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Although Claire Adams had an alibi, from the family for which she cleaned. It was Elizabeth Watson who did not. But she could scarcely have mistaken Hadley's house for Stevens's.

A few minutes later, as Clavering was telling them in a low whisper about what Calloway's confession would mean for his trial, there was another knock on the jailhouse door. It was Arthur Hadley who came in.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “I came as soon as I returned to the village. I apologize for having left. Word had spread to the pub in Chichester Tuesday evening about the drawing on the wall of Stevens's office, and I admit that the fear I felt kept me away.”

“Where are your gemstones, may I ask?” said Lenox.

“In a deposit box in the London branch of the Dover Assurance, under lock and key, and two stories beneath street level.”

“An intelligent measure,” Lenox said, “though, as it happens, I no longer feel any anxiety on their behalf.”

“No?”

Lenox explained his theory of Hadley's case—and as the pieces clicked into place, one by one, a powerful inner emancipation played out across the insurance salesman's features. A mistake, all a mistake. What a relief. At the end of Lenox's explanation Hadley looked five years younger than he had at the start.

“Stevens, though, that's terribly unlucky,” he said, barely managing to keep the absolute delight out of his voice. In fairness, he'd just had a stay of execution, for all he knew. His sympathy was at least partly sincere. There were few men on earth who wouldn't rather their neighbor's skin be at risk than their own. “Will he live?”

“We hope so,” said Edmund. “He's at least awake.”

“I'll go by and see him. He was very decent to me when I first came to Markethouse.”

After he left, the three sat and talked for a while. The word “jailhouse” sounded rather severe, but between them Clavering and Bunce had made it a homey little place, with a teakettle in the corner, bits and bobs and old bottles of beer on the scarred desk, newspapers here and there, and a dozen candle stubs, all of it warm enough that the actual cell almost became an afterthought. Edmund, Clavering, and Lenox sat for a comfortable hour, drinking strong tea and discussing the case.

Comfortable, but also not very useful, Lenox knew, and after a while, with a sigh, he stood up. There was still much to do, if he suspected that Calloway was not telling the whole truth.

As he stood up he realized that there was still a telegram in his pocket. Mrs. Appleby had given him three the day before, one from Jane, one from the Dover Assurance. The third had been sent in at Chancery Lane—Dallington. Lenox had left it for later, and now found that later had come. He opened it.

All here very glum STOP Lacker approached with password STOP by of all people Chadwick STOP good news is was held and admitted only three names STOP still rotten thing dash it STOP no criminal charges Polly and I couldn't bring selves STOP Jukes burst into tears but cannot see how can be kept STOP muller case proceeds promisingly STOP more on it soon STOP best all there STOP

Lenox's face must have fallen as he read this, because Edmund looked at him with concern.

“What is it, Charles? Not bad news, I hope?”

“Oh, of a sort,” replied Lenox. He explained: Chadwick and Jukes were the two boys who worked in the office in Chancery Lane. Both had been living on the streets and running farthing errands, including occasionally for Lenox or Dallington and Polly, which was how they had gotten their jobs. They were the two who, upon finding regular work at the agency, had used their first pay to buy the hats of which they were so inordinately proud. “One of them has betrayed us to LeMaire and Monomark.”

“How do you know?”

“We left out a false letter, with the name of a lawyer and a password to give him in order to see our full list of clients. In fact it was only Lacker—and Chadwick came to him, I guess.”

“And the other boy?”

Lenox passed the telegram. “You can see for yourself.”

Edmund read it. “Very hard on him, if he didn't know anything, this Jukes.”

“I know it. But Dallington's right, what other option do we have?”

Edmund frowned. “I suppose. I wonder what he means, too, that the Muller case is coming along.”

While they had been obsessed with the events of Markethouse, the world, Lady Jane had told them the night before, had redoubled its own obsession with the missing German pianist; there was no other subject in any society now, high or low. The royals themselves had asked Jane if Lenox had any particular information on the matter.

“I wonder myself,” said Lenox. “I wish this were solved so I could go up this moment.”

“And miss Houghton's ball?” said Edmund.

“I would be willing to forgo even that very great joy.”

At that moment, a hoarse voice spoke behind them—Calloway, whom they had all almost forgotten was present.

Clavering looked up from the paperwork he was doing at his desk. “What was that?” he said.

“I asked what's become of the dog,” said Calloway.

“How did you come by that dog anyhow?” Clavering replied.

Calloway didn't respond, merely stared at them. At last, Lenox said, “He's been returned to Mr. Mickelson, I believe.”

“His owner,” Clavering added belligerently.

Calloway nodded once and then looked away from them and toward the one small window of his cell, set high in the wall and barred. They all looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to speak again, but he didn't—not even after Clavering tried to prod him into speech with a few harmless questions about his garden.

Why did he care about that dog? Lenox wondered. Why had he taken it in the first place?

Just then the door of the jailhouse opened again. This time it was Pointilleux, bleary-eyed, with his black hair pushed up in a stiff wave. “How are you, gentlemen?” he said.

Clavering stood up. “Let's go next door, just to be safe.”

They went into a small cloakroom through the door, out of Calloway's earshot, where they stood, huddled among their own jackets, and the boots and whistles of all the volunteer night watchmen.

Lenox noticed that Pointilleux was holding a notebook. “I believe I have now consume every paper in this office,” said the young Frenchman.

“You must be very full,” Lenox said.

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing, nothing.”

