After riffling through it, Dallington dropped the book, which swung back and forth on its string in a lessening arc. “Nothing,” he said. “No Francis, no Hartley. That’s unlucky.”

“Would they have the peerages here?”

Dallington brightened. “Yes, that’s not a bad shout. Let’s have a look. Shall I order us some tea first? We could come back here and read.”

“That sounds marvelous, now that you say it. Ask if they have toast, too, would you?”

Dallington spoke to the barman and then led Lenox through a dim hallway back to the snooker room, which was lined with cartoons from Punch. Above the snooker table was a complex system of pulleys and cords by which one could manipulate a scoreboard at the far end of the room. Two very well-dressed young men, one with a monocle screwed in tightly, were playing balls across the vast green felt.

“Hullo, Dallington,” said one of them. “Here for a game?”

“Not unless you’ve improved.”

“I have done, I’ll have you know,” said the fellow indignantly.

“Keep practicing anyhow. I’m only here for these.”

Debrett’s and Burke’s, the two great lists of aristocracy in England, were on the end table, much thumbed. Lenox and Dallington took them back to the bar. Their tea was waiting on a table, with several stacks of golden-brown toast, glistening with butter.

“I’ll take Debrett’s, shall I?” asked Dallington.

“I’ll take the toast.”

Soon they were reading and sipping their tea in companionable silence, the pale midday light flooding the empty room. Bars were always most pleasant in daytime, Lenox thought. The tea was wonderful, dark and sweet. He had been hungrier than he realized. He helped himself to another piece of toast, folding it in half and crunching it between his teeth, then following it with a sip of the warm tea.

After half an hour they’d found nothing. There were plenty of people named Francis, and a few named Hartley, but none seemed to match the man they were looking for: a man of under forty, living in London. Most of the Francis clan seemed to be based far in the west, and none of the men were below fifty. Lenox copied out a few addresses anyhow, just to be sure. There might be second sons, cousins. Nevertheless it was dispiriting.

Dallington signaled to the bartender for more hot water, then turned back to Lenox, rotating his cup ruminatively in his hand. “What the hell do you think is happening, then?” he asked. “First Jenkins, and then Wakefield?”

Lenox considered the question for a moment. He took a wedge of toast and ate it. At last, he said, “The thing that worries me most is the third mystery.”

“Which is that?”

“Not Jenkins’s death, nor Wakefield’s—but the fact that Jenkins’s papers, the ones he felt were important enough that he left a note for me about them in case he should be killed, seem to have vanished completely.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

For the rest of that afternoon, as Lenox and Dallington continued their search for Wakefield’s friend and compatriot Francis (or was it Hartley?), this was the subject they discussed: the missing papers, a mystery that was easy to overlook because it was bookended by two murders. Were they merely hidden somewhere by the inspector, who had evidently been in a mood to take precautions? Or had they been stolen? If they had, was it from Jenkins’s office or from his person? In fact, was it possible that he had been murdered for the papers?

“They might have contained the information that would send Wakefield to prison,” said Dallington. “Or to trial, at any rate.”

“I’m not sure,” said Lenox. “We’ll have to see what McConnell says.”

“About what?”

“Wakefield’s body. I’ll be very curious to learn how long he’s been dead. Whether, for instance, he was dead at seven o’clock last night, when Jenkins was shot—or whether he might have killed Jenkins himself and then been murdered.”

Dallington considered this. “A marquess,” he said. “I cannot imagine he would commit such a crime himself, and so close to his own house.”

“He would if he were desperate,” said Lenox.

Dallington nodded. “Yes. If he were desperate. Which he might have been, after all.”

“Who do you think killed these two men?” asked Lenox.

Dallington smiled. “It was you who taught me the principle of parsimony, Lenox, I believe six or seven years ago now. That the simplest path between events is the most likely.”

“And what is the simplest path between these events?”

“I think it was this Francis fellow, whoever in damnation he might be. That’s why I wish we could find him.”

Unfortunately the afternoon saw this wish go unmet. The two men checked in at the Cardplayers Club in Old Burlington Street, where several exceedingly drunk young men in the front hallways were boasting to each other about old darts victories, but there was no member called Francis or Hartley there. (The porter knew Dallington by sight, though he wasn’t a member.) After that they checked several of the clubs along Pall Mall. They weren’t quite sure how else to proceed. Who’s Who had nothing to offer them, but all that really told them was that Francis wasn’t a Member of Parliament or a bishop, neither of which scenarios had ever seemed particularly likely. It would be a boon to detectives all across England if Who’s Who began to expand its scope, as rumor had it doing. There was also no Francis or Hartley who was contemporary with Wakefield at school or at university, according to a quick scan of the old directories at the Oxford and Cambridge Club in Pall Mall. The business directories of London contained several men named Francis, but none of them were under the age of fifty.

At six, thoroughly frustrated, Lenox and Dallington split apart. Dallington was going to continue the search; Lenox wanted to speak to McConnell. They were due to meet Nicholson at eleven thirty at York’s Gate but wanted to talk over their evening’s work first, and so they agreed to meet again at eleven o’clock at Mitchell’s. This was a restaurant near Regent’s Park, which Lady Jane was fond of saying served the worst food in London. Still, it was handy, staying open until midnight to accommodate the post-theater crowd.

Lenox ran McConnell to ground at the enormous house where he and Toto lived in Grosvenor Square. He was red-eyed, as if he had been squinting, and his tie was off. He answered the door himself.

“I thought it might be you,” he said. “Come in. I’ve been working on Wakefield since you sent word for me.”

“You can’t have his body here?”

McConnell led Lenox up the fine light-filled front staircase, in the direction of his lab. “No, no. I went and consulted on the autopsy. The Yard isn’t usually so rapid with its autopsies, but this time they brought in Dr. Sarver—from Harley Street, you know, very eminent fellow—and it was done in a proper operating theater. They were kind enough to give me some of the stomach tissue.”

“A profound kindness indeed,” said Lenox, though the wryness in his voice was lost on the doctor, who merely agreed. When he was working his absorption was such that he sometimes lost his sense of humor. “Did they decide what killed him?”

“It was certainly poisoning. We all concurred upon that point. After that it is less clear, though I have a theory of which I feel pretty confident.”

“What is it?”

“Come in, and I’ll tell you.”

McConnell conducted his scientific studies in a beautiful two-story library on the east side of the house. Toward the far end of the lower story were several long and wide tables full of faultlessly organized bottles of chemicals, alkalis, acids, rare poisons, the dried leaves of exotic plants. The middle of the room was dominated by a set of armchairs, which were always scattered, when McConnell was working, with leather volumes randomly pulled down from the bookcases.