The Fleet Street Murders (17 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

L

enox detested the fact, but it was simple enough: In elections for Parliament, bribery mattered. It was no surprise at all when Graham reported that in the Roodle pubs votes were worth two crowns a head.

“We must do the same,” Sandy Smith advised, nervously tying his tie as he prepared to get up on the hustings and deliver the first speech of the day, at seven o’clock.

Crook nodded.

“No,” Lenox said. “Graham, here’s money. If you see anybody accept Roodle’s offer, match the sum and give the person the choice of the thing. Otherwise let’s stick to buying drinks.”

Crook shrugged, as if to say that it was Lenox’s money, and turned to consult with a growing line of men who had decided they wanted to vote for Lenox but needed assurance they would receive a pint later on. Crook set Nettie to handing out vouchers for the drinks.

At this Lenox felt ridiculously puritanical and changed his mind. “A few shillings a head, then, over Roodle. If it’s the done thing.”

Crook laughed. “It is,” he said.

The day was a blur. A brace of carriages went around the countryside, picking up all the voters Lenox had gone and spoken to and Roodle hadn’t. Lenox and various of his supporters took turns on the stage, all giving rousing speeches that were generally of two varieties: one, that Charles Lenox was the greatest man of his age and would turn Stirrington into an Aztec-like City of Gold; two, that Robert Roodle was the most depraved, ill-mannered, and stupid man alive, the only mistake the otherwise wonderful town of Stirrington had ever produced, and a vote for him would be tantamount to treason—to a vote for the French—to a vote for more expensive beer—why, any number of things.

All of this was very pleasing to the growing number of Lenox supporters gathered around the hustings, who passed out handbills and pins to passersby. Every sighting of Lenox himself, who was making the rounds of the city when he wasn’t speaking, was greeted with a high cheer. He noticed with satisfaction that at midmorning a small army of women led by Mrs. Reeve had appeared, holding homemade signs in support of the Liberal candidate and stopping to chat with the men and women who passed by on the street, every single one of whom they knew.

All of this was punctuated by an hourly event almost equally pleasing to the speeches, which was the arrival of a group of Roodleites who had a snare drum and beat on it to drown out Lenox’s proxies, meanwhile passing out pamphlets in favor of Roodle in front of the Queen’s Arms with, as Mrs. Reeve observed, the impudence of highwaymen. It was satisfying to Lenox’s supporters to boo the small group until they left, and by noon or so their arrival was as highly anticipated as the candidate’s himself.

A little after noon Crook returned from City Hall, where they were counting votes.

“No numbers yet,” he said, “but I learned two things.”

“Yes?” asked Sandy Smith in an agitated voice. He was preparing to speak again, as soon as a corn merchant onstage finished his tribute to Lenox’s impossibly various virtues.

“For one, there are about twice as many voters as the mayor remembers from the last election.”

“That only stands to reason, given that Stoke ran unopposed,” said Lenox.

“The more voters, the better it is for the Liberal candidate—there’s a political truth for you, Mr. Lenox.”

“Second,” said Crook, “when I was leaving, the carriages we hired to go to the countryside had picked up about twenty men, and the drivers said there were another twenty waiting to be picked up, and another twenty after that, and so on and so on. It’s only a matter of getting them in before the polls close tonight.”

“That’s wonderful!” said Lenox.

“There’s my cue,” said Smith and ran off to mount the stage.

“Now, it’s understood that each of them will receive a shilling or two to cover the missed hours of work.”

Doubtfully, Lenox said, “I’m not sure I can approve—”

“It’s absolutely understood,” said Crook gravely.

The candidate relented. “Very well—but we must send another carriage, if we can find one.”

“I hoped you would say that. You have the money? Here, good. Lucy,” he shouted at the waitress, “find Samuel Keller and tell him to follow the two carriages from Taylor’s livery out to the country! He’s to pick up voters!”

Lucy took the money and ran off to the livery company, and Crook shook Lenox’s hand and with a look of determination on his fat, round, serious face said, “I think we may win this election yet.”

Lenox scarcely hoped—and yet in the very few quiet moments of his day his whole mind was bent on an image of himself in Parliament. He pictured his first speech, the green baize benches of the chamber; he pictured himself shouting down an opponent; he pictured his familiarity with the doormen of that august body, with the secretaries and valets who ran their employers’ lives . . . he yearned to be part of it all.

