The Fleet Street Murders (9 page)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

L

enox began, as was his wont, by searching from the ground up. With a lack of ceremony that plainly surprised Natt, he lay flat on his stomach and took a preliminary look under the bed. Lighting a match from a matchbox in his pocket, he then made a more comprehensive survey of the space. He took enough time for Natt to offer an impatient throat clearing, but in the end the time he took was worth it. Behind one of the bed’s feet he found a pile of coins, stacked in order of size so that they made a small pyramid. He picked it up carefully and spread the coins in his palm.

“A farthing, a halfpenny, a penny, threepence, sixpence, and a shilling. All the coins of the realm up to the shilling,” said Lenox.

“You would be surprised what people hoard in here.”

“Of course. Wouldn’t he have kept money on his person, though?”

“In fact, no. There are frequent incidents of theft and mugging, I’m afraid.”

“It’s to be expected. What could this buy?”

“A pair of trousers?”

“I know what it could buy in
our
world,” said Lenox, “but in here?”

“Oh—oh. Perhaps five breakfasts? Four suppers?”

“Tobacco?”

“To be sure.”

With this Lenox resumed his search, looking under the nightstand, removing its one drawer and searching for false joints, and trying to pry off its top, until he was convinced it was innocent of further contents. Then he searched the visible floor, then the walls, and after that the ledge of the tiny window.

There was very little else in the cell, and finally he turned his attention to the hook Smalls had died on. It was slightly loose, no doubt from bearing all the weight it had. Lenox couldn’t make much of it but noticed a brown square about a foot below it, the size of another hook.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“There used to be two hooks. Still are, in a few cells.”

“Why did you take them away?”

“They had fallen out of use. From the color of the stain I’d say this one has been gone for three or four years.”

“I see.”

Lenox felt discouraged. He made it a policy to visit the freshest crime scene first but now wished he had gone to Carruthers’s or Pierce’s house instead.

They walked back to the warden’s office by the same grim route, and Lenox felt glad he had been born into a position that made crime an unlikely choice for him. Which was not to say there weren’t men of his station within these walls. Some of them were there because of him.

“Ah,” said Natt when they were in his office, “here is the list of 122’s effects.”

“Thank you.”

It was a short list that Lenox took in his hands. “One suit, gray serge; one piece of paper; one pouch, shag tobacco; one pipe, mahogany and match scarred; one penny blood,
Black Bess
.”

Lenox knew his compassion ought to be reserved for Pierce and Carruthers, but something about this list struck his easily reached heart. It was the magazine perhaps, the penny dreadful. He knew
Black Bess
. It was about a legendary highwayman, Dick Turpin, who had in truth been a stupid man, a robber of old ladies, a murderer, but who in these glamorized stories was the owner of a beautiful horse, Bess, on whom he rode the country, bad but never evil, a rogue with a conscience. What appeal would
Black Bess
have to a man like Hiram Smalls? It seemed to tell its own tale, the man’s choice of what to read.

“Did the paper have any markings or writing on it?”

“There will be a note on the reverse of the sheet if it does.”

“Ah—thank you.”

In fact, there was an addendum. In careful handwriting, a clerk’s probably, it read, “Note dated Dec. 20, no signature or address, beginning ‘The dogcarts pull away’ and ending ‘No green.’ Thirty-two words, nonsense or code.”

Well, this was maddening.

“Is there no way to get hold of the note?”

“You might inquire about it with 122’s mother.”

“Indeed I shall. You have her address, I hope?” Lenox said, trying to contain his ire.

“Here it is, somewhere on my desk.” Natt shuffled through his things. “Ah, yes, here.” He copied the address down for Lenox. “Will that be all?”

“Yes, thank you. I appreciate your help.”

“We strive for transparency, and in particular as you’re now in—in the public eye, as it were . . .”

So this was why it had been so easy to see the prison. “Yes?”

“If you
do
make it into Parliament, Mr. Lenox, I can guess you won’t forget us?”

“Of course not.”

Natt fairly beamed. “Topping! Yes, well, I wish you all of the best luck in your campaign and your—your case alike.”

