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

it happened, however, this plan was never meant to come to fruition. Just as Lenox was taking his final sip of tea, there was a ring at the front door of the house. On the stairwell they could hear the footsteps of Mrs. Lucas, descending to answer it.
    Dallington, curious, went to his window, leaning out over the sill to see who was calling. “A bobby,” he announced. “Could be for me.”
    A moment later the housekeeper knocked on the door. “There’s a visitor,” she announced.
    “Thank you,” said the bobby. He was clutching a piece of paper. “I come with a note from Inspector Jenkins for Mr. Dallington.”
    Lenox could see plainly upon the young bobby’s face, which was shining with excitement, that he could tell them what had happened as easily as the note could. “What is the news?”
    “There’s been a murder, sir,” said the bobby, “in Knightsbridge. A single pistol shot to the temple, it was.”
    “Who died?” asked Dallington, still holding the unopened note.
    “That was why Inspector Jenkins thought you might be interested, you see. It was a gentleman named Archie Godwin, sir.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
    For the first time since he had fallen ill a week before, Dallington dressed to leave Half Moon Street, and the moment Mrs. Lucas understood this fact she raced into his rooms with pans of sulfur, blocking the keyhole with cloth as they left and opening all the windows. It was the usual manner of cleansing a sickroom. The smell was dreadful even from the street three flights of stairs below, where Lenox and Dallington waited for a cab to fetch them.
    They passed the ride to Knightsbridge largely in silence, Lenox gazing out at the busy evening, angry with himself, Dallington, on the other hand, taking even breaths, trying to conserve his energy.
    Soon they came to the address that Inspector Jenkins had given in his note. The bobby, having delivered word to Dallington, was now returning to Scotland Yard with a report, so the two men traveled alone.
    It appeared that Archie Godwin had died in a hotel; the cab stopped in front of a modest, cheerfully bright hostelry, white with black beams in the old style of the Tudor coaching inns. It stood on a dignified side street, usually sedate no doubt, but at the moment flooded with activity. There were police carriages out front, which held extra lamps aloft and lit the pavement bright. Several bobbies were congregated around the hotel’s doorway, barring anyone from entrance.
    “This is the Graves Hotel,” murmured Dallington.
    “You know it?”
    “Passably well. My mother’s uncle used to stay here, my great-uncle. Very quiet place. He thought it too noisy in our house. Anything above a whisper shattered his nerves, however. He was a general in Crimea.”
    Lenox and Dallington alighted from the carriage and approached the door. There they saw, in among the bobbies, Thomas Jenkins. He had a bit of gray at his temple now and was certainly into the thin end of his thirties, though Lenox still tended to think of him as a young man. He was issuing instructions when he spotted them and strode over.
    “Lenox, Dallington,” he said briskly. “I’m glad you’re here. Lord John, in your last note to me you mentioned the incident with Godwin. I thought of you when we took in this case, naturally. Or perhaps you’re the one who can help, Lenox?”
    “Little enough, unfortunately,” said Lenox. He described their encounter at Gilbert’s Restaurant and his subsequent investigation at White’s. “I’m curious about the body you found. Is it a tall, slender man with light hair, or a short—”
    “No, no, quite the latter,” said Jenkins impatiently, eyes roving the scene. Lenox remembered Dallington mentioning that the inspector was all haste for a promotion, now that his name was commonly found in the papers. He had recently been promoted and was now one of three chief inspectors at Scotland Yard. The job he wanted—which had rotated among several men,