He recalled something his father had once said. Lenox had been four, perhaps five, and his father had been preparing to go into London for the start of the new session. Edmund, two years older and preoccupied with his schoolmates, had given his father a handshake and run off with a cricket bat. To Charles, though, it was a sorrowful occasion.

His father wore a pristine dark suit, and with a stroke of inspiration the young Lenox ran upstairs and found the old, tatty corduroy jacket, patched at the elbows and threadbare in the shoulders, that his father wore around the stables and out on his land. He handed it to his father wordlessly, and when the man realized Charles’s purpose, a look of kindness came onto his often austere face.

“Oh, little one,” he said. “Don’t be sad.” He kneeled down and took Charles’s hands and looked him in the eye. “Remember,” he went on, “that once a man’s name is entered into the book of Members, nobody can ever take that achievement away from him. It is the highest honor one can receive, to enter Parliament. It may be a little sad for you and—I’ll tell you a secret—for me, but it is for the thousands of men and boys we don’t know that I must go, and serve my country.”

It seemed like an endless day, but slowly it began to fetch toward evening. Lenox spoke again at three and realized with a start that there were now hundreds of people around the hustings. By four o’clock all three carriages were running at full speed, bringing in thirty more people every thirty minutes, and when at four thirty Crook informed him that there were still far too many people willing to vote who might not make it into Stirrington, Lenox ordered a fourth carriage.

At five something novel happened, just when things had gotten a little bit sluggish: Roodle came to the Queen’s Arms.

He had been expecting to find Lenox onstage, perhaps, and looked a little nonplussed when he found instead a grain merchant talking in a heavy northern accent of crop yields, but he went on with his plan anyway.

“Ask Mr. Lenox if he can take you to St. Mary’s churchyard, where half of our ancestors are buried!” he said.

Boos.

“Ask Mr. Lenox if he can direct you to the Martyrs’ Memorial—and not the one in Oxford!”

More boos, and then someone shouted, “Ask Mr. Lenox if beer is too expensive!” which drew tremendous cheers and drowned out whatever Roodle, who looked furious, was going to say next. When the crowd finally quieted he said, “Only a member of our town’s community should be our town’s Member!”

The clever little smirk he gave while he said this line infuriated Lenox’s supporters, and they drove him and the small cordon of Roodleites with him down the street, catcalling them as they left, until they were gone.

At seven o’clock Lenox, hoarse and exhausted, mounted the hustings one last time. A harried cheer went up, but people had become a little weary—not of the man but of the day and its excitement.

“Ladies and gentlemen, whether I win or lose this by-election, today has been one of the most wonderful days of my life,” he said. “Whether I win or lose, nothing I have done these past few weeks will be in vain, because I have discovered the best small town in England!”

He paused for another cheer. “Thank you, thank you. Now I have one last favor to ask you. At eight o’clock the polls close, and I see many faces that were here at eight this morning. You all deserve to go home, but on your way please stop just one person and ask him if he’s voted. Then, if he says no, tell him why you believe that Charles Lenox is the best man to serve Stirrington—and why Robert Roodle isn’t, for that matter.”

Another cheer. “Thank you!” he said. “I feel honored by your support.”

He came down from the stage but this time to the front, rather than escaping to the back and the pub, and allowed the people to engulf him. He shook hands until his forearm was sore and commiserated with the many people he had met. By eight only a dozen or so supporters remained, the rest spread out across the city, on their way home.

He went back into the Queen’s Arms, where Crook gave him a broad smile and put a paternal arm around his shoulder. “You did awfully well, Mr. Lenox,” he said. “Really better than I expected.”

“Call me Charles,” said the candidate, who suddenly realized that he was not only falling-down tired but famished. “I say, is there any food to be had?”

“Of course, of course.”

Ten minutes later, sitting at a table in a private room at the back of the building with Crook, Lenox fell upon a plate of battered cod and red potatoes. A new, more jovial side of Crook appeared as the two men sat and talked. He fetched a bottle of Bordeaux and regaled Lenox with stories of Stirrington’s more eccentric history: Mr. Weathers, who went out to the middle of his fields every day and cast a fishing pole in the middle of his crops, then sat and dirt-fished all day; the mayor before Adlington, who had been fond of a rainbow-colored waistcoat that very nearly caused a revolt among his subordinates. It was as if he had finally shepherded Lenox through the campaign and could relax.

