Hepworth shook his head slightly. “It sounds like very few convents I know.”

The light outside was waning now. Somewhere south of them, Lenox thought, the wake for Jenkins was still going on. What had he known about the various houses in Regent’s Park that Wakefield owned? And who had killed him?

Lenox stood up. “Thank you so much,” he said. “I hope I can count upon your discretion?”

“I’m troubled to learn of this place,” said Hepworth. “I ought to speak to someone in my Church.”

“Absolutely. But if you could wait a day or two—three at the outside. I can send you word.”

Hepworth nodded. “Yes. All right,” he said. “On the condition that you keep me apprised of anything you learn. Do we have a deal?”

“We have a deal.”

They shook hands, and Lenox left Cleveland Row with a hundred ideas in his head. He didn’t know whether it would be wiser to wait and speak to Dallington and Nicholson, or to go directly to Portland Place himself.

In the end, he hailed a cab and directed it toward Wakefield’s neighborhood. He couldn’t resist. Still, he’d learned his lesson from his premature interrogation of Armbruster, and from Armbruster’s subsequent silence—he only intended to observe.

Over the years Lenox had learned how to blend himself into any street in London. There was a special brand of loitering that the natives of the city, across every neighborhood, seemed to have in common. As he reached Portland Place—having been dropped a few streets shy of it, so that he could walk—he turned down the brim of his hat, turned up his collar, lit a small cigar so that he would look as if he had an excuse for idling in one place, and took up residence in a doorway across the street from numbers 73 to 77 Portland Place: Wakefield’s grand double-wide mansion, St. Anselm’s with its high black security fence, and the nondescript alabaster row house between them.

As the sky darkened and the gas lamps came on, Lenox watched. There were subtle changes to any inhabited place, if you looked at it closely enough. Lights came on at the convent, window by window, though it was impossible to see through them because they were made of ground glass. Meanwhile, at Wakefield’s lights had already been on, but more appeared, and just shy of six o’clock smoke rose from the chimney. Lenox wondered if the new master of the house—young Travers-George—felt comfortable staying there, after the attack on the butler. It would appear so. Bold, that, particularly after the murder of his father. Lenox himself would have taken refuge in the safety of a large hotel, at least for a few nights.

Increasingly, however, his attention was drawn to a house he hadn’t considered before—the one that lay between Wakefield’s and St. Anselm’s.

That morning Pointilleux had said, with some confusion, that he had observed a tremendous number of visitors at 75 Portland Place, several men an hour.

The pattern was the same this evening. Every few minutes, it seemed—Lenox took out his pocket watch after a little while so that he could start timing it more precisely—a person would arrive at the anonymous house, look up and down the street quickly, and then enter. Mostly these were men, though some were women. All were well dressed.

It took Lenox some time to realize what bothered him about it, and then it came to him.

Nobody knocked on the door.

With mounting excitement he watched, still timing the intervals, as over the course of forty minutes three more men came up to the door. Little enough was happening at Wakefield’s or St. Anselm’s (as his brain still stubbornly thought of it), but there was this riot of activity between them. Could it be meaningful?

Then he realized a second strange fact: Since he had arrived on Portland Place, more than a dozen people had entered through the front door—but not one had left by it.

He took a moment to study the house in greater detail. It was the same height as Wakefield’s house, three stories, though half as wide. It was a town house like so many in this part of Regent’s Park, with handsome white columns in front, a well-kept air, and tall, curtained windows. These curtains were thin enough that Lenox could see someone moving behind one of the upstairs windows repeatedly, a short figure.

Was it a party they were having? If it was, why did none of the guests knock? And was the family of the house likely to have parties on two successive nights?

Slowly, slowly, Lenox felt his brain begin to comprehend the contours of the mystery. It was always painful, this part—knowing the answer without yet knowing it. For a long while he watched, motionless, his third cigar lit but forgotten in one hand, his other hand tensed around the pocket watch.

Then, finally, he understood.

His eyes darted toward the convent. Was it possible? Yes, he decided—in fact, it was probable.

No wonder Jenkins had underlined that number: 77. Now, though, it was 75 Portland Place that held Lenox’s eye. He took in more details—the brass doorknobs, the handsome row of small green bushes lining each window. It was one of those houses at which you could still imagine them doing the old Jane Austen dances, the ones Lenox just barely remembered watching through the banister of the stairwell during his childhood: advance and return, hold hands, bow and curtsy, corkscrew, thread the needle, back to the start. A house that valued the old ways.

Behind the grandeur of Portland Place was an alleyway, Lenox knew. With a purposeful stride he made his way for it. To stand directly behind one of the houses that Wakefield owned would have been too conspicuous, so he lingered at the end of the alley for a few minutes instead, trying hard not to peer too intently down it at the back of St. Anselm’s.

Ten minutes passed, then another ten. Then it came: confirmation. It was all Lenox could do not to celebrate then and there.

He left the mouth of the alleyway and made his way back toward the brightness of Portland Place, taking up his old spot in the doorway. He was tempted to go to Scotland Yard as quickly as he could and find Nicholson, but he forced himself to wait and watch a little while longer. A man and a woman entered the house a few minutes apart. Then there was a long period of inactivity, during which he grew restless. Why shouldn’t he walk up to the house himself, and open the door as boldly as all of these other people had?

But caution ruled the day. Best to measure twice.

By the time he hailed a passing cab, it was nearly eight o’clock. He directed it to Chancery Lane, where he hoped he would find Dallington and Polly still at work on Polly’s cases, and perhaps even Pointilleux. It was probably too late by now for Nicholson to be in his office, and Lenox needed to tell somebody what he thought he’d discovered.

He took the stairs two at a time. He was energized. None of the setbacks of the case mattered any longer. When he reached the door he pushed through and was pleased to see that Polly and Dallington were in the clerks’ room, Dallington sitting upon one of their desks, Polly standing a few feet from him with her arms crossed.

“I think I’ve discovered something,” said Lenox. The other two exchanged glances, and only then did he realize that there was an air of tension in the room. “What?” he asked. “What is it?”

Dallington’s voice was bitter when he spoke. “The firm is just you and me now, it would appear. Polly is leaving us, too.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Lenox looked at Polly with a kind of despair. He realized he was crestfallen at this news, far more so than he had been at LeMaire’s abdication. Even in just the few months they had been working together, he had come to trust her implicitly. He couldn’t imagine what Dallington must be feeling. “Is that correct?”