An Old Betrayal: A Charles Lenox Mystery (Charles Lenox Mysteries) by Charles Finch

did Lenox notice the small wall of pigeonholes behind Wainwright in the hut. He evidently ran a postal clearinghouse of sorts, in addition to his railway tasks. It wasn’t uncommon in the smaller country stations.
    “Thank you very, very much,” said Lenox. He pulled out his pad of paper and then reached down to his watch chain for his pen—only to find it wasn’t there. With a smile he took the pen back up and wrote down the name, asking Wainwright to spell it. Then he returned the pen to the counter. “Do you know why she comes to Paddock Wood, or how often?”
    “Once a month, as you said. I imagine she has some acquaintance here.”
    “And do you know where she’s from?”
    “All of her letters come from the West End of London.”
    Lenox noticed that the next London-bound train was approaching on the other side of the station. If he moved quickly he could make it, and spare himself another hour in Paddock Wood. “Do you remember an address?”
    “No. Although her outgoing mail I do remember—if she’s really in trouble, this young woman.”
    This felt like an intrusion, but it might prove useful. “Where did she write?” asked Lenox.
    “It was only twice, but I remember because she addressed the letters to herself, and then of course because it was such an uncommon address. She mailed them to Buckingham Palace.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN
    It was twilight when Lenox arrived back in London. Despite the misdirection of Audley, he had a name, and perhaps even a location. He felt energized.
    From Charing Cross he took a cab to Half Moon Street. Mrs. Lucas answered the door. “How do you do, Mr. Lenox?”
    “Is the patient receiving visitors?”
    “At their own peril. Please, come along inside. Would you like a cup of tea?”
    “Badly. If you could run a spoonful of sugar in it I would be in your everlasting debt.”
    She smiled. “You know the way up, then. I’ll bring it along shortly.”
    “Thank you, Mrs. Lucas.”
    Dallington greeted Lenox, ushering him into the room and onto the sofa near the hearth, taking for himself the armchair opposite. Unfortunately it seemed that he had taken a step back in his recovery; he looked pale and clammy, his eyes overbright from the lingering effects of fever.
    “Have you managed to leave your rooms at all?” Lenox asked.
    “Not yet. I still don’t have the vitality for it, I’m afraid. Rotten bore.”
    “At least Mrs. Lucas is here.”
    Dallington smiled wryly, as if he were reflecting upon the mixed nature of that blessing, but said, “Yes, she’s a brick.”
    “Is there anything Jane or I could bring you?”
    “Only news. The dullness of being ill is beyond anything you ever experienced. For a few days one can adopt a posture of statesmanlike gravity, hushed tones, weak broth—but after that it’s simply an inconvenience, unless you attain the dignity of a very serious disease. I don’t recommend it.”
    “The good news is that I have found out her name—your client’s, the young girl at Gilbert’s.”
    “You haven’t!”
    “I have. She’s called Grace Ammons, and she may or may not receive mail at Buckingham Palace.” As he said this Lenox was attempting to break off a loose thread hanging from the pocket of his houndstooth jacket. When he looked up he saw a change in Dallington’s face. “What?”
    “Grace Ammons?” the younger detective asked, concerned and alert. “You’re quite sure that was the name?”
    “I’m sure. You look as if you know it.”
    “Indeed I do. She is one of the Queen’s social secretaries.”
    Lenox stared at him for a moment. “You’re joking.”
    “I’m not. I’ve seen her once or twice, a very pretty young woman. I know for a fact that Jasper Hartle from the Beargarden was in love with her, until his aunt forced him to marry that aluminum heiress from the States.”
    “What is her history?”
    “Her grandfather was a butcher in Chicago, as far as I understand it, and—”
    “No, Dallington, not Jasper