The Fleet Street Murders

CHAPTER TWENTY

Shadows fell along the floor of the library, and that particular golden glare at the edge of the windows showed that it was late afternoon. With pleasantly heavy eyes Lenox stirred and awoke, his gaze on the fire, which sparked and flared when its logs shifted. When at last he was entirely back in the world, he noted the time — it was nearly four — and thought with lazy happiness of his reconciliation with Lady Jane. Soon they would be married, whether in six months or a year, and all would be right with the world. He trusted her judgment — more than his own, perhaps.

He rang the bell, and after some delay Mary came into the room. “Sir?”

“You were busy?”

“I apologize, sir, I was polishing silver.”

“Will you bring me some tea, please?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then take the rest of the day off, would you?”

She didn’t know quite what to make of that. “Sir?”

“I’m eating next door, and I can find my own clothes. Go to the theater. Here —” He handed her a couple of coins.

“Thank you, sir, I shall,” she said, with a glad curtsy.

“Tea first, though, please.”

“Of course, sir. Straightaway.”

Though she blushed easily, could be awkward around guests, and fumbled with some of her tasks, in the matter of making tea Mary was supremely assured. Lenox liked Indian leaf brewed strong, and between the first cup she had made him and this one there had been no variation in the perfection of her technique, whatever it was. She brought it in with a plate of cookies. Lenox ignored these but took a deep draught of the tea and found his senses tingling and his skin a little warmer.

He wandered over to his desk, which sat by the high windows overlooking Hampden Lane. What was he to make of this case? Who was Hiram Smalls? From a pocket Lenox pulled his copy of the cryptic note Hiram had taken into prison.

He wondered again, as he had before, why take it into prison? Either he had assumed the code was impenetrable, he was stupid, or he wanted some small artifact of his crime with which he might blackmail his partner. Lenox strongly favored the latter theory but couldn’t dismiss any of them at this moment.

The dogcarts pull away.

It was a strange, forced style of prose, which made Lenox again wonder about the nature of its encryption. Of course, it was just as likely that “dogcarts” was a prearranged synonym for any number of words — drugs, money, even people. The same held true for the names in the letter, Jones and George. It was a hopeless jumble. Soon after picking it up he threw the letter aside in disgust and stood over his desk, tea in one hand, trying to puzzle through some itch in his mind he couldn’t quite scratch.

There was a knock at the door then, and Mary, in direct contradiction to Lenox’s order that she take the rest of the day off, flew up the servants’ stairs to answer it as the detective came out of his library. She opened the door and gasped involuntarily.

It was Inspector Jenkins, Lenox’s sole friend within Scotland Yard, and he looked awful. A painful red and black welt had risen on his cheekbone, and there was a cut just under his left eye. In the normal course of things he was an efficient and serious-looking fellow, but between his face and his disheveled clothes he now looked like a reject from one of the gin mills by the docks.

“There you are, Lenox,” he said, peering around Mary. “I didn’t know where I ought to go.”

“Come in, I beg of you. Mary, take his coat and clean it.”

“Yes, sir,” said Mary, though there was a doubtful note in her voice. She wasn’t used — as Graham was — to the frequent admission of outwardly insalubrious characters to the house.

“You don’t have anything like a hot whisky, do you?” he asked.

“Of course,” said Lenox. “Before you see to his coat, bring one, won’t you? Bring two, in fact. I’ll drink with you, Jenkins. Now, what the devil has happened?”

Lenox motioned him down the hallway, and Jenkins came forward. The two men shook hands, and Jenkins smoothed down his ruffled hair.

“It’s been a long day,” was all he said.

There was a jittery kind of energy left over in him from whatever altercation had painted him black and blue. When the whisky arrived, he gulped at it gratefully, then took a deep breath.

“Well,” he said, “I think it very likely that before the day is out I shall have been officially dismissed from the Yard.”

“No!” said Lenox, genuinely shocked. “Why on earth would they do that?”

“They’ve just suspended me for showing Dr. McConnell our internal reports. Exeter did it, in fact. Called me a traitor. I asked him if he would say it again, and he did, and I jolly well showed him he shouldn’t have.” Jenkins laughed bitterly. “Although I didn’t come out of it unscathed, mind. He walloped me twice.”