“Thank you, Warden.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

I

t was nearing eight o’clock in the morning now, and as Lenox rode homeward his thoughts turned to Lady Jane, whom he pictured in the small pale blue study, across from the rose-colored sitting room, where she spent her mornings. She would be reading her letters and answering them with a cup of tea beside her, and Lenox wondered whether perhaps his own note lay on her mahogany desk. It was foolish, but he felt afraid of visiting her. Still, he believed in facing things that frightened him and decided that after speaking with McConnell and Dallington he would go to her house.

He arrived at his own familiar door and found that the moment he touched the knob it flew open, with McConnell behind it. Mary, who was in charge of the house in Graham’s absence, stood a few feet behind him with a worried look on her face.

“How do you do, Lenox? I’m a bit early.”

“How do you do, Thomas? Shall we go to the library?”

“Yes, yes. I have news.”

About Toto or the case? It wouldn’t do to ask in front of Mary, however, who had taken Lenox’s coat and now trotted down the long front hallway behind the two men, whispering in Lenox’s ear that his suitcase had arrived, sir, and would he like breakfast, and that she had offered Dr. McConnell a seat, but he had insisted on waiting by the door. Lenox dismissed her with as much tolerance as he could muster, instructing her to admit Dallington whenever the young man arrived. Mary, who was always over-awed by her responsibility when Graham was gone and Lenox spoke to her directly, blushed and stammered and left.

In Lenox’s library a fire had just been lit, and to his agitation the papers on his desk were now neatly stacked.

“Will you come sit by the fire?” Lenox asked. “I’ve a bit of a chill. Winter weather.”

“With pleasure,” said McConnell.

The doctor’s face was flushed, and his eyes were slightly wild, darting a little too often to his left and right, never quite focusing. His hands trembled just slightly. His hair was combed back, but his clothes certainly hadn’t been changed in twenty-four hours, maybe more.

Gently, Lenox said, “May I ask after Toto’s health?”

“I haven’t seen her,” said McConnell. “I’m staying at Claridge’s. Even so, her doctor says she’s well.”

“I’m so glad to hear it.”

McConnell nodded. “Yes,” he said. Then, a little less certainly, he said it again. “Yes.”

“How are you?”

“I’ve found something out, I believe.”

“What is that?” said Lenox, pouring two cups of coffee. McConnell looked as if he could use it.

“I think Smalls was murdered.”

“Not a suicide?” asked Lenox sharply.

“No.”

Now, McConnell was truly a world-class doctor. In his time he had been one of the most gifted surgeons on Harley Street, the epicenter of the empire’s medical community, and had treated the royal and the destitute side by side. Toto’s family had considered it beneath their dignity that their scion should marry a medical man, however, and though he had resisted for three years after his marriage, in the end they had persuaded him to sell the practice to an impoverished relation for a mere song.

It had been the catastrophic mistake of his life. Work had given him purpose and identity; left to his own devices, to the endless hours of an unoccupied day, he had begun to collapse inward. Now he only practiced when he helped Lenox. Because of the doctor’s state, however, Lenox felt less confident in the man than usual.

“How do you know?”

McConnell breathed a deep, steadying sigh. “It comes down to his bootlaces.”

“Yes?”

“I saw them. I visited your friend Jenkins, at Scotland Yard.”

“I’m seeing him this morning.”

“He managed to show me the bootlaces. He had to risk getting caught when he pulled them out of evidence, but I impressed the urgency of it on him.”

“What was so telling about the bootlaces?”

“That they weren’t broken.”

“Well, of course they weren’t—they—” Then Lenox saw it. “They couldn’t have borne Smalls’s weight.”

“Precisely. I nosed around at the coroner’s a bit. I couldn’t manage to see the body, for which I’m sorry—”

“Not at all.”

“I did find out that Smalls weighed roughly eleven stone. I measured the bootlaces, looked at the report Exeter drew up to see how they had been arranged around his neck, went out and bought a dozen pair of identical laces, and then did some experiments at the butcher’s.”

“And?”

“I tried hanging every hog and cow in the place—even a few that were much lighter than eleven stone—and every time the laces snapped. They were thin ones.”

“The butcher let you?”

