An East End Murder

“Poor chap, Lenox murmured, walking up toward the scene of the crime. The still body sprawled along the cobblestones below him was cast over with the jaundice of evening lamplight. “You don’t know what his name was, do you?”

“Phil Jigg, according to one woman. I asked something like eight people about him.”

“Did she say anything else?”

The young bobby shook his head. “That was all, and she rushed off right quick.”

“It looks like strangulation.” Lenox pointed out the ring of deep scarlet around the man’s neck. “His head is at that slightly unnatural angle, too. Was there anything in his pockets?”

“Probably, Mr. Lenox, but of course the beggars and the boys would have given it the thrice-over and taken anything worthwhile. I only arrived here half an hour ago. Nothing was left.”

“Nothing at all?”

“Not even the buttons of his waistcoat.”

Lenox looked down and saw the man’s bare feet. “How about where he lived?”

“I wouldn’t guess Pall Mall, begging your pardon, sir.”

Lenox looked around the street, a long, deathly quiet one that by day would gradually become a carnival of pickpockets, jugglers, badger baiters, ball-and-cup shills, prostitutes, and street urchins who could turn a magic trick or do a few flips between the hansom cabs. It was famous, Great St. Andrew’s Street, though not one of the British Empire’s prouder adornments.

“I’ll look the matter over,” said Lenox, a soft sigh behind his words. “If you’re sure you can’t find the time.”

The young policeman nodded dolefully. “If Inspector Exeter knew I was even here I’d be in trouble. Peacekeeping, he often says, not crime solving.”

“I’ve seen exceptions to that rule,” Lenox said dryly.

The bobby didn’t respond, except to say, “Will you be needing a look at the body, then?”

“Could you keep it in the morgue for a day or two, just in case?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well. Thanks for calling me out, Jameson.”

Lenox walked back to his carriage, took a brief glance around, stepped inside, and told the driver to go to Regent Square. The driver, Lenox knew, was only too glad to trade Great St. Andrew’s for the square, and a six-hour-old corpse for the companionship of the other drivers who would be waiting outside at the Duke of Marchmain’s dinner party.

Looking out of the window as the carriage bumped along, Lenox cast back his mind. It must have been 1862 that he had his last case here, a murder then, too. So it had been three years. The place doesn’t look different at all, he thought, and gave a quiet sigh of despair. Only his closest friends could have seen the glint of interest in his eye, and known the excitement he felt that he was working once again.

The next morning was sunny and bright, a first intimation that spring was close. It had been a remorselessly cold and windswept April, and the first few days of May little better. As Lenox wandered through the churchyard of St. Giles in the Fields he undid a button on his overcoat, then another. It was a ten-minute walk from there, past Two Brewers Yard and Monmouth Street, down Great White Lion’s, that brought him to the Seven Dials, the small circle at the heart of this rather poor area. Extending out from the circle were seven thin streets crowded with noisy vendors and high, shabby buildings full of underfed children and overworked mothers. One of the seven was Great St. Andrew’s, and Lenox turned down it with a wary check of his billfold. The pickpockets worked toward the middle of the day, when the streets were thick with slumming gentleman and foreigners who didn’t know better, but it was always best to be safe.

He knew one woman on Great St. Andrew’s, Martha Morris. She had a hot corn stand in front of the rag-and-bone shop twenty doors or so down the street. It was her husband who had been murdered three years before, though she hadn’t been sorry to see him go. Abraham Morris had been a drinker and a gambler, the kind who hit his wife and took the money she had made, and it was only reluctantly that Martha cooperated with the detective. When he solved the case (a well-connected man named James Dewey had killed Morris when he threatened to expose Dewey’s habit of going to prostitutes), she hadn’t even been moderately glad, in fact not even all that interested. Still, in the end they had reached a position of mutual respect, if a grudging one on her side.