“I’m shocked! Exeter has tolerated my involvement in cases of his before, even asked me for help.”

“It was a pretense, I believe,” said Jenkins, taking another sip of his whisky. “Exeter has resented me for some time. One of his lackeys saw me closeted with Dr. McConnell and reported me to the great man.” Another bitter laugh.

“There’s been tension between the two of you?”

“Yes, and I made it pretty plain that I didn’t think he was right about the Pierce and Carruthers murders. The great joke is that he may have been.”

“Why do you say that?” Lenox asked.

Jenkins shrugged. “Poole met with Smalls, and the two dead journalists had his father hanged. The motive is ironclad, and the meeting is a strong piece of circumstantial evidence.”

“Did Gerald Poole even know the details of his father’s case?”

“I don’t know, but the meeting with Smalls… I confess it seems damning.”

“Are they bringing him to trial?”

“Within a fortnight. All of Exeter’s men are out looking for evidence.”

“Do they have any idea who killed Smalls?”

“None, but Exeter certainly believes it was murder.”

“It was.”

“How can you say so?”

Lenox explained McConnell’s hypothesis about the bootlaces and the second hook.

Jenkins shook his head, as if the enormity of his loss were sinking in. “For once Exeter has it all right,” he said.

“It’s maddening,” Lenox agreed, thinking of his meeting with Exeter some days before, when the inspector had assured Lenox the case was well in hand. Had lorded it over him, in fact.

Still, even if he was right about Smalls’s death he might be wrong about the man’s involvement. Or Poole’s, for that matter. Dallington seemed so sure of his friend’s character.

“I say, have you any ice?” Jenkins asked.

“Of course.” Lenox called for Mary. “Will you bring ice?” he said when she came. “And two more glasses of hot whisky.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How long is your suspension meant to be for?” Lenox asked when he and Jenkins were alone again.

“Two weeks, but Exeter has far more power than I do. Fighting him was damnably stupid.”

“Still, you’ll get a fair shake, won’t you?”

“I hope so. In point of fact, I was wrong to show Dr. McConnell those documents, but police inspectors generally have a fair amount of latitude. Exeter has chosen to follow the letter of the law in this one instance, despite breaking it a hundred times himself.”

“What do you think you’ll do?”

“I don’t know. Search for another job, I suppose. This is the only one I want.”

It pained Lenox. “I’m so sorry,” he said.

“I’m an adult,” said Jenkins. The ice and whisky came then, and he applied the first to his face and the second to his gullet, both liberally. “Anyway, there are always small-town jobs for the taking, even if you’ve left the Yard under a cloud. I rather fancy the South Coast. It’s beautiful, I’ve heard.”

“It is indeed,” said Lenox, “but we must keep you in London. May I speak to people on your behalf?”

“If you wish. I know you have friends in high places, of course, but you must remember that the Yard keeps to itself. We don’t generally abide the interference of others, be they ever so powerful in other spheres of life.”

“Of course,” said Lenox, although his mind had returned to the letter Hiram Smalls had carried with him into prison.

“It’s just the way of our profession, I’m afraid.”

“Wait here a moment — I’ve got use of your faculties even if Scotland Yard has disposed of them.”

“By all means,” said Jenkins stiffly.

The joke had fallen flat, and after an apologetic grimace, Lenox fetched his copy of Smalls’s letter.

“The dogcarts pull away,” Jenkins muttered. He read the rest to himself.

“What do you make of it?” Lenox asked when the other man had done.

“I don’t know. I’ve never had a knack for these codes. Unimaginative on the part of the criminal underclass, I’ve always felt. Been reading the penny bloods.”

Lenox laughed. “You’re right. Still, something about it bothers me. I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

“I wish I could help.”

“Well — thanks anyway.”

“Keep me apprised of any breaks in the case?” said Jenkins, standing up.

“I shall. Be of good cheer.”

“It’s difficult.”

“Exeter has moved hastily before, and it rarely ends up well for him. You’ll be back at work soon.”

“Perhaps,” said Jenkins and shook hands.

Lenox stood still for a moment, contemplating his friend’s unhappy fate, and then took a last sip of tea. He had another errand to run before his day was through.