“Did you sleep?” asked Edmund wonderingly.

“Not yet I have not.”

“Never mind that,” said Lenox, who was less solicitous than his brother of Pointilleux's health. “What did you find?”

“I find something, I believe. A connection between Mr. Calloway and Mr. Stevens.”

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

The sheet of paper Pointilleux passed Lenox was a list in three columns. Clavering and Edmund crowded around to look over his shoulder as he read it.

Lenox read the list twice and felt his mind prodding the case at its edges, looking for where this information might fit into it.

“This is a simplify copy I have construct,” Pointilleux said. “In the book, the ledger, each name takes one page, and the salary payment are recorded by quarter, by date.”

“These must be his secretaries,” Edmund said. “Miss Harville top of the list and most recent.”

“I think so, too,” Pointilleux said.

“Does this mean Calloway was his secretary?” asked Edmund.

“Not Calloway. Calloway's daughter, perhaps, or another relative?” said Lenox. “Stevens only hires women.”

Clavering corrected him. “Now he does, but French and Claxton are both men. French still lives in town here—seen his way to a fair-sized trading company, furniture, makes a very handsome set of chairs, too.”

“Well, that explains that,” said Lenox. “Stevens hired women because he could pay them less. Look, Miss Harville still isn't making what Mr. French did in 1854, twenty-three years ago.”

Edmund shook his head. “It may be Calloway's daughter was Stevens's secretary eleven years ago, then, for about eight months. She left his employment, it looks like, around the time that her mother died, and her father went mad—and she went to live in Norfolk. I don't see what it has to do with this attack.”

Neither did Lenox. He kept thinking of Elizabeth Watson. Was it possible his theory of the break-in at Hadley's was wrong? That it wasn't a mistake?

“Clavering,” he said, “who is this—Ainsworth? She only worked for Stevens for a few weeks.”

The constable's face fell. “That was sad, that, Sarah Ainsworth. She was a troubled girl from the start, though. Clever, which was why Stevens took her on. But she disappeared one night, run away to London, we always heard. Her mother was proper heartbroken over it. The daughter hasn't been back since.”

“Are any of these people related to Watson?” asked Lenox.

Clavering took the list and scrutinized it, then shook his head. “No. All of these young girls are from the more educated classes than Claire and Elizabeth—respectfully meant, you know.”

“Another excuse to pay them less, perhaps, if they came from comfortable families,” said Edmund.

Lenox nodded. “There's another name I know here, too. Snow. If that's Adelaide Snow, I met her outside of the village.”

“It must be her, I believe,” said Edmund.

“We might call on her. I've been meaning to quiz that family about their gamekeeper's cottage.” He looked over at Pointilleux, who was following the conversation. “Very well done. Was there anything else?”

“No. I still peruse the papers, however.”

“Good—stick at it. Thank you.”

With a flourish of his hand, Pointilleux said, “It is my job.”

They bundled into the carriage then, and went to visit Snow.

He lived in a handsome two-story limestone house, albeit one with various barns and outbuildings visible from its front steps—a working farm. An elderly housekeeper answered the door. Snow himself was not in, she told Lenox and Edmund, but Miss Snow was, yes.

In the drawing room where she received them, Lenox found that she was the same pretty fifteen-year-old girl he had met on the lane just outside of Markethouse, with a naturally happy expression on her face—a person young, confident, eager to be pleased by life.

She welcomed them with very ladylike grace (he remembered Edmund calling her father “rough,” but apparently none of his manner had descended to his progeny) and introduced them to her darker-haired cousin, Helena Snow, who was staying at the house for two weeks. They had been in the midst of a game of backgammon, the older about to gammon the younger.

“She has come at a very thrilling time,” said Adelaide, “to what I had assured her was the least interesting village in England. You have arrested Mr. Calloway?”

“Yes, how is he?” asked Helena Snow, the cousin. “I hope he is not confined to a dungeon somewhere.”

“Quite the contrary,” said Edmund. “He is very comfortable—altogether comfortable.”

“Is he provendered?” she asked anxiously.

“Certainly—food brought in from the public house next door.”

She looked relieved. “Good,” she said.

Adelaide Snow said, “And are you quite sure he's the one who did it?”

Lenox inclined his head politely but ambiguously and said, redirecting the conversation, “I understand that you worked as a secretary to Mr. Stevens?”

“That! Yes, I did. I have some talent for numbers. But I couldn't stick it out. I didn't like the job.”

“No?”

“I suppose I'm an airy, head-in-the-clouds sort of person, and it wasn't for me. I hope Miss Harville does enjoy it. I gave her fair warning that she might not. I'm happier back in school. It's quite a good school—and I only go two days a week, so I can be here with Papa most of the time.”

“Did Mr. Calloway and Mr. Stevens have any contact in the short time you worked for the mayor?”

She shook her head. “I would recall seeing Mad—seeing Mr. Calloway. It was a very brief time, as you noticed, Mr. Lenox.”

“Miss Snow,” said Edmund, “this is your land. Have you noticed anyone odd on it, in the time that your gamekeeper's cottage had its stowaway?”

Adelaide Snow looked at her cousin, uneasy for the first time. “Go on,” said the older cousin, encouragingly.

The girl shook her head. “It will sound peculiar, but I did, once, see a man walking across just that part of my father's land, near the gamekeeper's cottage. At the time, I didn't think anything of it. All walkers have the right of way, of course. It was only after the attack on Mr. Stevens that I thought anything of it.”