So Lenox sought her out first. Sure enough, there she was at her stand, selling the buttered ears of corn for fourpence each. Lenox asked for one and paid before she recognized him. As he took his first bite (and it was good, smoky and salty, the kind of food they would never have let him have as a boy), she looked at him through narrowed eyes and said, “Don’t I know you?”

“You do, Mrs. Morris,” he said. “Charles Lenox.”

She looked him in the eyes. “Are you bearing any news for me, Mr. Lenox?”

“Oh no,” he said. “Nothing like that.” He waved a reassuring hand.

“Do you always get greeted as if you were the Grim Reaper?” she asked, expertly rolling the corn with a pair of blackened tongs.

“More often than I’d like, I’m afraid. No, in fact I was coming to ask you for a favor. I was wondering if you knew a man named Philip Jigg.” He consulted his notepad. “That’s right, Philip Jigg.”

The guarded look her face had worn when she recognized him returned. “I expected that there’d be a price for your ‘elp, if you can call it that,” she said. “Big gentleman like you coming down among us.”

Lenox was stung. “No, I don’t expect you to say anything you don’t want to. Or anything at all, for that matter. I only came here because I know you.”

She wasn’t mollified. “I knew Philly Jigg, all right. But I don’t want trouble, so I’ll be asking you to go on your way. And ‘ere’s your fourpence. No charity needed ‘ere, I’ll tell you.”

“I won’t take that fourpence, because I enjoyed the corn.” He tossed the cob into a barrel by the stand. “But I will move on, if that’s what you like.”

“I reckon it is,” she said.

“Was he a bad man?” Lenox asked, almost as an afterthought. “Was he like your husband?”

“Gentler than that, bless his soul.” She said it almost involuntarily.

“Could you at least point out someone who knew him well?” Lenox said, trying hard to keep his voice nonchalant.

“The Plug brothers p’raps. Down by the arena. That’s all I reckon I’ll say.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Morris.”

She waved her tongs urgently, and he walked briskly away, aware that to be seen talking to him was a kind of danger, that in the Dials the unusual was always a kind of danger. There was no need to ask where the arena was — Lenox remembered vividly Abraham Morris’s body slumped against the wall in the alley behind it. It was a place where a sixpence bought a quart of ale and a show of ratting or bear-baiting, famous in Parliament as the example reform-minded MPs would always draw on as a sign of London’s moral degradation. As Lenox approached he could see the thicket of performers, beggars, and street urchins trying to make a penny or two. Many of them would use those pennies in the arena, in fact, betting and drinking.

“Plug brothers?” he asked a boy of six or seven, handing over two halfpenny coins.

“Just there.”

Lenox walked to the storefront the lad had pointed out. It had grimy windows filled with rather garish suits of clothing and a more staid rack of hats. Red stencil lettering above the door read PLUG BROTHERS, and a signboard out on the sidewalk advertised all sorts of products, ranging from the banal (“hats”) to the bizarre (“ratty pockets”). Lenox went in and found two identical men, each about forty-five, each with trim black hair, and each with an enormous stomach and about nine chins. These, evidently, were the Plugs, and in Lenox’s opinion were the last word on what a Mr. Plug ought to look like. Both of them stood up when he came in, though the effort left them panting slightly as they spoke.

“Hello, sir,” said one of them. “Timothy Plug. This is my brother, Thomas.”

“How do you do,” Lenox said.

“Can we help you today, sir? In the market for anything particular?”

“What are ratty pockets, if I might inquire?”

Thomas Plug frowned. “A gentleman square-rigged like you, I should say, could go without them.”

“Square-rigged?”

“Respectably dressed, sir.”

“But what are they? Just curiosity, you know.”

Timothy Plug took this one. “Pants with extra large pockets running along the sides, for rat catchers to fill with feed, net, water bottle, in short, the entire apparatus of the rat catcher.”

Thomas Plug nodded to indicate that he thought this a satisfactory answer.

Lenox took the least offensive item in his purview off of the shelf — a pink lace handkerchief that looked to be about eight feet across — and paid half a shilling for it. As the Plugs went about wrapping it, no small job, Lenox asked a question. “I say, I wonder whether you two knew Phil Jigg?”

