Read An Old Betrayal: A Charles Lenox Mystery (Charles Lenox Mysteries) for Free Online Page B

misread his message.”
    “Would you like to leave a note for him, sir?”
    “Thank you, no,” said Lenox.
    So. McConnell had deceived him.
    He hadn’t liked to involve his carriage driver in this expedition, and so as he came out again onto Portugal Street—the club was just near the Royal College of Surgeons—he hailed a passing omnibus, its driver, in his accustomed white top hat, deigning to pull his horses very nearly to a stop. (Some drivers refused to stop for anything less than a marquess. Their discrimination against the working class was what had made the underground so popular.) It was westbound, at any rate. He stepped into the small, airless chamber and sat upon one of its two benches, which was lined with indigo velvet. Opposite him were two women discussing the bill Parliament had passed.
    “Shameful how they coddle them.”
    “Mm.”
    “I had thought more highly of Disraeli.”
    Lenox smiled faintly, avoiding their eyes. You couldn’t please everyone, he supposed. When the omnibus had traveled two miles down the Strand he got off, leaving them with an amicable nod.
    At the end of the Strand was Pall Mall, of course—and that was just a turning away from White’s. He hadn’t planned to look in for Archie Godwin, but he decided now that Graham could spare him for another twenty minutes.
    White’s was a club Lenox rather disliked, the playground of young lords who made outlandish bets and drank themselves to foolishness. (In 1816 the Regency buck Lord Alvanley had bet a friend three thousand pounds that one raindrop would reach the bottom of a bow window before another. By 1823 he had been forced to sell his family’s ancient lands, a surprise to nobody.) It was a beautiful building nevertheless, alabaster and intricately carved, a less hieratically inclined cousin to Westminster Abbey, with a black wrought-iron fence in front.
    “I’m looking for Archibald Godwin,” Lenox said to the bowler-hatted porter at the front door.
    “Not in,” said the porter, not unkindly.
    “Was he here earlier this morning, or yesterday afternoon?”
    The porter laughed. “Not unless you count December last. That was when I saw him most recent.”
    “Not since then?” Lenox asked, with raised eyebrows.
    “No, sir.”
    “Hm. Strange.”
    “Not particular, if you consider he lives in Hampshire.”
    “Does he, though?”
    “Has since I’ve known him,” said the porter. He touched his hat. “Good day.”
    Of course, Who’s Who had said that Godwin lived in Hampshire. Why was he in London? If he hadn’t so much as visited his club, why would Godwin give his address as White’s?
    The last question at least had an answer, perhaps—he might have been hoping to put Lenox off. The young man was plainly a member, and correspondence sent to the club would reach him, eventually but not too quickly. By giving Lenox this address Godwin had discharged his minimal responsibility to another gentleman while managing to discourage further contact.
    Lenox walked down Cleveland Row and into Green Park, until he was in sight of the brick face of Buckingham Palace. The flag was up, which meant the Queen was in residence. A bobby passed by with his usual equipment, a truncheon, a rattle, and a lamp. That rattle had come in handy to Lenox many times, when he and a bobby on the trail of a murderer or thief had found themselves in an unpleasant situation, for its noise brought every constable on a neighboring beat instantly to hand.
    Once a clever criminal he had known, Jonathan Spender, had put the fact to his own use; he had obtained one of the rattles and paid a street boy a shilling to shake it on a crowded corner. As the bobbies came flying toward the boy, Spender was calmly robbing the suddenly unwatched row houses of Eaton Square.
    The thought of Spender’s subterfuge drew Lenox to a stop. He frowned, realizing he should have asked the porter one further question. Was it worth turning back? He consulted his pocket