“I gave him a bottle of whisky.”

“Brilliantly managed,” said Lenox.

McConnell’s eyes steadied for a moment and shone with the happiness of a job well done. “Thank you, Lenox,” he said.

“Yet how did Smalls stay up on the wall?”

“I believe I figured that out, too. According to the Yard’s report, his belt was unusually worn—with the buckle in back.”

“His back was to the wall, correct?” Suddenly Lenox thought of the colored square on the wall where a second hook had once been. “They turned his belt around, so it would hitch to the metal bit?”

“Yes.”

“I wonder if Exeter saw that.”

“Perhaps,” said McConnell. “Perhaps.”

“Then what killed the man?”

“I’ve no doubt it was strangulation. I know the coroner who wrote the report. He’s very good.”

“Strangulation that was then made to look as if it were suicide? There’s one problem remaining, of course.”

“Do you mean—what his belt was hooked to?”

“Exactly. Can Natt have been lying?”

“Who?”

“The warden.”

“I don’t know,” said McConnell.

“Well—it was awfully well done, anyway,” said Lenox. “We know what we’re facing now.”

Just then there was a ring at the door. It would be Dallington. Glancing up at his clock, Lenox saw it was just past eight.

But no.

“Lady Jane Grey,” announced Mary and held the door for Lenox’s betrothed.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

I

t was very awkward, because Lenox had strode toward the door of the library when he heard the ring, and as Jane came in she saw only him at first.

“Charles!” she said with high emotion after Mary had closed the door behind her. “I saw you come home.”

“I was just on my way to see you,” he said, “after keeping two short appointments.”

“Hello, Jane,” said McConnell just then, apparently without perceiving her fragile state.

She started. “Why—hello, Thomas.”

“How do you do?”

“Fairly well, thank you. I come from your house.”

Of course she wouldn’t have been in her pale blue study, Lenox thought. She would have been at Toto’s side.

“Yes?” said McConnell stiffly.

With uncharacteristic directness—she was a tactful soul—she said, “You ought to return there this instant.”

“Oh, yes?” he said, looking even more unhappy. “I believe that the household might be more comfortable if—if—”

“Don’t be proud, for the love of heaven. Toto pines for you, and these are the hardest days of her life. Go back to her.”

“Well—I—”

“Oh!” She stamped her foot in frustration. “Men waste half their lives being proud.”

Even in this fraught situation, Lenox felt a burst of pride that she was his—if she was, anyway.

“Well—” said McConnell in a halting voice. “Good day, Lenox. Good day, Jane.”

With that he left the room.

Lady Jane went to the sofa in the middle of the room and sat, a heavy sigh escaping her lips as she did. “What lives we all lead,” she said. “Poor Toto.”

Lenox went to sit beside her but did not embrace her. They were a foot or so apart. “How are you, Jane? Well, I dearly hope? Did you receive my letter?”

“Yes, Charles, it reassured me. Still, these two days I’ve sat at Toto’s bedside—”

Just then there was another ring at the door, and, as Lenox had instructed her to, Mary brought Dallington into the library.

He was a cheerful-looking young man, a carnation in his buttonhole, and genially said hello to Lenox and Lady Jane. There were dark circles under his eyes, the legacy no doubt of a long and debauched night in some music hall or gambling room. He bore fatigue better than McConnell, however, being younger and, because of his long years of carousing, perhaps better used to it.

“I hope I don’t interrupt your conversation?” he said.

“No,” answered Lenox.

Dallington went on, “I’m late, as I daresay you’ll have observed.”

“John, will you say hello to your mother for me?” asked Lady Jane. “I’ve missed her twice in the past two days.”

“Of course,” he answered.

“Charles, I’ll see you in a little while?”

Lenox half-bowed.

“Then I must be off.”

She hurried out of the room, and as she did Lenox thought of her usual movements, how graceful and languid they were compared to the agitation of her carriage now. It was the stress of seeing Toto, he thought, in combination with her doubts about their marriage. Jane Grey had striven for her entire life to act well and honestly, and she felt miserable when she didn’t see the right course ahead. Suddenly a solemn sense of fear overtook Lenox. He had to master himself before addressing the young lord.

