Free The September Society by Charles Finch

the most likely man to have seen them,” he said. “Though I’m sorry to hear of it. Have you checked around much?”
    “Yes, a bit. Oxford is such a small town that it seems probable that a friend or a classmate would have caught sight of one of them. When did you last see them?”
    Hatch considered the question. “Both about a fortnight ago. I had a small gathering here at my house for the students I advise, as I often do. Bill and George usually came.”
    Lenox made a note on his pad. “Any idea where they may have gone?”
    “None at all, unless they went home.”
    “No.”
    “Then I don’t, I’m sorry to say. London? Your guess is as good as mine.”
    “What are they like, the two boys?”
    “Both bright. Above middling, anyway, though I really couldn’t say with any expertise. Medicine is my field, not classics or history. Dabney was more introverted than Payson. Both the sort of gentlemen to be popular in a place like Oxford. Payson was at Westminster like myself, so we had that in common. I don’t know what else to say.”
    “Have you heard of the September Society?”
    “Can’t say that I have, no.”
    “Have you noticed Dabney and Payson pulling apart from the other students at all?”
    “Not the sort of thing I’d be likely to notice. I’m not in college much, except for hall, and then I sit with my colleagues at high table.”
    “Did you know they kept a cat?”
    “Did they?”
    “It was found dead.”
    “That seems odd.”
    “Decidedly.”
    “I could use the body in class, if you like.”
    “No, that’s all right.”
    “Well, it’s the same to me.”
    “Was either of them at all in trouble, that you knew of? Financially? Did they break rules?”
    “Just in normal amounts. Financially, I couldn’t say. Not really my place, is it?”
    “Some might say it was.”
    “No,” Hatch said firmly. “Not quite done.”
    “You speak as if you were more friend than advisor to them.”
    “I admit that, to be sure. Oxford’s a dull place, Mr. Lenox. I don’t mind a
coupe
of champagne or a glass of beer here andthere. I miss London something devilish. And the lads and I have more in common than I do with the dons.”
    There was a strange kind of unease in the air. Lenox couldn’t put his finger on it.
    “You don’t know anything about Dabney’s background, then?” he said.
    Hatch raised his eyebrows in contemplation. “Certainly not much. I know he’s from north of here, somewhere in the Midlands, I believe. I know that he shares digs with Thomas Stamp, rather a friend of the two boys.”
    “You haven’t met Dabney’s parents?”
    “No. The master will have, Banbury.”
    “Payson’s?”
    “Oh, yes, his mother. Father’s dead, I heard.”
    “How did his mother strike you?”
    “A little bit rattled by life, perhaps? Introspective, I would call it.”
    Lenox nodded. “Is there anything else you can think of? Anything relevant?”
    “No, not particularly. Sorry.”
    “Oh—by the way, when did you start giving your parties?”
    “I’ve been here many years. Began with them straight away.”
    “I see. Thanks again.”
    Lenox showed himself out. A decidedly strange man, he thought to himself. Why had he stayed in Oxford for eight years if he didn’t like it? Walking briskly past Trinity College, Lenox also thought how unusual it was for somebody innocent to lie twice in twenty minutes to a complete stranger. For one thing, Stamp had mentioned that Dabney and Payson took the cat to Hatch’s parties and let it wander around his house. For another, he and Scratch had both said that the last party was four nights before, on Thursday, not eight or nine, and certainly not a fortnight.

CHAPTER TWELVE
    B efore he left, Lenox stopped by Lincoln College again.
    Hall was still open for breakfast, and there were loose groups of students framed in the windows, eating, studying, and lingering until classes began.
    He took a walk around the Grove Quad and the Fellows’ Garden,