The Fleet Street Murders (6 page)

CHAPTER EIGHT

L

enox spent the next hour tucking his friend safely away in a spare room above the Queen’s Arms. McConnell, half in stupor from drink and incoherent about his reasons for coming to Stirrington, was nonetheless as clear as crystal about his reasons for being unhappy. Toto had asked him to leave. He had not only obeyed that request but had decided to absent himself from London forever. He talked wildly of returning to his native Scotland and becoming a groundskeeper at his family’s small estate or practicing medicine in the rural parts of the country. Mumbling, he fell into a troubled sleep.

Lenox spent the morning giving speeches. In his spare moments he read the previous day’s London papers. They were still full of the two “Fleet Street murders,” and amid long encomiums to Simon Pierce and Winston Carruthers ( journalists, after all, love to eulogize their own; a way of pushing off their own obscurity a little further) were all the details and speculations that papers, high and low alike, could muster about Hiram Smalls, the mysterious man who had been arrested in connection with the murders.

The details were certain, if few. He lived in Bethnal Green with his mother. This picturesque detail the papers dwelt on at great length, and they inquired endlessly about Mrs. Smalls’s feelings. In person Hiram was a short, solid, muscular figure, with (purportedly) cunning eyes and without discernible scars, birth-marks, etc. He had never been in legal trouble, and while he liked the life of rough pubs and gin mills, he had never (at least that anybody would willingly say) associated with any of London’s numerous gangs or thief-taking operations.

For supper one day he had ordered out from prison to a local pub, asking for a pork chop, two large glasses of ale, and a bag of oranges. Ordering food into prison was a common enough activity—
for those with money
, said the papers with dark suggestion—but these oranges! Such an extravagant fruit! Local markets condescended to quote their price for a single orange to the various papers, and all agreed one could not be had for less than a shilling, the price of several meals. As was customary for prisoners, the pub extended no credit. Where, then, did Hiram Smalls get his coin—not to mention his nerve?

There were a few quotes from Inspector Exeter about the case. When the press urged him to explain how Hiram Smalls might have killed two men on opposite sides of town at once, Exeter said that the Yard wasn’t ruling out the possibility of a conspiracy between Smalls and several of his local associates. A gang, then, the press very naturally inquired? Possibly a gang, Exeter allowed, though we cannot say more. Did gangs not sometimes have rich or even aristocratic chieftains? Yes, said Exeter. However, it was evident that Smalls was either the sole mover or the leader of a conspiracy—such was clear from interrogation of the prisoner, canvassing of the eyewitnesses, and one particular piece of shocking evidence.

This piece of evidence was that Smalls and Carruthers’s maid, Martha, had unquestionably met and conversed within the last month. There were a dozen eyewitnesses who could place them at the Gun pub off of Liverpool Street, including one who happened to know both of them—Hiram from nearby Bethnal Green and Martha because the gentleman made deliveries to Winston Carruthers.

All this Lenox learned from yesterday’s papers.

Morning speeches given, he returned at two o’clock in the afternoon to find McConnell at a front table in the pub, gazing with a melancholy air through the small window he sat by. A glass of Scotch whisky sat before him, untouched. He stood up when he saw the detective.

“Lenox,” he said. “How can I apologize?”

“You’ve had a difficult week,” said Lenox.

“I had some wild idea of helping you with the campaign, being of some—of some goddamn
use
in this world.”

Lenox noticed McConnell’s hand trembling slightly, whether from nerves or drink. “Thomas, you must allow yourself to grieve,” he said. “You’re not at fault.”

Dismissively, the doctor responded, “Lenox, you—”

“Thomas—you’re not at fault.”

Lenox held McConnell’s gaze until the latter looked away. “At any rate,” he said.

“How is Toto’s health?” inquired Lenox in a neutral tone.

“She’s recuperating. Jane is with her.”

“How long will she require rest?”

“She can move already, but her doctor told me that she must first calm her nerves.”

