Read Online The September Society by Charles Finch - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Charles Finch
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ale, its glass decanters of brandy. It was part of his love for Oxford.
Upstairs to his room in a moment. First he wanted a few more seconds to think.
Before him was a book he had borrowed from Andy Scratch, called
The Heroes of Punjab
. It told the story of the Anglo-Sikh wars, which were by now about twenty years in the past. One chapter briefly mentioned that the September Society had been created after the war by the surviving lead officers of the forces there during the period. The Society maintained close bonds, according to the book.
The question was: Why did a society of former military officers want anything to do with George Payson and Bill Dabney? What on earth connected them? Or was it a false lead? Swallowing the last of his beer, he decided he needed to look into Bill Dabney a bit more. In good time. For now, to bed. It was only half past ten, but he was completely andentirely exhausted. Still, it was a tiredness tinged with satisfaction, the end product of a long, good day of work.
Lenox woke up later than usual the next morning, Monday, with the rays of the sun striping his sheets. He pulled the bell by his desk and stood up to put on his robe and slippers. In about ten minutes there was a sharp knock on the door, and young Thomas Tate came in with a tray that once again must have weighed about what he did. Lenox gave him another sixpence and thanked him with a smile, before fixing himself a quick cup of tea. Always important to have that first gulp so that one could feel human again.
He ate at the table by the windows that peered into New College. It was a pretty, clear day, when yellow leaves hung thick on the branches and a breath of wind scattered another dozen to the ground. The sun was watery but bright, and the sky a pale, early blue. Perhaps because Oxford had so little to do with factories and trains, or perhaps because it was in a valley, shielded by its depth, there was rarely the blinding fog of London here. It refreshed Lenox. In twenty years it might not be any longer, but for now Oxford was still the country, with meadows at the end of every street and many roads made only of dirt. Cleaner air, and birds still giving morning voice to their songs.
The September Society. Could it be an accident? One thing was a relief to him: If the boys had been either of them murdered, even if their bodies had been thrown in the Thames, something would have come out by now. Lenox had instructed Graham to wire up any accounts of unidentified bodies, and the only report that had come was of an elderly man discovered in Covent Garden, stabbed to death without identification on his person. Nothing had been reported closer to Oxford.
He ate a last bit of toast and poached egg, took a last swallow of tea, and looked at his watch. Quarter to nine. He just had time to interview Professor Hatch before catching the 11:50 to Paddington.
Hatch’s house, which was located only a few steps away at 13 Holywell Street, was an old, narrow stone place with four windows facing the street and a green front door. It was painted white, and to match the door there was a green roof. Rather nice for a professor.
A maid answered the door and led Lenox into a front drawing room that was small and close, filled with science journals spilling off of bookcases. Very little light made its way through the blinds.
The professor took quite a long time to come down, and after a while Lenox realized that he might have woken the man. When at last he came into the room he was a surprisingly tall and hearty chap, indeed strong, though with sallow skin and black circles underneath his eyes. He had a mustache and wore an impeccable dark suit.
“John Hatch,” he said.
Lenox introduced himself, and the two men shook hands.
“How may I help you?” Hatch said.
“Nobody has seen Bill Dabney or George Payson in two days, and I’m trying to find them.”
Hatch looked genuinely puzzled, if not all that concerned. “I’m afraid I’m not
Upstairs to his room in a moment. First he wanted a few more seconds to think.
Before him was a book he had borrowed from Andy Scratch, called
The Heroes of Punjab
. It told the story of the Anglo-Sikh wars, which were by now about twenty years in the past. One chapter briefly mentioned that the September Society had been created after the war by the surviving lead officers of the forces there during the period. The Society maintained close bonds, according to the book.
The question was: Why did a society of former military officers want anything to do with George Payson and Bill Dabney? What on earth connected them? Or was it a false lead? Swallowing the last of his beer, he decided he needed to look into Bill Dabney a bit more. In good time. For now, to bed. It was only half past ten, but he was completely andentirely exhausted. Still, it was a tiredness tinged with satisfaction, the end product of a long, good day of work.
Lenox woke up later than usual the next morning, Monday, with the rays of the sun striping his sheets. He pulled the bell by his desk and stood up to put on his robe and slippers. In about ten minutes there was a sharp knock on the door, and young Thomas Tate came in with a tray that once again must have weighed about what he did. Lenox gave him another sixpence and thanked him with a smile, before fixing himself a quick cup of tea. Always important to have that first gulp so that one could feel human again.
He ate at the table by the windows that peered into New College. It was a pretty, clear day, when yellow leaves hung thick on the branches and a breath of wind scattered another dozen to the ground. The sun was watery but bright, and the sky a pale, early blue. Perhaps because Oxford had so little to do with factories and trains, or perhaps because it was in a valley, shielded by its depth, there was rarely the blinding fog of London here. It refreshed Lenox. In twenty years it might not be any longer, but for now Oxford was still the country, with meadows at the end of every street and many roads made only of dirt. Cleaner air, and birds still giving morning voice to their songs.
The September Society. Could it be an accident? One thing was a relief to him: If the boys had been either of them murdered, even if their bodies had been thrown in the Thames, something would have come out by now. Lenox had instructed Graham to wire up any accounts of unidentified bodies, and the only report that had come was of an elderly man discovered in Covent Garden, stabbed to death without identification on his person. Nothing had been reported closer to Oxford.
He ate a last bit of toast and poached egg, took a last swallow of tea, and looked at his watch. Quarter to nine. He just had time to interview Professor Hatch before catching the 11:50 to Paddington.
Hatch’s house, which was located only a few steps away at 13 Holywell Street, was an old, narrow stone place with four windows facing the street and a green front door. It was painted white, and to match the door there was a green roof. Rather nice for a professor.
A maid answered the door and led Lenox into a front drawing room that was small and close, filled with science journals spilling off of bookcases. Very little light made its way through the blinds.
The professor took quite a long time to come down, and after a while Lenox realized that he might have woken the man. When at last he came into the room he was a surprisingly tall and hearty chap, indeed strong, though with sallow skin and black circles underneath his eyes. He had a mustache and wore an impeccable dark suit.
“John Hatch,” he said.
Lenox introduced himself, and the two men shook hands.
“How may I help you?” Hatch said.
“Nobody has seen Bill Dabney or George Payson in two days, and I’m trying to find them.”
Hatch looked genuinely puzzled, if not all that concerned. “I’m afraid I’m not
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