Both brothers froze. “Who might be asking?” one of them inquired after a moment.

“Charles Lenox. I’m looking into his death.”

Thomas Plug went nervously to the door and looked at the street. “You understand,” he said, looking back over his shoulder at Lenox, “that we don’t know who killed him. It could have been anybody.”

“Of course,” Lenox said. There was always the danger that someone powerful, one of the minor monarchs of the Dials, had wanted Phil Jigg dead.

“But,” Plug went on, “Jiggs was our friend, you know. We’d like to see some justice done.”

“All too rare around here,” Timothy chipped in.

Lenox nodded. “Can you tell me anything about him?”

Thomas sighed. “He was a nice chap. Never afraid to stand a pint at the pub, but not a drunk or a boaster. Generous, I mean. Bought his clothes here to support us.”

“What did he do?”

“Ah — now he had ratty pockets. He was a rat catcher, wasn’t he. About four times a month the arena has a dog-and-rat show, and Jiggs always used to supply about half the rats. He would wander all over the Dials until he had caught about eighty or ninety of the little fellers.”

Timothy added, “And in between shows, if he ran a bit shy he was a pea-and-thimble man, like.”

“Pea-and-thimble?”

“You know, Mr. Lenox, sir, the fellow with three cups and a pea.”

“Ah.”

Timothy’s pink face quivered. “Poor Jiggs, I’ll say that much.”

“Do you know anybody who didn’t like him, if I may ask?”

“No, ‘course not. I’m dashed if he wasn’t one of the most popular chappies in these parts, Mr. Lenox.”

“Who were his other friends, Mr. Plug?”

Both brothers thought for a moment. “We were the closest to him,” Thomas said at last. “Some of the lads at the Queen’s Arms knew him but weren’t friends, like.”

“Where did he live?”

“Ah — a sad story there, you know,” said Thomas. Timothy nodded. “A right sad story, Mr. Lenox. Three weeks ago a slang cove — a showman, you know, one of these fellows outside the arena offering magic tricks and the like — well, one of these fellows stuck a knife to Jiggs’s throat and made him turn over a whole week’s rat-catching money. Disappeared after that, I can tell you. Jiggs near died of it. Then, next go-round, believe it or don’t, it happened again! A fine wirer, though, no knife involved.”

“Fine wirer?”

“Only the best of the pickpockets receive that precise appellation,” Timothy said knowledgeably, shaking his great pink head up and down.

“What happened to Phil Jigg, then?”

“He was run out of his house. Had to go stay around back of the church. Not a bad deal, though they force you to listen to them sermons, you know.”

“Which church?”

“Rev Tilton’s, it’s called St. Martin’s. Only a few hundred paces in that direction.”

Thomas Plug said thoughtfully, “The lads there might know better than we what his habits have been.”

Lenox nodded. “No idea, then, what happened to him? Enemies, I mean to say, or perhaps somebody whose turf Phil Jigg trespassed on?”

“Phil paid up promptly out of the pea-and-thimble money, I can tell you that,” said Timothy. “And he was valuable to them at the arena. No, I reckon it was something else. Can’t say what, though.”

A short while later Lenox went back out into the street, which was much busier now. He had asked a few more questions, none of which yielded much. Jigg was from the county of Norfolk originally; orphaned early, without knowing whether his parents were alive or dead; raised in an orphanage; didn’t have a wife, a child, or indeed any family of any sort; no, not at all the type to gamble or go into debt; no, never involved in anything criminal. Still, the Plugs had been helpful. Lenox had learned enough to begin looking more deeply into the case.

