“He’s lived with his doubts as to me, the bugger,” muttered Lenox.

“What if it’s a case?” asked McConnell doubtfully.

“It’s not.”

The Yard was no closer to loving Lenox, Dallington, Strickland, and LeMaire than it had been in January. Nicholson had sent a note of cautious apology to Lenox; the more serious apostasy of Jenkins had produced a visit from their old friend to the office, a week after the publication of the article in the Telegraph.

It had been a stiff encounter, with never quite an apology from the inspector, nor an absolution from the other two men (for Dallington was also there to meet him). He had hinted that the opinions he expressed in the article had much more to do with his official capacities than his private feelings. That had not been explicit enough for Lenox, who was not in a mood for magnanimity. It was a painful break; they had worked closely together for many years now, and indeed two of the early cases that had made Jenkins a rising star in the department had been solved only through Lenox’s direct intervention: that of the September Society and that of the murders in Fleet Street. In subsequent years Jenkins had repaid this debt by acting as an invaluable link to London’s entire force of police. It was this amicable relationship—based on genuine mutual respect, Lenox had believed—that Dallington had gradually duplicated as parliamentary duties drew Lenox further and further from the world of crime.

In the past two years, however, Jenkins had seen the prospect of high office—commanding office—laid before him, and his ambition had been piqued. There had been a definite change in that time, according to Dallington. He was interfering now, less open, less secure in taking help. Then came the article in the Telegraph. If it had been Jenkins, not Nicholson, Lenox would have admitted the man to his study at this hour that evening, even though Nicholson’s betrayal was less profound. The prospect of power could deform a man.

After less than a minute, Kirk returned. “Inspector Nicholson is most insistent that he be permitted to see you, sir.”

“Tell him I’m not in, please.”

Kirk lifted his eyebrows. “Sir?”

“Tell him I’m not in.”

When Kirk had gone, McConnell said, “How are you sure it’s not a case? Or are you overtaxed at work already?”

Lenox’s sensitivity at this moment of his life made him wonder if McConnell knew about his lack of work—but he saw immediately that this was a mad level of assumption and said quickly, “No, no, I’m simply not in the mood.”

Now Kirk appeared for a third time. He was a stubborn fellow, in his way. He had been Lady Jane Grey’s butler for twenty years, which was long enough that he knew he wouldn’t be expelled from Hampden Lane for a little perseverance. “Sir,” he said, standing in the doorway.

“What on earth can it be now?”

“Before he leaves, Inspector Nicholson wishes you to know that he has a case upon which he hopes you might be willing to consult, sir.”

“Fine, please tell him I know it, and don’t care to consult for him.”

“He instructed me expressly to inform you that it involves a murder, sir,” said Kirk.

With this news, for the first time, Lenox hesitated. He stared at his brandy for a moment and then glanced up at McConnell, who was smiling faintly at him. “Would you mind, McConnell?”

“On the contrary.”

Lenox paused again and then yielded at last. “Oh, hell, send him in.”

“Very good sir,” said Kirk. He shifted his considerable weight out of the room too rapidly for Lenox to reconsider the invitation.

McConnell stood. “I’ll go, shall I?”

“No, stay.”

Nicholson came in, his tall, bony frame filling the doorway. “Mr. Lenox. And Dr. McConnell,” he said, inclining his head. He didn’t seem surprised to see the doctor, who had often helped Lenox with his investigations in the past. Perhaps that was known at the Yard. “How do you do, gentlemen?”

“What brings you here?” asked Lenox.

“I say, it’s a rotten night,” said Nicholson, glancing toward the window. Outside a heavy wind was whipping around the house. “Could I have a glass of that, whatever it is? I’ll pour it myself. I don’t want to trouble you.”

Lenox had been prepared to welcome his guest very coldly, but now he saw in the flicker of the lamp that the hollow-cheeked inspector seemed exhausted, absolutely worn, with worry, and despite himself Lenox’s heart went out to Nicholson. “I’ll fetch it.”

The inspector waited silently and then took a gulp of the brandy Lenox handed him. “Thank you,” he said. He paused, then went on, “There was a housebreak in Bath last week. The losses were substantial.”

“So I saw in the newspapers.”

“It was Anson, of course. Or so they think.”

There was nothing Lenox could say to this.

“At least the other five are safely away in prison. Hughes. Six arrests, you know. Not bad.”

“No,” said Lenox.

Here Nicholson smiled rather tiredly. “What about that seventh fellow?” he asked.

“That may take longer,” said Lenox, his voice short. “Is the break-in at Bath the case of which you told Kirk?”

“No, no,” said Nicholson, waving a distracted hand in the air, his eyes down. He looked up at Lenox. “It’s in London. Will you come out with me now and have a look?”

“You’ll have to pay my fee,” said Lenox.

Nicholson looked surprised. “Really?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Well, that won’t be a problem. I have a large enough budget now. Promoted last month. Most of the money goes to informants, of course.” This was said somewhat slightingly, though it wasn’t clear if Nicholson intended it as such. “Dr. McConnell, if you want to come along we could use a doctor. I don’t suppose you have a fee?”

“No,” said McConnell quietly.

“Does that mean there’s a body?” asked Lenox.

“Oh yes, there’s a body.”

Suddenly something in Nicholson’s bearing—a kind of reserved anguish, barely concealed—brought Lenox to the edge of the seat. “What’s happened?” he asked. “Who is it?”

“Jenkins has been murdered this evening,” said Nicholson. “Inspector Thomas Jenkins.”

CHAPTER FIVE

When Lenox was twenty-two, pink-faced, new to London, and casting about for something to do with his life, one of the locally famous figures in the city had been Edward Oxlade. He was a police inspector who had recently retired. By the time of his retirement he had long graduated from his street corner to desk work, but after he left Scotland Yard he began to take one day each week to don his old bobby’s uniform and walk his neighborhood, lantern and whistle rattling from his belt, a figure of white-haired amiability—kind to children, chatty to shopkeepers, helpful to anyone in straits. He had come to be very popular, an emblem of the new London, the one that had risen since the foundation of Scotland Yard, its safety, its security, a metropolis distancing itself from the nighttime garrotings and daylight coach robberies of the wilder previous century.

On one of the first cases upon which Lenox had consulted for the Yard, he’d had reason to call upon Oxlade very late one evening, past ten o’clock. Oxlade had greeted him sitting down, a book in hand, a blanket over his knees.

“How can I help you?” he had asked.

The case was a slippery one; Jonathan Charlton, a friend from Oxford whose family owned a bank near the Savoy, had heard rumors that a ring of burglars was planning to strike against it. The police were watching the bank, but Charlton had asked Lenox, who as an undergraduate had been known for his idiosyncratic pastime of collecting information on crime, to look into the matter.

“I’m Charles Lenox,” he had said in response to Oxlade’s question. “I’m consulting on a case with Inspector Evans, and though I know it’s fearfully late, and cold outside—”