The Fleet Street Murders

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Well, Graham? What did your new friends think?”

It was the evening, and Lenox and Graham sat at a table in the Queen’s Arms, eating supper together as they had many a time in their younger days, during Lenox’s early years in London. In fact, Lenox remembered the first day he had slept in his new house — now his for some twelve years — when he and Graham had eaten a supper of wine and cold chicken amid the boxes and debris of moving house.

They were seeing each other for the first time in several hours. After the debate Lenox had gone to three separate receptions (including, to his own amusement, one with the famous corn and grain merchants) while Graham had done what were now his usual rounds, among the pubs and shops.

“There is no doubt that Mr. Roodle has made himself a figure of fun, sir. Nearly every man I met either did an impression of the gentleman or asked for an account of his behavior.”

“That’s good, I expect,” said Lenox glumly. “I’d infinitely prefer a fair fight.”

“I would concur, sir, if Mr. Roodle had chosen to fight fairly as well.”

“Yes, that’s true — and politics is a dirty thing, of course.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You were saying?”

“His temper has made Mr. Roodle a figure of fun, sir, but I was going to say that he still has strong support. Some men laughed right along with Mr. Roodle’s imitators and then said they’d vote for him anyhow.”

“That’s to be expected, I suppose.”

“Yes, sir. Though your reputation in Stirrington is high, I fear that the voters you haven’t met are still suspicious of your motives and character.”

“Then I shall have to be sure to try to meet them all.”

Indeed, over the next several days Lenox worked as hard as he ever had in his life. He slept no more than five or six hours a night, and aside from a hearty breakfast each morning, when he remembered to eat it was usually a hasty sandwich with a glass of beer. Heretofore he had stuck to the town of Stirrington, but now he and Sandy Smith visited the countryside around it, stopping at small farms, villages with a dozen houses in them, and the pubs and coach stations that served these places. More than once Lenox despaired of finding votes among such sparse populations, but Smith always assured him that these men would remember their five-and ten-minute visits with the candidate. Roodle had deemed it beneath his dignity to visit the thousand voters who might make a crucial difference. Smith and Lenox hoped it was a grave error.

As they rode over the countryside in a coach and four, Lenox read the news from Lonon, devouring each dated article but especially those concerned with Inspector Exeter, who had knocked Hiram Smalls, Simon Pierce, and Winston Carruthers off of the front page. There were few details of his shooting, however, and each day the articles grew more restless and more speculative. The facts that they all confirmed were these:

• Exeter had been in Brick Lane, a poor part of East London where gangs ran riot and police kept their heads down.

• He had been shot in the back, just below the right shoulder.

• Despite the street’s crowds, nobody had witnessed — or anyway admitted to witnessing — the assault.

• Officials from Scotland Yard confirmed that Exeter had been working on the Fleet Street murders.

The strangest part of all this to Lenox was, of course, that his investigations had taken him so far away from Fleet Street and the two houses in the West End where Pierce and Carruthers lived. Smalls had lived in the East End, too, but in Liverpool Street, twenty minutes’ walk from Brick Lane. It was perplexing. He must have perceived something Lenox had not. Either that or he had been off on a wild-goose chase. Lenox hoped it hadn’t been that.

Immediately after Exeter had gone into the hospital Jenkins had been reinstated, a fact that he relayed with much happiness in a telegram to Lenox. Unfortunately, he didn’t have — or wouldn’t offer, after his recent trouble — any more detail about the shooting of Exeter, other than to say that he felt sure it was tied into the Fleet Street murders. Lenox agreed and wrote back to say so, but he felt frustrated at his lack of access to the case’s finer points.

Still, it was good to have his mind on Stirrington. Election day was drawing precariously near.

On the fourth evening after the debate, Lenox had dinner with Mrs. Reeve again, though an entirely new and more agreeable set of guests joined them. Her influence was tangible, he saw as he grew more intimate with the town, and he was grateful for her good opinion.

Afterward he sat in the empty bar of the Queen’s Arms, drinking a companionable glass of port with Crook. He asked the bartender a question he had refrained from asking his entire time in Stirrington. “Am I going to win?”

Crook shrugged philosophically. “You have a chance, anyway. It all depends on this town’s feelings about Roodle, really. If they dislike him mildly, resent him mildly, then he’ll be elected. There’s a powerful instinct to stick together in your northern towns. If on the other hand there is deep resentment toward Roodle, you have a damn good chance.”

“That makes my time here seem rather futile,” said Lenox with a rueful smile. “If it all depends on Roodle.”

“On the contrary — you’ve done it all perfectly. You have a light touch with people, Mr. Lenox. I’m sure it has helped in your first career, at times. You’ve introduced yourself to the people of Stirrington and within a week become familiar and acceptable to them. Without having done that, it wouldn’t matter in the slightest what the opinion of Roodle was. A sluggish turnout and a victory of a few thousand votes for him, were you a different man.”

“I’m pleased to hear it.”

Crook, lighting a cigar, said, “Mind, Mr. Graham has helped, and Sandy Smith and I long had a theory that if you visited the outlying farms and villages you would find undiscovered votes. It’s all gone well, I must say. It never mattered when Stoke was in the seat, but Sandy and I are excited to see if the strategy works.”

“All things being equal — two wonderful candidates, neither of whom had ever traveled a foot outside of Stirrington — is this place Liberal or Conservative?”

Crook grimaced and puffed at his cigar. “Certainly we’re conservative in our morals, here. There are those who recognize that Liberal policies favor our kind. Myself, for instance. In the end, though, yes — Conservative.”

“An uphill climb for us, then.”

“You’ve known that since Mr. Hilary left, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” said Lenox. “To be honest, I thought it was all lost then.”

“The party is fearful of looking as if it really tried for a seat it might lose. Better that the onus falls on you, a dilettante, or me and Smith, locals. Harsh, I know, but true.”

Lenox saw the verity in this. He took a sip of the amber port. “I hope we can give them a surprise, then.”

“So do I, so do I. It’s wonderful finally to get my hands dirty and play at real politics, I can tell you. Stoke never had any juice in him.” After taking a sip of port he added, “May he rest in peace.”

Graham came in at that moment.

“A telegram, sir,” he said to Mr. Lenox.

“Who from?”

“Inspector Jenkins of Scotland Yard, sir.”

“Hand it over.”

“What an inundation of telegrams has come to my pub since your arrival!” said Crook with a belly laugh. “We ought to send a wire straight to your room. It must cost a pretty penny to stay abreast of the London news.”

“Worth it to me, though,” said Lenox. He opened the telegram and read it.

He gasped.

“Sir?” said Graham.

“Just a moment, Graham.”

Lenox read it over. “Gerald Poole has confessed. He killed Winston Carruthers.”