“Of course.”

“It was a fluke, he also said.”

“Of course it was, Thomas. Nobody could have predicted it.”

“Well—be that as it may.”

“Nobody could have predicted it!” said Lenox, driven to a high tone. “Has it occurred to you that Toto asked you to leave because
she
feels responsible,
she
feels as if she disappointed you, Thomas? Good Christ, for an intelligent man . . .”

McConnell looked chastened. “Do you think so?”

“I know it’s not because she blames you.”

“Well—thank you, Charles. Excuse me for arriving in that—in that state.”

The tension in Lenox’s face relaxed slightly. “I’m pleased to have you here. Lord knows I need help.”

“I hope I can work on your behalf.”

“I’m running against a brewer. Roodle, his name is. Apparently not well liked, but the local attitude seems to run along devil-you-know lines.”

“Have you any chance?”

“Not a week ago the men who proposed I run were optimistic. Giddily optimistic, even; but Stoke’s death has lengthened my odds considerably.”

“Did you see the
Times
, by the way?”

“No, what?”

“They ran a small piece about you and Hilary leaving in the dead of night.”

“How funny!”

“It referred to you as—let me remember—as ‘Charles Lenox, notable for his successful intervention in the infamous murder of Bill Dabney and the disappearance of George Payson, as well as the final capture of the so-called September Society.’ In the clubs there was quite a buzz about your campaign.”

“What did people think?”

“That it was celebrity chasing by the Liberals, I’m afraid. Those who knew you emphasized your long interest in politics, but the general opinion was derisive, unfortunately.”

“I’ve dealt with worse, of course.”

Lenox saw McConnell eye the Scotch whisky. At that moment Lucy, the energetic waitress, sailed by. “Eating, Mr. Lenox?”

“I’d love something. Whatever looks good,” he said.

“Straightaway.”

“Is there much talk of Pierce and Carruthers?” asked Lenox.

“Well—you’ll understand I haven’t been lazing about Pall Mall. I only went by my club yesterday afternoon to escape the house. I do know Shreve”—this was the McConnells’ funereal and corpulent butler—“has been censoring a great deal of below-stairs gossip. I can’t imagine there’s any more tact evident in the high houses.”

Lenox laughed. “Of course not. Oh—I say, McConnell, would you mind if I was rude for a moment? I’ve been carrying this letter about with me all day looking for a moment to read it.”

McConnell acceded with a wan nod. It was the letter from Lord John Dallington, who for the space of four months or so had been filling an awkward and new role; he was Lenox’s apprentice.

It was a strange fit. Dallington was well known in London as a dissolute and disheveled, if charming, scion of the aristocracy and the eternal worry and disappointment of the Duke and Duchess of Marchmain, whose youngest son he was. The duchess was one of Lady Jane’s very closest friends, and so for years Lenox had known Dallington without ever paying him undue attention. He was a short, trim, and handsome man, whose face was unblemished by his dissipation, dark eyed and dark haired, something of a dandy; a perfect carnation always sat in his buttonhole.

Most third sons of the aristocracy chose the military or the clergy, but Dallington, in part encouraged by his parents’ leniency, had repudiated these traditional paths and instead devoted the first years of his twenties to the Beargarden Club and pretty young girls. Then, shockingly, one day in September he had approached Lenox and requested an education in detective work. Lenox had warned the lad that it was a profession whose only rewards were internal, that it took dedication to work at a vocation held in such low esteem. Dallington pointed out that his own reputation was not high, and Lenox had taken him on. Since then, the lad had been surprisingly adept at his new work, and diligent besides, even if there had been several rocky moments. Those, though, were forgotten: Dallington had either saved Lenox’s life or come close to it, and their bond—indeed, their friendship—was now secure.

His letter was brief.

Lenox,

I once met Simon Pierce at a party—crashing bore. Nevertheless, one does feel a certain sorrow. Are you doing anything about this? I would like to help, if so. Hope you had a jolly Christmas and everything like that.