Then at ten o’clock, very suddenly—for Lenox was lulled into a gentle stupor by the wine, Crook’s voice, the food, and the fire—it was time to see who had won the election. Sandy Smith stood in front of the pub and nodded gravely when they came out, and the three men walked over. At City Hall there was an agonizing half hour while the last few votes were counted and Mayor Adlington was roused from a nap to read the results. Just before they were ready, Roodle came storming in. Then, in a surreal tableau that Lenox felt more observer of than participant in, they went into a small room and heard the results.

It was over. He had lost.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

I

t was a bitter, bitter thing to swallow. In the end only two hundred votes had separated the men. Pushing his pride to the side, Lenox reached out his hand to Roodle, but the brewer pushed past him with a sneer and went outside to announce the news to his waiting supporters. Lenox knew he had to do the same, though he scarcely felt equal to the task.

He was glad there were books in the world, at that moment; glad that there were maps and encyclopedias, and warm fires and comfortable armchairs. He wanted to retreat into his library for a year without leaving it and eat good lunches and take long naps. But he told himself that a Lenox of Lenox Hall ought to have more mettle than to wish for something like that, and he went outside and delivered a brief, grateful encomium to his supporters before going back to the Queen’s Arms.

“It should never have been so close,” was all Crook said. “Roodle thought he’d win by a landslide. We did our side proud.”

“I can’t help but think of that single day I wasn’t here. Mightn’t I have met another two hundred people that day and perhaps impressed upon half of them my suit? Mightn’t I have won a hundred of them and drawn even with Roodle?”

Rather surprisingly, Crook said with a severe glance, “That’s no way to think at all—Charles. You did your level best. No other candidate short of Peel reincarnated could have done more or worked harder.”

They arrived back at the Queen’s Arms, and in his weariness Lenox wrote two brief telegrams with the same message (“I lost. It’s all right.”) to Edmund and to Lady Jane. Then he took himself upstairs, had a few solitary moments of self-recrimination and sorrow, and fell into bed, exhausted.

When he woke in the morning it was to see Graham seated at the table by the window, a tray with coffee and sweet rolls before him.

“Is there something wrong, Graham?”

“Good morning, sir. I merely wished to see if you required anything.”

Lenox chuckled. “Are you worried about me? I’m all right, I suppose. A bit of a setback, but these things happen.”

Graham stood. “It was a pleasure to help you,” he said and then left.

Lenox went to the table and poured himself a cup of coffee. The rolls were good, chewy, soft, and sweet, and the dark warmth of the coffee complemented them well. Meditatively he chewed and looked out the window, trying to suppress even to himself the disappointment of the night before. He sighed deeply and swirled the last sip of coffee in the bottom of his cup before swallowing it. There was a telegram on the tray, which at last he opened with a sense of dread. It was from Jane (Nothing from Edmund? He worried he had let his brother down) and proved a very kind and thoughtful note, but at that particular moment Lenox detested the idea of pity, of consolation.

He was tired both in spirit and in body, aching all over from the exertions of the day before, but he was conscious that he had a duty to return to London and help Dallington. While he was glad that he had fought, how much more use might he have been in the capital, following the Fleet Street murderers? Then the depressing thought occurred to him that he was no closer to exposing George Barnard’s criminality to the world than he had ever been—but he pushed that away. There were other priorities in the short term. It would have to wait.

He dressed and asked Graham to get tickets for the afternoon train. Given his preference, Lenox would have liked to hide out in his room until the train left, avoiding all of the people who knew his ignominy, but he keenly understood the cowardice of that and forced himself to descend the stairs to the main chamber of the Queen’s Arms.

There he saw the most welcome sight he could imagine, perhaps even more than the sight of Lady Jane would have been.

It was his brother, Edmund, sitting with a cup of coffee and a morning newspaper.

“Edmund?”

“Hullo, Charles,” said Sir Edmund Lenox, the 11th Baronet of Market house. “How are you going along?”

The two men shook hands. “Not too badly,” said Charles, “but what in heavens brings you here?”

Edmund shrugged. “I had your telegram,” he said. “I thought I would come visit you, and perhaps we might take the train back to London together.”

“That was kind of you indeed.”

Edmund smiled sadly. “I’m only sorry that I encouraged you to run. It was always going to be a challenge after Stoke died.”

“Are Hilary and Brick very disappointed?”

“Yes, of course, but they understand how hard you worked. Still, I don’t come here as a Member of Parliament but as your brother.”

Indeed, Charles felt like a little brother, grateful for his older brother’s consideration.

