The Fleet Street Murders

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

In the morning there was a telegram from Dallington. Lenox had had his breakfast with Crook and Nettie and was again in his room, eating an apple, when Graham brought it in. It was the first Lenox had seen of him since the night before.

“How was dinner with the lads?” he asked.

“Productive, I hope, sir.”

Good. “Thank you.”

Graham nodded and withdrew. Lenox tore open the telegram and read it with curiosity.

Dallington was profligate in his style of telegram, but on this occasion Lenox was glad. It was confirmation of what that coded letter to Smalls had already implied, but, he hoped, more conclusive. Unfortunately it drew the noose a little tighter around Gerald Poole’s neck. With a guilty start Lenox crumpled the paper and threw it into the wastepaper basket. He took a final bite of his apple and tossed the core on top of the telegram. With a moody sigh he stood up. Another day of campaigning.

The speech at the theater went moderately well. It was on the opposite side of Stirrington and drew a different crowd than his speech in Sawyer Park had. There were a few lively questions afterward, which Lenox parried as well as he could, and encouragingly several men stopped by the stage to meet the candidate and promise him their vote. Two of these men asked to be remembered to Graham, and Lenox silently marveled at the man’s energy. He seemed to have met more people in Stirrington in twenty-four hours than Lenox had in a week. Another gentleman, though, came up and with a rude smirk vowed that only Roodle could possibly win the hearts of his “local brethren.” A prominent abstinence pin on the man’s chest meant he probably didn’t care about the beer tax.

“Only a handful of days to go now,” said Crook. “The debate tomorrow is important.”

“Have we got the new handbills yet?”

The bartender shook his head. “He’s working all night. We should have them in the morning. They’ll work a treat, I reckon.”

“I hope so.”

“Roodle’s had a bad day, too.”

“How so?”

“He gave a speech and didn’t get much of a crowd. Those who did go were all being paid. You’re more of a novelty, it would seem.”

“Whether that bodes well for election day is anyone’s guess. Novelty wears off.”

Crook shrugged. “If the novelty gets them in the door, it’s up to you to get them to your side of things.”

“True enough.”

As Dallington had directed him to do, Lenox took in all of the evening papers and looked at them, but the news of Smalls’s guilt had yet to reach Durham and the north, and he had to content himself with rehashed stories from the papers he had read on the train that morning. It was dreadful to be beyond the reach of information — how he depended on it, how vital it seemed when he couldn’t have it!

One of the evening papers had an article that caught Lenox’s eye. It was about George Barnard — Lady Jane’s former suitor, the Royal Mint’s former Master, and Lenox’s bête noire. The thief of — Lenox was certain — nearly twenty thousand pounds from the mint. Apparently Barnard was on a tour of French foundries, in preparation for a report to Parliament. Shaking his head with disgust, Lenox thought of all the crimes he had proved Barnard guilty of — though only to his own satisfaction. The evidence was too tenuous for the courts, but Lenox recognized the same hand behind various thefts and shakedowns, many of them in connection with the Hammer Gang. What was he doing up here in Stirrington, he wondered doubtfully. Wasn’t his place among the criminals of London? At Gerry Poole’s side? Investigating George Barnard, as he had off and on for a year? Was it simply vanity, this candidacy?

No — he wanted to make a difference. He must remember that. It would be crucial to have the confidence of his beliefs the next afternoon at the debate.

It was about ten thirty now, and the Queen’s Arms was packed. Every ninety seconds or so the bell over the door signaled another entrance or departure, more often the former than the latter. The line to get drinks at the bar was three or four men deep, and the high chatter of voices was more like silence than noise, so used had everyone inside become to it. Crook was sweating and red, his agile hands flying up and down the taps. The lad who washed dishes was running to and fro with dirty and fresh pint pots.

Then there was another ring of the bell, and when a man entered all of the commotion stopped. Silence.

It was Roodle.

His eyes scanned the room. “Mr. Lenox,” he said when his eyes lit on the Liberal candidate. “May I have a private word with you?”

“If you wish,” said Lenox gamely.

“Perhaps you would consent to visit the Royal Oak, down the street, with me?”

“Terrible place, that,” said a voice in the silence.

“Terrible beer, too,” said another.

There were snickers all over the room. The Royal Oak was a Roodle pub, which served Roodle beer.

“After you,” said Lenox, putting down his newspaper.

They left and walked the short way to Roodle’s pub without speaking.

Compared to the Queen’s Arms, the Royal Oak was an entirely different kind of place. The lights were dim, and under them morose patrons sat singly and doubly, nursing their beers. Its charm lay perhaps in its quiet nature; it lacked the slightly rowdy good cheer of Crook’s bar.

“Well? What can I get you?” Roodle asked.

“Nothing, thanks.”

“It’s free, you know.”

Lenox smiled. “That certainly is an inducement,” he said, “but I don’t want a drink.”

Roodle ordered a pint of stout, and the barman skipped over two customers to deliver it. That attempt at ingratiation failed, however; the brewer chastised his employee and told him to give the two customers free half-pints. He then led a bemused Lenox to a table in the back, next to a cobblestone wall.

“You know why I asked you here, Mr. Lenox?”

“On the contrary, I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“You ought to leave the race.”

At this Lenox laughed outright, though he knew he ought not to. “Why, pray tell, should I so gratify you?”

In a sudden passion, Roodle said, “Is it dignified for a detective to seek a seat in Parliament? For a Londoner to visit a town he has never seen and compete against a candidate with roots there? Is it dignified for you to seek the seat of Stoke, whose family has been here for generations? No, it is not. It is not.”

Lenox was no longer smiling. For a moment there was tense silence.

“My party has seen fit to let me stand here,” he answered at length, “and I can pay my bills. Your opinion of my profession is your concern, but I will answer for it to any man in the world. As for my being a Londoner — seeking Stoke’s seat — that is the politics we have, Mr. Roodle. Whether we think it ideal or not, it is the politics we have, and by which we must abide.”

“A gentleman’s code stands above politics.”

This whipped Lenox into a lather. With all the restraint he could muster, he said, “Let us each define what a gentleman’s code is for ourselves, Mr. Roodle. I am at ease with my own definition.”

“You ought to leave,” muttered Roodle.

“Yet I shan’t.”

“I come to you civilly with that request, sir.”

“On the contrary, you have insulted my profession, questioned my honor, and attempted to bully me.”

Roodle glared. His heaviness had not obscured his sharp, intelligent face. “Then we are at an impasse,” he said. “I take my leave of you.”

He left the pub by the front door, his pint standing untouched on the table, and after a moment Lenox stood and followed him through the door. Suddenly he remembered why he was running for Parliament, and it seemed important again to him — as important as any murder — to keep small-minded men away from the nation’s big decisions. He walked back to the Queen’s Arms feeling a renewed determination.