It was about eleven, and Lenox thought his next step might be to visit St. Martin’s, where Phil Jigg had been staying since he was kicked out of his residence. Perhaps the other habituals there could give him fresher information. He stopped on the way and peered inside the arena, though there was nothing to see and he was rewarded only with a hundred different invitations to play a card game, a hundred different forms of begging. One of them caught his eye in particular, a little girl of ten or so with what appeared to be an awful wound on her leg. Though Lenox knew it was only a piece of meat strapped there, in some way that almost made him sadder. He gave the girl some coins and moved off down the street, thinking he would do an awful lot more good in Parliament than out here searching futilely for facts about a man who seemed almost eerily anonymous even to his closest friends.

St. Martin’s was nicer than the neighborhood it served, a wide, airy, whitewashed church surrounded by dim, narrow buildings. It had a spartan altar and a modest sort of organ in the rear of the nave, as well as some rather pretty scenes from the life of Christ in stained glass. Behind it, according to the Plug brothers, was the long room that transient men either paid threepence or did chores to sleep in, with a large central fire that ran day and night, summer and winter, and cots along its walls. And behind that were the St. Martin’s orphans.

The Reverend Tilton was a tall, thin man with a shock of white hair. He met Lenox in a small but immaculate office behind a door by the chapel. A page (perhaps one of the orphans) had taken Lenox’s card in.

“Phil Jigg?” he said without preliminaries.

“That’s right,” said Lenox. “Did you know him well?”

“I only made Mr. Jigg’s acquaintance when he first began to frequent our refectory here.”

“How long ago was that?”

“I first saw him perhaps ten weeks ago, and then more regularly for the past month.”

“Not before that?”

“He did not attend our services here, no, Mr. Lenox. I have time for little else than the work of the church.”

“Of course, Reverend Tilton, I understand. If I may ask another question — what was Mr. Jigg like?”

“To me he had only just become one of the thirty or so regular inhabitants of the church, so I couldn’t say specifically, Mr. Lenox. I know that he didn’t fall into any sort of trouble while he was staying here, and I know that he was what’s called a ratter, but beyond that not much.”

“Did he pay or work for his bed?”

“Both at different times. His means were variable, like many people of this neighborhood.”

“He never had any trouble with the other inmates?”

“Not at all, no. I make a point of finding out who has.”

“Did you ever have any conversation with Mr. Jigg?”

“Not really, no. He mentioned that he was an orphan, too, lost his parents when he was two to a fire, and complimented our work here.”

“With the orphanage?”

“Yes. London’s a sight more difficult than Norwich, but we get by. Food, clothes, shelter. The three priorities in my life. In the boys’ lives.”

“That was all you and Mr. Jigg talked about?” Lenox asked.

“We may have traded a word or two about his chores for the day, and I certainly might have quoted a passage or two from the scriptures to him.”

None of it was very promising, and neither was Lenox’s conversation with the men staying in the long room behind the church, many of whom were doing chores. Only one man, John Mason, said anything interesting, and that was that he knew Philip Jigg to be a troublemaker.

“I’m surprised to hear that,” Lenox said. “From what I’ve heard he seems to have been a man who kept his own counsel, Mr. Mason.”

“You’d’a been surprised.”

“Can you give me any example of what you mean?”

“Chap didn’t know ‘is business, and chaps like that don’t come to no good,” was all Mason could offer, even when Lenox prodded him for more.

Lenox left St. Martin’s puzzled. The next step, he thought as he walked back toward the circle at the heart of the Seven Dials, was to talk to the other ratters and the men in the arena. After a bite of lunch, perhaps. Coming up to the circle he saw an inoffensive-looking pub called the John o’Groats. It was just by Martha Morris, who studiously ignored Lenox’s glance as she turned her corn. Lenox turned into the pub with a sigh — always grim to lose another source, to alienate another acquaintance. It would only be worth it if he could find the murderer.

At the pub, Lenox sat by a dim transom near the fire, which was roaring despite the improved weather. He ordered half a pint of mild and a slice of steak-and-kidney pie from a young woman of perhaps fifteen, then looked over the notes he had taken from the Plug brothers as he waited for his food. Just as it came, though, Lenox saw a young boy and a man come into the pub, the boy point him out, and a few small coins change hands. The boy scampered out of the pub, and apprehension rose in the detective’s chest as he saw that the man coming toward him was John Mason.