Dallington

This note raised in Lenox a sense of guilt, which combined with the poor chances of his campaign made him feel suddenly that his real place was on the trail of whoever had murdered the two London journalists, not here courting votes among people who had no affection for his presence.

“From Dallington,” he said. “Asks about the journalists. I do feel I should be there, rather.”

McConnell did something strange then—he literally smacked his forehead. “How could I have forgotten, Lenox! I come bearing news.”

“What is it?”

“We had just spoken about the matter,” said McConnell with a bemused shake of his head. “It’s the drink—it puts me awkward—I’m not . . .” He trailed off nervously. “My memory.”

“For the love of Christ, what is it?” Lenox asked.

“Hiram Smalls? The chap in jail?”

“Yes?”

“He’s dead, apparently. Just before midnight yesterday evening. I was in the train station when I heard about it.”

CHAPTER NINE

L

enox was stunned. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” said McConnell.

“You’re absolutely certain of that?”

“They were selling an extra edition of the paper with a story to that effect—I’m sure of that anyway.”

“Did you buy it?”

McConnell looked embarrassed. “I’m afraid I was—not myself,” he said.

With any luck the late papers from the night before
might
make it up to Stirrington tonight. Otherwise he would have to wait until the morning. It was maddening, just maddening. For a tenth of a second every fiber in Lenox’s body strained against the town and his task there.

“What did it say? Do you remember? Murder? Suicide? Was it unclear?”

Rather lamely, McConnell answered, “Only that he had just died, actually.”

Then Lucy arrived with a bubbling pie of some kind or other for Lenox, which despite his focus on Smalls was a welcome sight after a morning of what had been cold campaigning.

“Lucy, a moment—do you take telegrams here?”

“No, sir, but the boots will take a telegram to the post office for a small tip.”

“Could you send him over?”

The boots, when he appeared, turned out to be a lad of not more than thirteen or so, with a pronounced overbite and black hands from his work shining shoes. Lenox had quickly scribbled out a message and an address, and he handed these to the boots along with a large tip, in addition to the money it would cost to send the telegram. Admonishingly, he instructed the boy not to lose it or to tarry on his way to the post office. Thinking it over, he took back the tip and promised to hold it until the lad returned with a receipt. Perhaps this wasn’t the most trusting thing to do, but Lenox remembered what he had been like at thirteen.

“To whom did you write?” asked McConnell, who was looking slightly ill again.

“Dallington.”

“Telling him?”

“Asking him for information, primarily. Also telling him to keep an eye on matters there.” Lenox looked at his pocket watch. “I wish I had time to wait for a reply, but I’m afraid I’m scheduled to speak soon. Excuse me, will you?”

“Where?” asked McConnell.

He received no reply, though, for Lenox had already walked up to Crook at the bar for a brief consultation. Either Crook or Hilary had introduced him before all of his speeches so far, but Hilary was gone, and Crook was working; another member of the Liberal committee, Sandy Smith, was going to meet Lenox at his first speech and accompany him for the rest of the day.

“I must go,” Lenox said to McConnell. “I’ll see you for supper?”

“Can’t I tag along and help you campaign?”

“Tomorrow, certainly—but have another afternoon of rest, won’t you?”

McConnell still looked disheveled, and Lenox, though he had never been embarrassed by a friend before, felt he couldn’t march around Stirrington with the doctor now. How politics had already changed him! It wasn’t clear whether McConnell understood Lenox’s motives, but without any further protest he agreed to spend the afternoon on his own.

Lenox’s mind fairly swarmed with ideas. It would have been useful, in fact, to ask McConnell to look at Hiram Smalls’s body, but now the doctor was here; still, work might be the best thing for him. If there was any possibility of foul play, Lenox might ask him to return.

