“Mr. Clemons,” Lenox repeated.

“Yes, Mr. Lenox.” Clemons passed him a card. “We’re a security firm.”

“Security?”

“They installed Duch’s safe,” said Jane, “and they work with the Queen. Haven’t you worked with the Queen, Mr. Clemons? Have I got that correct?”

Clemons inclined his head. “We have been so honored, madam.”

“I take it my wife has hired your services?” asked Lenox.

“I have,” said Jane. Lenox could tell from her businesslike demeanor—there were few women in England as fiercely determined, when she set her mind to a thing—that she had no interest in his opinion of the project. “They’ll be here several hours, and at least until this case of yours is finished they’ll leave a rotating service of men at our doors and in our back garden. Mr. Clemons has assured me that they’re all armed to the teeth.”

“With safeties on their firearms,” said Clemons quickly. “They are professionals, Mr. Lenox—primarily ex-servicemen.”

“They’re putting bars on the windows, too,” said Jane. “Here, come and say goodnight to Sophia—unless you need anything else, Mr. Clemons?”

“No, madam, thank you.”

As they climbed the stairs, Lenox said, “You’ve acted very quickly.”

“About three months too slowly, in fact. I ought to have done this the moment you started that agency.”

“Are you quite angry at me?” he asked.

She had reached the top of the stairs, and she turned, her face dark. “I am, yes. But I love you, more the fool am I, and nobody will come into our house to hurt any of the three of us—you may be absolutely sure of that.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Lenox arrived at the office the next morning with the first light. He wanted time to sit quietly and gather all of his thoughts about this perplexing case, and his uncluttered office, with a pad of paper and a full inkwell, seemed the place to do it.

When he arrived, however, it was to find the office inhabited: by Pointilleux, asleep with his head on his desk in the office’s large main room, where the four clerks’ desks faced each other. He was surrounded by towering stacks of worn cloth-bound books. Quietly Lenox peered at the binding of one and saw that it was a record of London property transactions.

“Good morning,” Lenox said gently, standing a few feet back so as not to startle the lad.

Pointilleux rose bolt upright in his chair, blinking rapidly, and then, seeing where he was, shook his head and pushed the wavy hair from his forehead. “I apologize. I am extremely fatigue—I have fallen asleep.” He shook his head again. “I think I must acquire a cup of tea.”

Lenox, who could sympathize very well with the feeling that it was vital to acquire a cup of tea, went over to the small portable stove they kept in the corner of the room and lit the flame. (Another innovation of Polly’s, that.) He spooned three tablespoons of black tea, the Bengalese kind they kept in the pine teabox on Dallington’s insistence, into a large earthenware teapot. It had an ugly pattern of lilies on it, a relic of Lady Jane’s own kitchen, actually. Suddenly the office didn’t seem such a bleak place to Lenox—the tea, the teapot, Pointilleux. For no good reason at all, he felt a sense of optimism. They would make it.

At that moment there was a footstep on the stairwell, accompanied by a telltale metallic clatter, which sounded like the milkman. Lenox met him at the door just as the water started to boil and took their standing order with a smile and a word of thanks, two bottles of half-skimmed.

When he and Pointilleux both had their cups of tea, Lenox asked, “Were you up late, or did you fall asleep early?”

“I lose track of the hours. But I think I have discover something for you.”

“On the canvass with Armbruster? Or here?”

“The canvass is not very effectual, I must tell you. There was a difficulty that Colonel Armbruster—”

“Sergeant Armbruster,” said Lenox. “You’ve promoted him several steps and into a different service.”

“Yes, Sergeant Armbruster,” said Pointilleux, “the error is mine. Sergeant Armbruster was sad to be doing such work beyond his normal working hours. He was not conscientious of the job very high. Several of the house we do not knock on the door, because they are dark, and because he has knocked on these doors before and talked to their … their…”

“Residents?” offered the older detective.

“Yes. Their residents.”

Lenox could remember Armbruster’s unhappiness at missing his supper, on the night of Jenkins’s murder. He didn’t seem a very determined fellow; it was easy to imagine him cutting corners to get home a bit earlier. What odds then that he had glided his way past some important clue, or witness?

“Go on,” he said.

“After we are finish the canvass, therefore, I go back and observe the houses for my own satisfaction. I observe several things. For instance, I observe that at 75 Portland Place, next door to the house of Lord Wakefield, there are a tremendous amount of men coming and leaving, five or six an hour.”

“What time of the day was it?” asked Lenox.

“Six o’clock.”

“There might well have been a party. What else did you see?”

“At 80 New Cavendish Street, where we have not knock with Colonel Armbruster, there is a very great … you would say, row. Argument.”

“Did you hear its subject?”

Pointilleux shook his head. “No. Except, as I get closer, I see a small sign in the window—To Let, Inquire Jacob Marshall, 59 Abbot Street. It was then I realize that I have seen this sign elsewhere, three times. At”—Pointilleux looked at a scrap of paper on his desk—“80 New Cavendish Street, at 90 and 95 Harley Street, and at 30 Weymouth Street. Jacob Marshall.”

Suddenly Lenox realized, from a very faint sparkle of triumph in Pointilleux’s eye, that the lad had stumbled onto something he considered significant. “And now you’re looking at London property records,” he said.

Just then there was another footstep on the stairwell. Lenox glanced at the clock on the wall—it was scarcely past seven—and was surprised when the lock of their office door turned. It was Dallington and Polly. They were red-cheeked and laughing, though they came up short when they saw Lenox and Pointilleux in conference. Dallington was carrying a large parcel.

“Hello!” said Dallington, only momentarily nonplussed. He looked very happy. “We thought we were getting a very early crack, but nothing compared to you two. We came in to work on the cases, though I think we’ve beaten back the worst of the workload I left poor Polly—Miss Buchanan—with. Is that a pot of tea that I spy? And look, I’ve brought croissants!”

Dallington opened the box he was carrying. Polly, who was removing her gloves, said dryly, “He only bought sixteen, so we had better cut them each in half to be sure we have enough.”

But she looked happy too. Lenox went to the teapot and poured out two cups for them. “Something to eat, just what the doctor ordered for Pointilleux. He’s been here all night.”

“I do not deem these croissants,” said Pointilleux, who had stood and was inspecting the box.

“They jolly well too are croissants!” said Dallington indignantly. “This one has jam!”

Pointilleux gave a look as if to indicate that this fact was a point in his favor, rather than the young lord’s, and appeared to be on the verge of saying so when Lenox interjected. “Let’s get back to the case,” he said. “Dallington—Polly—do you want to hear the details, or continue with your own work?”

They both wanted to hear, which meant telling them not only of Pointilleux’s description thus far of his activities, but also of the attack on Smith the previous day. Dallington was startled to hear the news and asked a great number of questions. At last, Pointilleux was allowed to continue.