“Ain’t a bobby, is you?” he asked.

“No, I’m not. Can I help you?”

Mason sneered. “Maybe. Though’ I’d just repeat myself — a chap what don’t know ‘is business don’t come to much good.” As he said it he pulled his hand outward from his pocket, and with a flash of panic Lenox saw the dull black sheen of a pistol in the man’s hand.

“All right,” Lenox managed to mutter.

Mason stormed off, and Lenox pushed away the steaming pie, suddenly finding that the cliche was true: He didn’t have an appetite any longer.

That evening Jameson, the bobby who had found Phil Jigg’s body, stopped by Lenox’s house to check on the day’s progress. Lenox told him the little he had learned from the Plug brothers and Reverend Tilton, as well as what had happened with John Mason in the pub.

“We can always bring him in, sir,” said Jameson. “No point in carrying on if you might get hurt.”

“What I wonder is whether the man was threatening me to protect himself or to protect somebody else.”

“Himself, I’d reckon.”

“But why? Why draw attention to himself? It wasn’t as if he were my primary suspect. Or any kind of suspect, for that matter.”

“Don’t know that he’d think it through like that, sir.” He pushed his black hair away from his eyes. An awfully young man, Lenox thought wearily. “If you ask me, he’s the chap.”

“You may be right. But what about proof? Motive? Witnesses?”

“Nobody will stand witness against Mason.”

“No?”

“He’s reckoned quite dangerous, and he’s been known to work for Black Sammy.”

Even Lenox had heard of Black Sammy, the man who ran prostitution, thief-taking, and gambling along most of Great St. Andrew’s. He was known for his violence. His presence cast a shadow over the case now that he was involved, even at one remove.

“He might be the man — Black Sammy, I mean,” said Lenox.

“Might be.”

“Will you come out with me tomorrow morning?

“You mean to go back to the Dials then, sir?”

“I do.”

“I suppose I could come along. Oh — and by the way, I had a friend at the morgue take a quick glance over Phil Jigg’s body.”

“Did you?”

“He confirmed what you said, strangulation, though he found a few bruises on the body as well.”

“Not all that much help, unfortunately.”

“No.” Jameson frowned at his notepad. “A couple of other small notes — Jigg had one tattoo, on the back of his neck. An old one, apparently, reading ST. He was a heavy smoker, though that’s not surprising. Oh — and he had lots of small scars up and down his legs.”

“That’s odd.”

“I thought so, too.”

Lenox looked into the fire in his library, his chin resting on his hand. “Well,” he said, “the only thing for it is another look around the Dials. Can’t be helped, I’m afraid.”

The next morning Lenox went back to see the Plug brothers. Jameson stood outside the shop while Lenox went in. He thought he would ask about Mason.

When he did, though, all of the cheerfulness vanished from the brothers’ faces, their attitude toward Lenox completely altered, and they rushed him back out onto the street without a word. For good measure they locked the door behind him and put up their CLOSED sign, turned out the gas lamps inside the shop, and clattered heavily up the back stairs, which must have led to their residence. All of it happened in only a few seconds; it left Lenox in a daze.

The entire morning passed like that. They asked on Monmouth Street, in the arena, among the street urchins, and nobody would answer any questions about Mason or Black Sammy. Finally, nearing noon, as they walked dejectedly back to the beginning of Great St. Andrew’s, they heard a whisper from the shadows say, “Come over here!” Following it (guardedly), they found a woman beckoning them down a slip of an alleyway. It was Martha Morris.

“Why, Mrs. Morris!” said Lenox.

“Listen ‘ere — I’ll only say this because Phil Jigg was a decent chap. The question is: Why was a man like John Mason, plenty of scratch, staying at St. Martin’s?” Before Jameson or Lenox could answer, she had gone back out into the street and picked up her tongs. Prodding the bobby, Lenox motioned toward the other end of the alley, where they wouldn’t give her away.