Sandy Smith turned out to be a small, dark-haired, and precise-looking man, a contrast to the vast Crook. He wore glasses, a short-brimmed hat, and a snug gray waistcoat, and constantly checked a gold pocket watch that sat in a small pocket therein. He shook Lenox’s hand enthusiastically and repeated several times that he thought their chances were better than anyone realized, which was cheering to hear.

Soon enough they arrived at a small, square park, full of bright green grass and low, well-maintained trees.

“This is Sawyer Park,” said Smith. He gestured to the arcades that ringed it. “Many of our finest shops are here—there you see my law office—and the apartments above the arcades are very eligible indeed. Mr. Roodle’s agent has that shop, the milliner’s.”

“I don’t see much of a crowd.”

Smith looked at his watch. “We have twenty minutes yet. Nobody wants to close shop or leave work much before they have to, but there’ll be a hundred people here, give or take. How many have you been speaking to generally?”

“Yesterday? Only twenty or thirty at a time. More like meetings than speeches.”

“Well, I hope you’re in good voice.”

“I think I am. The issues shall carry us, I expect.”

“Well,” said Smith doubtfully, “people around here are fond of a good speech.”

“Shall I take questions?”

He laughed. “Yes, whether you like to or not.”

“I see.”

Smith and Lenox spent the next few minutes shaking hands with people who happened to pass by. Some of these stayed in the park, others left and then returned with a friend, and soon there was a sizable crowd amassed on the small green, even larger than a hundred people. Lenox felt nervous, but he had practiced on the smaller crowds and knew he could deliver his speech. His anxiety now went toward the questions, which might well be rude or mocking. I must remember to maintain my own manner, he thought; there’s nothing I can do about anybody else’s.

At last he went to the small raised platform that served as a kind of Speakers’ Corner and delivered his speech. It went off fairly well, drawing appreciative laughter and confirming hisses at the right moments.

Then came the questions.

The first was already dangerous. “Why would you care about Stirrington?” a man a few feet off to the side asked.

“Because there’s an election here!” somebody farther back shouted, and everyone laughed.

“It’s true that I’m here because of this by-election,” Lenox said when the noise had died down, “but I’m here because I care about every corner of England and all her people, and Stirrington is just as much a part of this country as Sussex, where I’m from, or London, where I live. People here, like people anywhere, want a decent wage, a strong government, and”—here Lenox gulped back his pride—“a fair price for beer.”

This answer earned Lenox a round of applause.

“What’s a fair price?”

“Less than you’re paying,” the candidate answered.

“Do you drink?”

“Not right now, thanks.”

Another laugh, and Lenox felt he was getting the hang of the questions. A little humor mixed with broad answers.

Then a short, fat, sharp-faced man standing not five feet away said, loudly enough for everyone to hear, “You should go back to London, Mr. Lenox.”

Smith’s voice behind Lenox whispered, “That’s Roodle.”

“I will when I’m elected, Mr. Roodle, so I can represent this wonderful town.”

In the crowd there was total silence, almost an anticipatory inhale of breath, as the two candidates faced each other for the first time.

“So you can prance around in Parliament and forget all about us back here.”

“No man who knows me could deny that all of my convictions, all of my beliefs, are directed toward the protection of people like these. A better life for people here in Stirrington, and everywhere across England. I’ll never forget that.”

“You don’t know ‘these people,’ ” he said with a scoffing laugh. “I’ve been here my whole life, sir.”

Lenox felt a riposte forming somewhere in his brain. “Your whole life?” he said.

“My whole life,” confirmed Roodle.

“Yet your brewery hasn’t.”

There was a moment of silence, followed by an absolute roar of laughter. When it subsided just a little, Smith said, “Thank you!” and pulled the candidate offstage.

The small man was thrilled. “Leave ’em on a high note,” he said. “That was wonderful! You showed Roodle! Round one to Lenox! Come, come, we must wade into the crowd and shake every hand we can find! Come! ‘Yet your brewery hasn’t,’ he says! Wonderful!”