“Of course,” Lenox said. Barnard was already fibbing. Hadn’t Lady Jane said that it had been three months? “I’m here because Jane asked me to come lend a hand.”

“Not necessary,” Barnard said. There was a pause. “How is Jane?”

“Well enough, I think.”

“Still, not necessary. Not at all. We’ve got Jenkins here. Good man.” He spoke as if Jenkins weren’t present.

“Have you met Thomas McConnell, George?”

“I haven’t had the honor. George Barnard,” he said, reaching out his hand.

“A pleasure,” said Thomas, who had met Barnard dozens of times.

There was a brief pause; then Lenox spoke again. “Still, George,” he said, “you won’t mind us having a quick look inside? To put Jane’s mind at rest?”

Barnard was evidently troubled by this request and paused before he answered. He was weighing his desire to please Lady Jane, whose good graces he wanted to be in, against his annoyance with Lenox for coming. At last he said, “For Jane, yes, I suppose. But Jenkins has seen to everything already. Says we need a doctor, but I don’t see why. Clear case of suicide.”

“Suicide?” said Thomas.

“Suicide,” Barnard said emphatically. “There’s a note, plain as day. Still, go in if you wish.”

“Thank you, George.”

He walked into the house with Thomas and Jenkins at his side, while Barnard walked toward the grand front staircase, seemingly dismissing them from his mind. Lenox had seen this front hallway many times, at the beginnings and ends of parties, but now, for the first time, he concentrated on the small gilt door to the side, which was guaranteed to be of cheap wood on the reverse and stood beneath a vast mirror, one of the dozens of doors concealed all over the house that led downstairs to the servants’ quarters.

He opened the door, and the smell of the kitchen drifted up. Barnard always served good food; you could say that for him.

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Lenox waited for Jenkins to take the lead. But apparently he wanted first to have a word.