“What was that about?” Jameson asked.

“An old friend.”

“What do you think, sir?”

“She’s right. Back to the church, I say, and see if we can hunt down Reverend Tilton, or at least the man who rents out the beds, and ask for an explanation.”

As they walked back down toward the church, Lenox had to admit that it was a relief to see Jameson’s cosh and pistol in his belt. He didn’t relish the prospect of another meeting with Mason.

At the church the page who had helped Lenox before appeared again.

“Can you take us to see Reverend Tilton, my lad?” said Jameson. “Or the man who runs the refectory?”

“Aye, sir, they’ll both be back in the low courtyard with the orphans. Morning chores.”

The courtyard was a small one with a frail tree at its center, obviously dying from lack of sunlight. It was a dark place. A door at the back marked out the orphanage; a door at the front, the long room where Phil Jigg had taken to sleeping. Reverend Tilton was pacing among the orphans, watching as they swept the courtyard, wiped down the walls, copied out sheet music, mended socks and blankets — did all the chores they were evidently asked to. Lenox felt his heart sink again. They were all frightfully thin, the poor lads, and wearing patched-up clothes. And he noticed that they all had unusually shaggy hair, long enough to touch their shoulders.

“Shall we talk to Reverend Tilton, then, Mr. Lenox?” asked Jameson.

It was then that it came to Lenox, in a flash of revelation. Could it be that — was it even conceivable? Was the coincidence too great? One way to find out.

“Reverend Tilton,” he said, walking toward the man, “do you mind if I ask you what your first name is?”

Tilton turned around. “Ah, Mr. Lenox. How do you do?”

“Well enough, thanks.”

“Silas — Silas is my first name. But may I wait until the end of chores to meet with you?”

“Certainly,” said Lenox. He turned to Jameson and said in a low voice, “Arrest that man if I give you the signal, will you?”

“What — Tilton?” said Jameson, confusion all over his face.

“Trust me.”

Lenox went over to one of the boys sweeping the courtyard. “Hello,” he said.

“How do you do, sir,” the small boy said.

“I’m Charles.”

“My name is George, sir.”

“Could I ask you a favor? Could I see the back of your neck?”

George shrugged in a puzzled way, and before he could resist Lenox had swept up his hair and taken a look. Tilton shouted and began to run toward them.

“Jameson!”

Jameson subdued Tilton despite the startled looks of everyone else in the courtyard — and with some skepticism in his eyes, too.

“Well, Mr. Lenox?” he asked. “What’s happened?”

Lenox looked at Tilton. His thinness no longer looked ascetic or godly, but angry and cruel; his wild white hair suddenly sinister, rather than eccentric. Gently Lenox turned George around so that Jameson could see the back of his neck. And there, tattooed freshly on the skin, were two clear letters—ST.

“The ST for Silas Tilton, of course,” Lenox said, lighting a small cigar at the same table at John o’Groats. Jameson sat across from him. It was about two hours later, and Tilton, refusing to speak, was down at Scotland Yard. They had found a piano string with traces of blood on it in his office, though, after a long search, and the curate (innocent of any knowledge of the deed) had confirmed that his superior was out at the time of the murder.

“I understood that — though little else, I have to confess. How did you know? And why on earth would Tilton have wanted to kill Jigg?”

“I can only answer your second question with an educated guess, I’m sorry to say. As for your first question — the orphans’ shaggy hair was the slightly out-of-key note in the picture that made plain the other ones. There was Tilton mentioning Norwich, first of all.”

“Norwich, sir?”

“I may not have told you — he said something inadvertent about the place, about it being different than London, I think.”

“I’m still not quite sure why that matters, Mr. Lenox.”

Lenox took a sip of his ale before he answered. “Jigg was from Norfolk, according to the Plug brothers. Well, Jameson, you walk these streets every day. How often do you find one person here who wasn’t born in one of the Dials, much less two on the same street, both living in the same church, from the same county?”