“Thank you for your telegrams, Dallington,” he said. “They were most welcome when the newspapers’ information lagged.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“What can you tell me about this young suspect?”

“About Gerald Poole? Well, Exeter arrested him yesterday. You’ve seen the papers?”

“Not yet. I’ve had a steady stream of appointments since getting back this morning.”

“How is the campaign, incidentally?”

The relationship between the two men was a funny one. Not quite friends, they had nonetheless been through more than most friends already—for Dallington had saved Lenox’s life, while Lenox had witnessed many of Dallington’s flaws firsthand; and though student and pupil, they knew too much of each other and moved too closely in the same circles to retain the formality of that connection. It was never clear whether their conversations should stay professional, but Dallington settled the matter by seeing that they didn’t. Still, Lenox never felt entirely comfortable confiding in the young man, whose tastes and habits were so different than his own.

“Well, thank you. It will be difficult to win, but I have high hopes.”

“I once gambled with old Stoke’s boy.”

“Did you?”

“Dissipated sort.”

“What about Poole?”

Dallington offered Lenox a grim smile. “To business already?”

“I’m only here briefly.”

“Well—can that blushing creature of yours fetch a paper?”

Lenox rang for Mary and asked for the morning’s and the prior evening’s newspapers.

Dallington said, “Asking for one is the same as asking for a hundred—they all have the same information. Inspector Exeter placed Gerry Poole under arrest for the murders of Simon Pierce and Winston Carruthers.”

“Have they cottoned on to his father’s history yet?”

“Oh, yes. They all mention the treason.”

“Has Exeter given up on Smalls, then?”

“On the contrary—he’s convinced that they did it together.” Gravely, Dallington said, “In fact, that’s the strongest piece of evidence linking Gerry to the murders. The rest of it is circumstantial.”

“What’s the strongest piece of evidence?”

“About fifty witnesses have Gerald Poole and Hiram Smalls meeting in the Saracen’s Head pub the night before the murders. Even if none of them had seen it, however, he’s admitted it’s true.”

“Hiram Smalls must have been a busy pubgoer, from the sound of things. He met Martha Claes and Gerald Poole both at pubs.”

The papers came in just then, and Lenox perused them without much close attention. They were in concord with Dallington’s account of the matter.

“What’s his explanation for being in the pub?”

“I haven’t been in to see him, and he hasn’t told the papers, but he admitted it readily enough.”

“As an intelligent person would if denial were useless. He went into prison after Smalls had already died there, I take it? No overlap?”

“No, no.” Distressed, Dallington said, “Listen, won’t you, he simply
can
not have killed anyone.”

“No?”

“I met him years ago on the continent and have kept in touch with him since. He’s the friendliest, least sinister chap I ever saw. Not to mention that he couldn’t tell you the time without losing his watch. The idea of him planning a murder is laughable.”

“Yet his father was guilty of high crimes, almost certainly.”

“Gerry always lived in a sort of permanent, jovial daze. Never said a cross word to anybody, happily won and lost money alike at the track, drank himself into a friendly stupor—I can’t describe accurately how incapable of malice I believe him to be.”

“A more cynical man than myself might say you saw him through a friend’s eyes.”

“Am I such a poor judge of character as all that?”

“No,” said Lenox quietly. “I don’t think you are.”

“Well, then.”

Trying to sound detached, Lenox said, “You know, you look a bit tired, Dallington.”

The younger man laughed. “You always smoke me out, don’t you, Lenox?”

“Well?”

“A friend of mine was in London. I’ve been sleeping for the last fifteen hours, but we did chase the devil for a day and a night.”

Lenox sighed. It wasn’t his place to say anything, but the lad had talent, definite talent, in the art of detection. “I hope it was worth it.”

“Excuse me?” said Dallington, who was used to his own way.

“By God, man, do you realize I have a day here, not more than a day and a half? Much of this case must come down to you—to you! Or the Yard,” Lenox said as an afterthought.

A look of determination came onto Dallington’s face. “I had hoped as much.”

“Well,” said Lenox, standing. “Let us go and see Mr. Poole. Newgate twice in one morning! What a depressing thought.”