The Fleet Street Murders

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

With every person he met, Lenox could feel himself gaining ground. In his absence, ironically, the town had adjusted to his presence. The speech in Sawyer Park — and the subsequent talk of it — had doubtless played its part, as had the confident energies of Crook, Smith, and Graham. Whatever it was, Lenox was well met everywhere, men and women stopping to shake his hand as he passed. Each stride through Stirrington encouraged him further.

He expected the worst when he met the corn and grain merchants but found them to be in fact a pleasant lot, and when he stopped in for an afternoon cup of tea at a teashop along Foul Lane he had a long and interesting conversation with the proprietor, a woman named Stevens who promised she would have her husband vote for him. Lenox’s ideas on the cost of beer would persuade Mr. Stevens, she said, while his plan to lower taxation persuaded her.

By the time of Mrs. Reeve’s dinner, then, Lenox was feeling assured and happy; Roodle seemed an altogether smaller figure in his mind, and the cacophony of good and supportive voices that had followed him through the day rang in his ears.

All of that lasted about ten minutes into the party.

Now, Mrs. Reeve herself was perfectly nice, a fact from which Lenox took some solace. So was Mr. Rudge, the wine merchant who detested Robert Roodle. Here were two supporters.

Not so nice, on the other hand, were several of the other party guests, whose personalities seemed calculated to grate on Lenox’s nerves. Worst among these was a woman whom for years afterward he thought of with a shudder. Her name was Karen Crow. She was a fervent Roodleite.

“Mr. Lenox,” she said when they were all sitting at the table for supper, soup before them, “is it true that you have never visited a brewery?”

“That is true, yes,” he said.

“Mr. Roodle has been in the brewery all his life.” She said this with great significance — greater than Lenox could perceive it to have — and turned her head from side to side, as if to say to her neighbors, “Now, did you catch that?”

“I understand that beer is important in Stirrington?”

“Mr. Lenox,” she said, “is it true that you have always lived in London?”

“No,” he said shortly.

“Surely Mr. Lenox’s provenance is well enough known?” said Mrs. Reeve.

“But you have lived in London most of your life,” clarified Mrs. Crow.

“Yes,” he said.

“Mr. Roodle has lived in Stirrington all his life.”

After relating this wonderful anecdote, she set to her soup with a dainty ferocity.

“His factory hasn’t, though,” said Rudge, the wine merchant. Lenox shot him a grateful look.

After this Mrs. Crow retracted her claws until dessert was served, when she again began to delineate the biographical differences between Roodle and Lenox. Picking up the baton in the meanwhile was a man named Spronk, who managed a clothiers on the High Street. Spronk’s plan of attack was to associate Lenox with every misdeed of any member in the history of the Liberal Party. All of his sentences either began or ended with the phrase “Now, isn’t it true…” For instance, he said, “Now, isn’t it true that Gladstone visits prostitutes?”

“In an attempt to reform them, I believe,” murmured Lenox, “though I scarcely think that in this company it is appropriate to discuss —”

“The party betrayed Russell, didn’t they? On his reform bill? He was a radical, to be sure, but nonetheless it indicates a certain slipperiness. Now, isn’t true?”

“Perhaps,” said Lenox. “Who better to be a radical than the son of a duke, however, like Russell?”

“Now, isn’t it true as well that Palmerston was a Tory first, and only changed parties to gain power? You can scarcely claim credit for Mr. Palmerston, I think, Mr. Lenox,” Spronk said with a chastising chuckle, as if Lenox had been taking credit for Palmerston all over Stirrington.

“He shifted parties wisely, in my view,” was all the candidate managed.

After several other questions of this variety, Spronk sat back with a satisfied “humph.” Thus he and Mrs. Crow between them spoiled Lenox’s appetite before the lamb arrived.

Almost worse than Spronk and Crow, though, was the way in which Mrs. Reeve, after having invited him into this lions’ den, constantly tried to “save” him by interjecting a soft word or two when the assaults on him became intemperate. He appreciated her intent but bridled against her proprietary manner. It made him feel a slight snobbery. It occurred to him that, having lived in his own small circle in London for so long, he had without knowing it narrowed his social life to exclude the Mrs. Reeves of the world; and then it occurred to him in the same moment that perhaps the men and women in Stirrington who were suspicious of him for being from London were right. He didn’t understand them as well as Roodle did, in all probability. Previously he had assumed it was an unenlightened and fearful sort of instinct in the locals, but maybe they knew their business. It was a depressing idea.

According to the Bible, though, all things pass under heaven, and despite Lenox’s doubts that it would, the supper eventually did, too. Mrs. Reeve offered him a few words of consolation as he parted, but he returned to the Queen’s Arms in a foul mood.

The place was humming, voices and laughter mingling in the eaves of the ancient building. It was warm inside, and whether from that or from drink, nearly all of the patrons at the bar and at the tables were red faced. Crook was dispensing pints at a rapid rate but paused to greet Lenox.

“How was it?” he asked, shaking hands.

“Rather like hell,” said Lenox.

Crook laughed. “I’m afraid we let you in for it. Mrs. Reeve keeps a mixed company — politically, I mean to say. Anyway, now they’ve vetted you, whether they like you or not. You must trust me that it was important.”

“I do,” said Lenox.

“We didn’t want to warn you — felt you might do a runner.”

“I’m not some skittish pony,” said Lenox irritably.

“There, there,” said Crook with another expansive laugh. “How about a pint of ale on the house?”

“It wouldn’t go amiss, I suppose. Thanks.”

Crook drew the dark, golden liquid into a pewter pot and slid it across the bar to Lenox. “There you are,” he said. “Cures what ails you.”

“Have you seen Graham?” asked the detective after a long pull at the drink.

“He accepted an invitation to supper as well, just after you left. A few men were off to a chop house and brought him.”

“He’s been valuable, has he?” asked Lenox.

Crook nodded. “To be sure.”

“What do you think our next set of handbills should be?”

“You didn’t like the last ones? The five promises, Mr. Lenox?”

“I do like them, but I worry that Roodle’s signs are more direct, more effective.”

“Vote Roodle — Vote Your Own, you mean?”

“Hm.”

“How about Vote Lenox — Vote Your Wallet?” said Crook.

“I like that. Or Vote Lenox — Vote Your Interest.”

“Folks care more about their wallets than their interests, I reckon.”

“Vote Lenox — Lower Roodle’s Beer Tax.”

“That’s much better. Roodle will hate it.”

“It’s not quite his, is it?” said Lenox.

“It don’t do to be too fine in politics.”

“No,” Lenox said with a smile.

“We’ll print a few hundred more of the five promises and add in some of the more blunt handbills, then?”

“Glad it’s decided.”

“You’ll need to go back to the printers in the morning.”

“Graham can do it.”

“I’ll think about it overnight, see what I can come up with. I like Lower Roodle’s Beer Tax, though.”

“So do I,” said Lenox.

“We’ll call it settled, then.”

“And tomorrow?”

“A speech at the theater. That will be crucial. In two days’ time you have the debate, of course. The debate will be crucial, too, Mr. Lenox.”

“I debated at Harrow.”

“Sir?”

“At school.”

Suddenly the gap between them was tangible; perhaps only to Lenox, after his long supper. Talking politics leveled their perspectives, however, and he was glad to have work in front of him.

“Then you’ll do well,” said Crook. “Johnson, another half of stout?” He flew off down the bar.

Lenox stood and realized that he was bone tired. It had been the longest two days he could remember; all he wanted was sleep.