“Hardly conclusive, if you’ll excuse me saying so, sir.”

“Not at all. But it lent credence to the second point that returned to me in the courtyard. You’ll remember me telling you, I hope, that according to the Plugs Jigg entered the orphanage in Norfolk at two, not certain whether his parents were dead or had abandoned him. But Tilton — I’ll leave the ‘Reverend’ out if it’s all the same — said that Jigg had lost his parents in a fire. Clearly Philip Jigg was much closer to his longtime friends the Plug brothers than to a clergyman he had only met a few times, rather by the way. How did Tilton have such specific information?”

“I see what you’re getting at. Dashed clever, Mr. Lenox.”

“Luck and intuition more than anything else, I’m afraid. It just flashed upon me in the courtyard that there was too much coincidence in the thing — two people from Norwich, an orphan and an orphan-master, and then that small, nagging detail about the fire — all I know is that it felt like deeper water than it had first seemed. And when the lads’ hair was so out of the ordinary … well, as I say, it triggered that rare certainty you’ll come across someday that there’s ominous work afoot.”

“I don’t understand the tattoos — why so great a risk for so little reward?”

“I’m afraid that there I have to fall back on pure speculation. I’d say that it was the most significant way in which Tilton cowed the lads, made them wholly his. Pure folly, you’re right. But then I think part of him was utterly mad.”

“Motive, then? For Jigg, I mean,” said Jameson, a mouthful of steak and peas slightly muffling his words.

Lenox thought back to the painful skinniness of the boys in the courtyard and the browbeaten look in their eyes after Tilton had gone off. It pained him. “I suspect,” he said, “that Tilton was running the orphanage for a profit. Not uncommon. Parliament gives money to the church, the church squeezes every last halfpenny out of it by working the boys, feeding them next to nothing, making them earn money — think of that music the one lad was copying out, must have been at sixpence a page, I’d say — and a man like Tilton can suddenly afford a new silk hat or a box at the theater.”

Jameson looked at Lenox pensively. “I’ll have them send someone around this evening to make a full accounting, sir.”

“The curate seemed a nice enough chap — hadn’t anything to do with the orphanage, only the refectory, you’ll remember, and I suppose he’ll give them a good meal this evening. A first step, at any rate.”

The troubled look didn’t leave Jameson’s face. “All the same.”

“Yes, absolutely, do,” Lenox said.

“I’m still not sure how that links Tilton and Jigg, though, Mr. Lenox.”

“Oh — well, I suppose that Jigg threatened to go the police when he first stayed at the refectory and saw the orphans in Tilton’s care.”

“But why would Jigg notice? Or care?”

“That’s simple enough. I imagine you’ll find that Jigg grew up in Tilton’s orphanage up in Norfolk.”

As Lenox’s carriage rattled toward the Devonshire Club (he was due for a drink with his friends Lord Cabot and Thomas McConnell), he thought over the case again. Simple enough, in its way, if unexpected. As he had told Jameson, Martha Morris’s question had also helped him in that moment of clarity: Why would John Mason have stayed at St. Martin’s? In all probability, exactly for the purpose of meeting and threatening Lenox or Jameson or whoever had come around to investigate the case. No doubt Tilton had been in business with Black Sammy and asked for a hand in the matter. A sordid business, Lenox thought to himself …

Through his window he watched the moonlight, dappled over the lampposts and high white houses of Park Lane, sparkling in the spring drizzle that had begun to fall. His happiness wasn’t complete, perhaps. He knew that he had helped in some small way, of course, and for that he was glad. But at the bottom of that gladness was the memory of the young girl begging with her fake wound, the young, fearful boys who didn’t stand all that much better a chance without Tilton than with him — and the awful knowledge that in the end he hadn’t really helped at all, and that perhaps he would never be able to. Still, he had done some small good that day. The orphans would have better lives, perhaps, and Silas Tilton go to the gallows. It was enough.