“Who was it?”

“Not anyone I knew well-a young man named Clarke, Frederick Clarke, who worked for me. He was only nineteen.”

“How was he killed?”

“Bludgeoned to death. There was no weapon at the scene apparently.”

“The Yard is in?”

“Oh yes-it happened last night. Two constables are there now, keeping people clear of the area. I came to see you because-well, because I know you’ve worked as a detective in the past. Kept your cases very quiet, too.”

“This young man, Frederick Clarke, worked for you?”

“Yes, as a footman. His mother, Marie, was our housekeeper briefly, about fifteen years ago. Almost as soon as she came into our service she inherited something from her family and moved back to her hometown to open a pub. Apparently her son wanted to come to London, and she wrote asking if we might take him on, so of course we said yes.”

“Decent of you.”

“Elizabeth has a long memory for these things-you know how kind she is. He’s been with us for four years now, but I spend so much time at the House and at the Turf”-this was his club, whose membership consisted largely of sportsmen and cardplayers-“that I don’t know all the faces.”

Four years! thought Lenox. It seemed impossible to live under the same roof as a person for so long without knowing him through and through. “You didn’t know him, or you didn’t know him well?”

“Didn’t know him well, I should have said. Of course I knew his face and exchanged a few words with him here and there. But Eliza is very upset, and I promised her that I would ask for your help. She’s the reason I’m here, in fact. Although we were both relieved when we remembered you had just gotten back into town.”

“Oh?”

Ludo’s face flushed, and his tone became confidential. “In truth I wouldn’t mind it quietly handled, and I know I can count on your discretion. Quite between you and me, there has been some talk of a title.”