further in case he was mistaken. He had an idea of what had happened, but he knew the man calling himself Canterbury would be able to tell the story definitively.

If the West End part of London was unique in all the world, the height of cosmopolitan fashion, the East End was like the slums of Paris, of Cairo, of New York, of Vienna. There were the same narrow, darkened streets, the same low-lit pubs with their constant suggestion of imminent violence, the same ragpickers and children turning cartwheels for halfpence. They were coming into Gracechurch Street now, in the ward of Bishopsgate. Though it was violent and falling to pieces, Lenox had a peculiar affection for it and visited from time to time, for one reason: It was more or less the epicenter of the old Roman settlement of Londinium. The basilica, or public church (the biggest of its kind north of the Alps), and the forum had both run along it in those ancient days, and while they were gone Lenox could still picture them. At its pinnacle in the second century
A.D
., Londinium had been a civilized, fascinating, and cultured outpost of the empire. It was one of Lenox’s favorite subjects within Roman history, combining as it did the remote and the familiar.

The carriage turned up Cannon Street and into Eastcheap. When they reached a low-slung red building with two torches blazing out front, Edmund nodded his head to his brother, and the carriage halted.

The ground floor inside the building was undivided, one large room with its roof held up by beams. In one part was a gin bar, where men and women flirted with each other and drank. In another was a curtained-off area where the same women could conduct their business. To the back of the room was a stairwell, which led to the rooms upstairs. At the center of it all, a wizened old woman with a monocle and a cat on her lap presided over the scene, collecting money from the girls, monitoring the bar for any arguments that might get out of hand, and barking commands to two large men who kept it all in order.

Lenox and Edmund went to her and had a whispered word. At first she shook her head furiously; then Lenox pointed to Jenkins, and the woman threw her hands up, as if conceding the point, and told them something.

The two brothers went back to the group.

“On the third floor. I’ll lead, if you’ll stick by my side, Jenkins. I doubt you’ll have any cause to use your shackles, but it’s not impossible. George, come up beside me, won’t you? You’ve met Canterbury before, I believe.”

There were two doors on the third floor. Lenox led the way to the right and knocked.

“Hullo?” There was no response. “Hullo? Canterbury? We’ve a large group here. George is here.”

There was a shuffling in the room.

“I’m going to come in,” said Lenox. “We don’t mean you any harm, I promise.”

Lenox turned the doorknob, and they all crowded around him to see inside. It was a large, drafty, out-of-sorts room with a bed, a desk, and a chair as its only adornments. A man—
dark hair, average height, a military bearing, with a scar on his neck—sat in the chair. He was holding a revolver.

“Stand back!” he said. “Who—why, is that Charles Lenox?”

“It is.”

“And Edmund? Good Lord! No wonder you found me here. My old haunt. Who have you brought, though?” The gun, which he had let fall to his lap, rose again.

“Please, please—the Society are all in police custody.”

A great burden seemed to lift from Canterbury’s face. He exhaled. “Thank God,” he said. “It’s over.”

“Not yet.” Lenox turned around. “George, come here, won’t you?”

Payson came to the front. “Hullo, Mr. Canterbury,” he said.

“No, george,” said lenox softly. “I’d Like to introduce you to your father.”

L
enox and Edmund’s own father had been a good man, one who took care of his land, ruled judiciously over local disputes, served in Parliament for fifty years, and loved his wife and his two sons. When Lenox was young he had admired in his father the high seriousness of purpose, the goal of service to Queen and country, that had defined his public life. Now he wasn’t sure that he didn’t admire something else more: his father’s good spirits, his cheerfulness, his ability to make things seem better. What had once almost seemed frivolous to Lenox, when he was young and serious himself, had now come to seem heroic, a putting of others before one’s self. It was strange to him that his perception of his father went on changing even after the old man’s death.