“Well—it was a disappointment, that’s all.”

“I’m awfully sorry, Charles.”

The two men sat down, and Lenox declined a cup of coffee but said he wouldn’t mind a soft-boiled egg with a square of toast. Edmund said that sounded good, and soon enough they had their food and were talking companionably about Edmund’s sons, about the old lands at Lenox House, where they had both grown up but only Edmund lived now, and about Lenox’s forthcoming marriage to Lady Jane.

“I was sorry to hear about Toto,” said Edmund.

Lenox nodded. “What a terrible blow that was. Of course, she and Thomas were treading on thin ice already.”

“Any news?”

“Apparently they’ve reconciled. I certainly hope so.”

“How about”—Edmund tried to sound unconcerned—“the Fleet Street murders? And Exeter?”

Lenox laughed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You make a poor actor.”

For all the responsibilities of his position in Sussex and in Parliament, Edmund had a childlike enthusiasm for his brother’s profession, often begging for details. Once he had been able to help with an investigation, and other than his wedding day it was the closest Charles had seen him to nirvana.

“Well?” said Edmund, now eagerly. “What do you know?”

“Nothing very current, I’m afraid. I know that Hiram Smalls killed Simon Pierce, and another man—his accomplice—killed Winston Carruthers.”

“Do you? How?”

Lenox explained the note and indeed described his whole day of research into the mystery of Hiram Smalls’s death.

“Who could have penetrated the prison?” Edmund asked.

Lenox sighed. “Any number of people, unfortunately. Poole wasn’t there yet, of course. Men making deliveries, other inmates. The gangs run riot in Newgate. Tell me, though, what do you hear of Exeter? Your knowledge is surely more current than mine.”

“Apparently he will make it through. The bullet perforated one of his organs, I forget which.”

“He was shot in the back?”

“Yes,” said Edmund. “They’re keeping him under wraps, however. There’s very little information. The entire city is fascinated by the story, it goes without saying. Some poorer people are saying it’s a good riddance.”

“Exeter was never tactful or gentle in his methods. Still, he deserved better than this. I shall take the matter in hand when I return to town this afternoon.”

“Will you?” said Edmund. “Excellent! I really am delighted to hear it. May I help?”

“We’ll see,” said Lenox. “There’s Dallington now.”

“You know, I’ve been asking for years if I could be your apprentice, Charles,” said Edmund with a frown.

“It would scarcely have suited,” said Lenox with a smile. He realized that for the moment he wasn’t thinking of Roodle in Parliament.

“It will be a diversion, I hope, from your regret.”

“About the election?” Lenox shrugged. “It stings a little, but I’m a grown man, after all. I can accommodate a little pain. My life hasn’t been so hard.”

“No,” said Edmund. “That’s true, and you have a great deal to look forward to. Your marriage.”

“Yes.”

Edmund’s eyes narrowed. “Has something happened?”

“Because I’m not as effusive as you?” Lenox took a sip of coffee. The pub was filling up with early customers. One of the lessons of Stirrington for him had been that there was no hour at which a pint of beer was inappropriate. “No, nothing has happened.”

Edmund stared hard at him. “Really?”

Lenox sighed. “Well—perhaps. It’s so minor I shouldn’t mention it, but she said—well, that she has doubts.”

“What sort of doubts?”

“I can’t say, really. Perhaps that we’ve known each other too short a time,” he added rather lamely, wishing he hadn’t said anything at all.

“You’ve known each other for hundreds of years.”

“So I told her. It
is
quick, I suppose, but I don’t mind that.”

“It was a shock to her system,” said Edmund. “Women and men alike are subject to these things. I was nervous—exceedingly nervous—before I married Molly.”

“I recall,” Lenox answered, smiling at the thought of his brother soused to the gills and alternately saying he wanted to marry Molly that instant or flee to the depths of the Orient.

“I know what you’re thinking. Don’t talk to me about China, there’s a chap,” said Edmund with a grimace. “Listen, shall we walk around town a bit before we get the train back? Put a good face on things?”

“Of course,” said Lenox. He hailed and gave her a few coins.

“Ah, Mr. Lenox—before I forget, it’s another telegram for you. You’ll wear the machine out, you know,” she said.

“Thanks, Lucy.”

He tore it open and read it quickly, then went completely white.

“My God, what is it, Charles?” said Edmund.

He looked up. “It’s from Jenkins. Exeter is dead.”