A few minutes later he was in another cab, bumping homeward. A glass of wine wouldn’t go amiss, he thought, and if he saw lights on next door he might drop in on Lady Jane. The next morning he would go straight to work again-well, perhaps he’d drop by the bookshop, then straight to work. What should he read next? Something contemporary, perhaps, something fresh…
As the cab pulled into Hampden Lane these idle thoughts vanished. The street was ablaze with light, crowded by carriages, and on one stoop-Lady Jane’s stoop, he realized, his heart plummeting-were two bobbies, speaking to a servant.
“Stop here!” said Lenox, and roughly handed the driver some indeterminate amount of change. He picked up his small bag and flung it over his shoulder, then ran the twenty feet to the small stretch of sidewalk where his house joined Jane’s. There was a confusion of people on the street and no real order to things. Spying Mr. Chaffanbrass, he said, “What’s happened?”
“I don’t know,” Chaffanbrass responded. He was bright red and looked out of sorts. “Somebody’s been shot, but everybody seems to be all right!”
Horror and relief flooded Lenox’s mind at once; of course, he would have to ascertain the truth for himself. In his heart was a prayer for Jane’s safety: a deep, almost unconscious prayer. He moved roughly through the crowd of onlookers toward the door. Looking up he saw to his consternation that one of the policemen on the stoop was Inspector Jenkins, who had given him the coroner’s report on Peter Wilson’s suicide. As Lenox climbed the stairs he rapidly tried to think whether Jenkins would be there without anyone dead, or at least injured.
“Jenkins,” he said, coming to the top step. The door to the house was open and every room was brightly lit, giving the place a look of midnight panic. “What’s happened?”
“Lenox, hello-everybody’s all right. Only one injury, and that superficial.”
“To whom? To whom, Jenkins?”
The inspector looked at his pad. “Annie, a kitchen maid.”
“What happened?”
Again Jenkins consulted his pad. “Apparently a man knocked on the door, face covered by a kerchief, brandishing a revolver, and pointed it menacingly at this housemaid. He dropped a note at her feet, and then as he turned to leave the gun went off. It struck the stone eave of the door and ricocheted back off, grazing Annie on the shoulder.”
“Did she get a good look at him?”
“No, unfortunately.”
“Fainted?”
“On the contrary, she chased him halfway down the block, the plucky old girl.”
“May I go in? Is Jane-Lady Jane Grey-inside?”
“She is, but…” He looked dubious.
“We’re old friends-please ask her.”
Jenkins nodded to his constable, who went inside and checked. On returning, he said, “Looks all right, then,” and with a grateful nod Lenox pushed his way inside. He saw Lady Jane sitting on her rose-colored sofa, all alone. Instinctively he dropped his valise and ran to be beside her, embracing her shoulders as he sat.
“Thank God you’re safe” was all he could manage to say.
She didn’t seem at all surprised by his unusual actions and hugged him in return. “I’m quite all right,” she insisted. “Only a little shaken.”
A little shaken!
“How is Annie?”
“They’ve taken her away to Dr. Brooke’s.”
That was the doctor on Harley Street whom both Jane and Lenox routinely visited. “Where was she hit?”
“The bullet grazed her arm, just by the shoulder. I came back to find Kirk and the police here, and she seemed the sanest of all of them. Said she only needed a bit of iodine.”
Here she gave out and buried her face in Lenox’s shoulder, crying.
“What is it?” he said. “What?”
“I wish I had half her courage, Charles. Look at this.”
She reached into her pocket and produced a note. Lenox read it twice, trying to be clearheaded. It read: Tell your friend to leave Payson in the ground, or we’ll be back.