The Fleet Street Murders

CHAPTER SEVEN

It was a long slog of a day, his first full one in Stirrington. Hilary took the latest train back that he could, with another string of apologies for Lenox before he went. More hopefully, Crook said, “Never mind him. These London types are weak willed, when it comes to politics. There’s fighting left to be done.” Strangely, because Crook was so gloomy these words meant much more than they would have coming from a more sanguine character.

Walking around the town that evening, Lenox felt heartened. He had given four speeches that day; the first, before a handful of shopkeepers on the edge of town, had been a timorous, uncertain homily about the importance of lending one another a hand. The line he had concluded with, “Friends before treasure!” had earned him only a few disapproving stares, not the applause he had hoped for, and he only realized belatedly that the men in the crowd were primarily concerned with their treasure — of friends they had enough. He had gained confidence as he went, though, and having walked around Stirrington all day, he now recognized some of the faces and many of the shops he passed.

He stopped into a chop house and had a supper of lamb and wine, talking the whole while with several men at the bar. At first they were taciturn, but Lenox did have one gift as a politician, even though he hadn’t had time to develop more than a raw way about him — he could listen. He liked to listen, in fact. When these men found that one of the quality was interested in what they said, they found their voices. Primarily they talked about Roodle.

“Bleeding Robert Roodle,” said a thin and thin-voiced one, “I was workin’ in his brewery and lost my job.”

“Did you get another one?”

“Well — yes,” said the man, in that particular grudging way of the English, “but no thanks to ’im.”

Here a jollier fellow, who had introduced himself to Lenox as the local blacksmith, chimed in. “What’s worse was ’is father, ’e was. A reg’lar tyrant.” Then he braced himself for a long soliloquy. “The facts about Stirrington, sir, is that we here like hard work, we like our ale, we like our Sunday service, and we like promises kept. That’s the secret, Mr. Lenox. Don’t make promises you can’t keep; we’ll find you out, sir, we will.”

“We will,” agreed Roodle’s aggrieved former employee.

“Beer tax — you’ve made a good start, sir.”

“Aye, it’s true,” said several of the mute chorus who had been listening to the conversation as they ate.

“One other thing, Mr. Lenox — there’s nothing to be gained by attacking Roodle. Everyone here knows his faults, we know his virtues — for he does ’ave ’em, Sam, and pipe down — and before anyone votes for you the people of this town will need to know yours.”

“Thank you, gentlemen,” said Lenox. “I hope I may count on your votes, at least?”

Not so fast, their looks said, though they all nodded agreeably enough

Finally, after supper, Lenox had time to return to his room and write back to Lady Jane. He sat for some time at the small table at the window of his room; it overlooked a large vegetable garden, but all was dark now, and he felt wracked with doubt. Doubt about Jane herself — never. Doubt in himself. He finally wrote:

It was a sentimental letter, perhaps, but an honest one. After he had finally started writing it the words had come easily. He blotted the letter and didn’t read it over but simply sealed it in an envelope and left it on the small table in the hallway where residents of the inn could leave their letters to be sent.

Going back to his room, feeling somewhat restless, he happened to notice a slip of paper he must have missed coming in. Stooping to fetch it, he saw it was a note from Crook’s niece, Nettie, inviting him to have breakfast with them the next morning. Whether this missive came from Crook or the girl herself, he was grateful for it, alone as he was in this strange town.

The next morning he presented himself at the door of the small house adjoining the Queen’s Arms, a charming and tidily kept place. A very young maid, not past fourteen, answered the door and took Lenox into a sitting room that was perhaps over-furnished with examples of needlework, with small and amateurish watercolors — in other words, the sitting room of a young woman who spent much time alone and whose diversions were all, or nearly all, of her own making.

Nettie Crook came in at the same moment Lenox sat down. She was a plain girl but with a healthy look about her, and he was surprised she remained unmarried. She could not be below twenty-five years of age. It was entirely proper for them to be alone together — she was evidently the woman of the house — but Lenox rather wished her uncle had been there to introduce them.

“How do you do, Mr. Lenox? I’m so pleased you could come.”

“Thank you, thank you, Miss Crook. I was pleased to receive your invitation.”

“How do you find Stirrington, if I may ask?”

“Altogether charming, Miss Crook. I would have preferred to view it at a more leisurely pace, but it has been pleasant nonetheless.”

“My uncle will arrive downstairs in only a moment or two.”

Lenox nodded graciously. Here was an odd situation, he thought; although he gazed on the strictures of class with a more critical eye than many he knew, it was plain that two people of very different rank were about to dine together. He liked Crook, liked Nettie, too, for that matter, but he hoped it wouldn’t be awkward.

In fact, it was not. To Lenox’s shock, the glum, agile proprietor of the pub, the shrewd political leader, was at home as soft as warm butter. The reason was Nettie.

“Have you observed my niece’s watercolors?” was the first thing he asked Lenox after they exchanged civilities.

It was extraordinary. The man’s face, which in the bar was screwed into an impassive and calculating glare, was now softened by emotion. He looked his age.

“I have,” said Lenox, “and cannot recall a more interesting view of that famous clock tower that I’ve seen in all my brief time here.”

“Tell him about the clock tower, dear heart,” said Crook with great complacency.

“Uncle,” Nettie chidingly answered.

“Pray, do tell me,” said Lenox.

They had moved by now to a small breakfast nook, which just managed to fit three (though it would have been perfect for two), and she put eggs on his plate.

“I was once very late in running my errands,” she said, “so late I feared I would miss supper.”

“Miss supper,” Crook echoed softly, gazing with pure love up at his niece.

“I’m generally inside at that hour, of course, but I happened to be in such a rush that I stumbled — and as I stood up saw the clock hanging just between two houses. It was so beautiful, Mr. Lenox, you could scarcely credit! Well, the next evening I went out and drew a few sketches of it — art is a hobby of mine — and then completed the work you see.”

Now, as stories go, Lenox acknowledged to himself, this wasn’t much of one. Yet through it all Crook looked as enthralled as Thucydides listening to Herodotus in the town square.

“My brother, Nettie’s father, was a fine chap,” said Crook, “but died fighting the Russians.”

“In the Crimea?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so. That would have been 1855, eleven years since. I took her in as a teenager, and she has been my sunshine ever since.”

“Uncle,” said Nettie again in an undertone. “My mother died in childbirth, Mr. Lenox.”

“I’m terribly sorry to hear it.”

“It was a shame,” Crook said. The bell chimed behind him. “Blimey — already? All right, dear, give us a kiss.”

This received, he took a great ring of keys from his wallet and left with a scant word of good-bye, already, perhaps, the grim and reliable publican that Stirrington knew.

Lenox was finishing his food when the young girl came in. “Pardon,” she said, “but there’s a visitor at the inn, sir.”

“Who is it, Lucy?” asked Nettie.

“I’ve never seen him, ma’am. A gentleman. I’m afraid he’s —” Here she stopped.

“Yes?”

“Well — been drinking, mum.”

Lenox had a sinking feeling in his heart. “What’s his name?”

“He said to tell you, ‘It’s McConnell, the poor sod,’ sir. He said you’d know what that means.”