Read Online The September Society by Charles Finch - Free Book Online
Authors: Charles Finch
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about the dashed cat?”
“Certainly,” said Lenox.
“The animal was poisoned, as we originally conjectured; not enough poison to kill it, but enough to put it out for a good long time.”
“As you originally conjectured, not me. But pray go on.”
“It was poisoned about an hour before it died. That fact points to premeditation, clearly. Well-taken-care-of animal—expensively bred, I should say, though really I’m more expert when it comes to dogs.”
“Any indication about the weapon?”
“Ah, yes—a letter opener, with the letter
P
engraved on it, as we both saw. Dates back about twenty years—it has a manufacturer’s mark from the 1840s.”
“Did you ever know James Payson?”
“The lad’s father? No. What was he like?”
“Terrible temper … had an awful scar on his throat. An unpleasant chap. At any rate, what else did you find?”
“The remaining question is, of course, why did someone want to send the young fellow this kind of message?”
“Do you think so? I see it rather differently.”
“Oh yes?”
“I think Payson himself killed the cat. Longshanks, they called him.”
“No, really? Why on earth would he have done that?”
“A better question would be, why would the people hunting him down have done it? It immediately makes his disappearance suspect, doesn’t it? I think if I kidnapped somebody, I would want to make everything he left behind seem as normal as possible.”
“Something in that.”
“And then consider that there was that cryptic note underneath the cat. Maybe he felt he couldn’t leave a note in plain sight, so he had to kill the cat to conceal it. Difficult to focus on finding a letter when there’s a dead cat in the middle of the floor.”
McConnell laughed wryly. “Yes, I grant you that. But why not write a more explicit note?”
“Perhaps he felt that even with the dead cat there, he couldn’t risk it. Did he know Bill Dabney was in danger? Perhaps. Or perhaps he feared for his mother’s safety, Stamp’s safety. Any of a dozen reasons.”
McConnell frowned. “But here’s my trump card, Lenox—the cat had been fed poison an hour before it died. If Payson were in a rush, he couldn’t have afforded an hour.”
“I would make the same argument about our criminal, or criminals—they would be less inclined to linger in their victim’s room than anybody, wouldn’t they? In a college with round-the-clock security, where anybody unusual would instantly stand out? As for Payson, I should say that he saw the danger coming early. That would explain his detached and anxious behavior with his mother, with whom he was usually on such good terms. Or alternately, perhaps he found the cat poisoned and decided to put it to use, the poor thing.”
“What on earth do you think it means?”
“There you take me into deeper waters. It’s difficult to gauge whether the cat was merely used to conceal a message, or whether it was in itself a message—to us.”
There was a pause while McConnell seemed to consider something. At last he laid his fork and knife down and said, “You know, it really is good of you to use the word ’us,’ Charles.” It had plainly been difficult for him to say.
“Pure self-interest,” said Lenox. “I’d drop you in a second if you weren’t so useful.”
Both men laughed. They resumed eating, and the conversation moved into other areas; while Lenox still enjoyed it, he saw the spark of involvement dying away that had lit McConnell’s face while they talked about this poor, absurd cat. Soon the Scotsman laid down his fork and knife altogether, his eyes fell slightly, and he pulled a flask from his side pocket.
A short while later McConnell had gone back to his hotel to turn in, and Lenox had started toward the Mitre (his fourth pub of the day, he thought with a smile) to find Andy Scratch.
He was a big, hale young man with a friendly face. Lenox found him, as predicted, playing cards with the man behind the bar, who
“Certainly,” said Lenox.
“The animal was poisoned, as we originally conjectured; not enough poison to kill it, but enough to put it out for a good long time.”
“As you originally conjectured, not me. But pray go on.”
“It was poisoned about an hour before it died. That fact points to premeditation, clearly. Well-taken-care-of animal—expensively bred, I should say, though really I’m more expert when it comes to dogs.”
“Any indication about the weapon?”
“Ah, yes—a letter opener, with the letter
P
engraved on it, as we both saw. Dates back about twenty years—it has a manufacturer’s mark from the 1840s.”
“Did you ever know James Payson?”
“The lad’s father? No. What was he like?”
“Terrible temper … had an awful scar on his throat. An unpleasant chap. At any rate, what else did you find?”
“The remaining question is, of course, why did someone want to send the young fellow this kind of message?”
“Do you think so? I see it rather differently.”
“Oh yes?”
“I think Payson himself killed the cat. Longshanks, they called him.”
“No, really? Why on earth would he have done that?”
“A better question would be, why would the people hunting him down have done it? It immediately makes his disappearance suspect, doesn’t it? I think if I kidnapped somebody, I would want to make everything he left behind seem as normal as possible.”
“Something in that.”
“And then consider that there was that cryptic note underneath the cat. Maybe he felt he couldn’t leave a note in plain sight, so he had to kill the cat to conceal it. Difficult to focus on finding a letter when there’s a dead cat in the middle of the floor.”
McConnell laughed wryly. “Yes, I grant you that. But why not write a more explicit note?”
“Perhaps he felt that even with the dead cat there, he couldn’t risk it. Did he know Bill Dabney was in danger? Perhaps. Or perhaps he feared for his mother’s safety, Stamp’s safety. Any of a dozen reasons.”
McConnell frowned. “But here’s my trump card, Lenox—the cat had been fed poison an hour before it died. If Payson were in a rush, he couldn’t have afforded an hour.”
“I would make the same argument about our criminal, or criminals—they would be less inclined to linger in their victim’s room than anybody, wouldn’t they? In a college with round-the-clock security, where anybody unusual would instantly stand out? As for Payson, I should say that he saw the danger coming early. That would explain his detached and anxious behavior with his mother, with whom he was usually on such good terms. Or alternately, perhaps he found the cat poisoned and decided to put it to use, the poor thing.”
“What on earth do you think it means?”
“There you take me into deeper waters. It’s difficult to gauge whether the cat was merely used to conceal a message, or whether it was in itself a message—to us.”
There was a pause while McConnell seemed to consider something. At last he laid his fork and knife down and said, “You know, it really is good of you to use the word ’us,’ Charles.” It had plainly been difficult for him to say.
“Pure self-interest,” said Lenox. “I’d drop you in a second if you weren’t so useful.”
Both men laughed. They resumed eating, and the conversation moved into other areas; while Lenox still enjoyed it, he saw the spark of involvement dying away that had lit McConnell’s face while they talked about this poor, absurd cat. Soon the Scotsman laid down his fork and knife altogether, his eyes fell slightly, and he pulled a flask from his side pocket.
A short while later McConnell had gone back to his hotel to turn in, and Lenox had started toward the Mitre (his fourth pub of the day, he thought with a smile) to find Andy Scratch.
He was a big, hale young man with a friendly face. Lenox found him, as predicted, playing cards with the man behind the bar, who
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