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

Hartle’s poor wife, you fool, Grace Ammons.”
    “Oh, her. She’s nobody much either—by the lights of the palace, I mean, not my own. She came from up north, some small landholding family there. Good stock. She must be very discreet, since she works directly for Mrs. Engel.”
    This was the Queen’s forbidding principal social secretary, an iron-willed German woman, thin as a coatrack, of more than seventy years, who traveled with Victoria and kept the grand ledger of her appointments. “This makes the letter to you look rather more significant,” said Lenox.
    “Perhaps.”
    “Is she well-known?”
    “In court circles,” said Dallington. “I haven’t seen her out upon the circuit much, but simply by virtue of her position she is a part of London society. Jane will know her name. Doubtless you’ve been in the same room with her.”
    “If she’s not out much, how did Jasper Hartle meet her, or come to fall in love with her?”
    “When I discover the private habits and yearnings of Jasper Hartle you will be the first to know them.”
    Lenox smiled. “Perish the thought.”
    There was a knock at the door. Mrs. Lucas came in, bearing a tea tray. “Here you are, sir,” she said.
    “Thank you,” said Lenox gratefully, taking a cup from her. She smiled and withdrew. “This looks like a proper tonic. It’s been a long day. I’ve yet to tell you about my adventures among your peers.”
    “My peers?”
    Lenox described his visits with LeMaire and Audley. “It was irritating. In the end it caused me only a brief delay, at least. Thanks to Padden.”
    “That was foul of Audley.”
    “The usual brinksmanship.”
    “No, not when he knew that a person’s life might be in danger. I call that more than run-of-the-mill competition.”
    Lenox looked down into his steaming tea, which he was stirring with the miniature spoon that Mrs. Lucas had left cradled between the cup and the saucer. “Grace Ammons, then. Can we call upon her?”
    “We can leave our calling cards. There’s no mystery about where to find her.”
    “At the palace.”
    “Yes.” Dallington had stood and gone toward his mantelpiece, where he was shuffling through a thin stack of papers. “I went to a garden party there six or eight months ago and thought I had kept the invitation. I suppose I mislaid it. I think it might have borne her signature upon it, however.”
    “She has been there for some time, then.”
    “At least three years.”
    Lenox had been to the palace several times, in both official and unofficial capacities, though he knew for a certainty that Queen Victoria couldn’t have distinguished him from her chimney sweep. He tried to recall the invitations—he felt sure that Lady Jane, though usually imperturbable in the face of any manner of social honor, would in this instance have been excited enough to show him—but couldn’t.
    “The real question,” he said to Dallington, “is whether her troubles are connected to the palace, or the royal family.”
    “It would be easier if they were to do with Paddock Wood and the 8:38. I don’t remember hearing of any member of the royal family taking up residence there.”
    Lenox remembered the little horse on the train. “No,” he said.
    “Shall we meet in the morning and call upon her?” asked Dallington.
    “We cannot simply walk up to the front door.”
    “You’re a Member of Parliament. Have Graham arrange for you to see Mrs. Engel if you like.”
    “Not a bad idea.” Graham’s name returned to Lenox’s mind a faint sense of unease, left behind after his conversation with Baltimore. He would have to attend to that business as quickly as possible—cut it off at the head. “In that case I’ll fetch you here in my carriage at, what, nine o’clock? Are you quite well enough?”
    “I can shrug myself into a suit of clothes, yes. You’ll have to do most of the talking. If I faint you can tell her that I’m pining for Jasper Hartle, see if it gets a reaction.”
    As