The Fleet Street Murders

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Christ,” said Edmund, sitting forward in his chair. “Can it be true? From all I had heard his wounds weren’t that severe.” Lenox shook his head, frowning, as he pored over the note. “Apparently he worsened overnight. An infection reached his blood, and he died quickly.” He looked up. “I hope not painfully.”

“What was he like, Inspector Exeter?”

“Did you never meet him? A bluff chap, proud — as a policeman he was determined and hardworking but never imaginative. He was a bully, I’m afraid. No use eulogizing him. Still, say this for Exeter,” said Lenox, thinking of the few times they had worked together, “he was always on the side of the law. He wanted what was best for London. People forget that Scotland Yard is still a young institution, bound to make its own mistakes before it improves.”

“Yes,” said Edmund.

Lenox shifted uneasily. “It’s a selfish thing to say, but I hope he wasn’t shot because of the case. I feel a sense of foreboding about my return to London.”

“It hadn’t even occurred to me,” said Edmund, a look of concern on his face. “Good heavens. Well, it’s simple enough — you mustn’t do anything more about the murders.”

Lenox shook his head. “No. I can’t do that. If Poole is guilty, I have to confirm it; if Poole is innocent, I have to prove it. I’ve deferred Dallington’s requests, but I cannot any longer. He saved my life, remember.”

“For which we’re all in his debt — but surely he wouldn’t want you to go about risking what he had saved, would he?”

“I’m afraid I must do what I think is right, Edmund.”

With a sigh, he answered, “Yes, you must.”

“Come, let’s go see Stirrington. The election doesn’t seem such a serious thing any longer, somehow.”

The two brothers spent the midday walking around town. At first they were somber and discussed the implications of Exeter’s death, but life is fluid in its nature, and it’s a rare mind that cannot cope with death, however sudden, however sorrowful. Soon their congenial natures took over, and they conversed as they were wont to do. Something funny happened, too — all day long people walked up to Lenox and congratulated him, as if he had won. Almost nobody offered condolences. He remembered that it was something in itself to run, to push the democracy along, and felt slightly better.

Soon enough it was time for the train. Graham had packed Lenox’s things, and all that remained left to do was say good-bye to Crook; he had already parted with Sandy Smith, promising to keep in touch and inviting Smith to visit him should he ever happen to be in the capital.

He ducked his head into the Queen’s Arms while Edmund smoked a pipe in the sun, but Crook was absent from the bar. Lucy, ever helpful, told him that Crook had asked that Lenox be referred to his house next door. So the detective went to the small house and made his way again into Nettie’s parlor. The maid went off to fetch Crook, and for the last time Lenox looked over Nettie’s embroidery and her watercolors, and he felt strangely moved by it all. It was an honor to have been accepted by these people. He was glad he had done it, win or lose. There had been so much generosity toward him, where there might have been suspicion or indifference.

“Well, how do you do, Mr. Lenox?” said Crook, coming into the room. He settled his great heft into a deep armchair and set about lighting his pipe. “Do you want a cup of tea or a cake?”

“We have to catch the train, unfortunately, and I can’t linger. Thank you, though.”

“Do you regret having come to Stirrington?”

“On the contrary, I was only just thinking how glad I was that I had.”

Crook furrowed his brow. “I’ll never understand how we lost, Mr. Lenox.”

“However it was, it was despite your efforts, Mr. Smith’s efforts, your friends’ efforts.”

“And your own. I mean it, though — we ought to have won. Really. It puzzles me more the more I think about it.”

“In any event.”

“I hope you take fond memories away, anyhow, and perhaps even visit again.”

“I shall,” said Lenox.

Crook stood up. “Well, I suppose you had better be on your way.”

Lenox stood up and felt the queer consciousness that he would never lay eyes on Crook again, though for two weeks they had been in constant conference, even friends. He tried to treat the moment with the dignity it demanded.

“Good-bye,” he said, “and thank you for everything you have done. I shall never forget it.”

“Thank you, Mr. Lenox. Next time, eh?”

On the train several hours later Lenox, Edmund, and Graham shared a medium-sized compartment and soon littered it with their newspapers and books. Edmund had read for an hour or so and then, because of his overnight train ride, had fallen asleep. Graham was taking a thorough inventory of the news (the train carried that morning’s papers), and Lenox spent his time reading and glancing out the window.

He had said the election didn’t seem as important after Exeter’s death, but despite the nobility of that sentiment the vote kept sliding back onto the edges of Lenox’s vision, a dark specter he hadn’t wholly confronted, a decisive disappointment at the crescendo of his lifelong hopes.

They were nearing London, finally. It was dark and, he felt through the window, cold out, with the small houses and farms near the tracks bright orange with light, a thousand human lives contained in them, a thousand stories. As they drew up on the edge of the city, outside the old gate, each new geographic signpost recalled a past case, and he thought that whether it was dangerous or not, at least he had his work. He loved being a detective.

Naturally, his mind turned to what they were calling the Fleet Street murders, and he spent the last part of the trip in grim silence, going over the details of the thing in his head.

In the end the truly strange thing was the dichotomy that Pierce and Carruthers presented. The former was thin and gray, the latter fat and red; the former was religious and ascetic, the latter corruptible and drunken. Only two things united them: their profession, of course, and also — and then Lenox saw it all.

He looked up at Graham.

“Sir?”

“Gerald Poole is innocent,” said the detective with complete conviction.

“Sir?”

“I’m certain — but then, what desperate villain killed the journalists and Smalls, and perhaps Exeter?” he murmured, talking to himself. “What stakes would be worth the risk? Not money, I would guess. Well, maybe money, but I really think it must be reputation — or livelihood — or family.”

“May I inquire, sir, how you have proved Mr. Poole’s innocence to your satisfaction?”

“It’s intuition, but I feel pretty confident, all right. The secret of the thing is that Carruthers was the true target. Pierce was only killed as a cover for the true motive, to falsely point Scotland Yard toward Gerald Poole.”

“I don’t follow your line of thought, sir.”

“Because Carruthers and Pierce are so strongly linked by Jonathan Poole’s treason, naturally an investigator would assume that their murders had something to do with that. Pierce is the perfect red herring.”

“Then you mean the murderer wanted to kill Mr. Carruthers and killed Mr. Pierce simply to place suspicion on Gerald Poole?”

“On Jonathan Poole’s recently returned son, of course! In fact, the motive for the murders wasn’t anything to do with Jonathan Poole’s treason. The murderer merely wanted it to seem that way, and so in addition to killing his real target, Carruthers, he killed Pierce, who I’d wager wasn’t involved in all this muddle.”

“It makes sense, sir.”

“Doesn’t it follow, then, that Gerald Poole is innocent? He was set up!”

“Yes, sir, it seems plausible when you put it so.”

“Is there another way to put it that I haven’t thought of?”

“I have one question, sir,” said Graham.

“Yes?”

“Why do you believe Carruthers was the real target? Is it not just as likely that Pierce was the real target and Carruthers the cover-up?”

“I don’t think so. Pierce was incorruptible and untainted, and Carruthers was utterly corruptible, utterly tainted. There’s something more important, though.”

“Yes?”

“The piece of paper missing from the desk in front of Carruthers. Do you remember I told you that he had ink all over his hands and a pen, but that there was no paper before him? I reckon Carruthers was blackmailing somebody, writing something incriminating — he was killed for that missing piece of paper.”

“Whereas Pierce died on his doorstep, and the killer never could have gone inside,” murmured Graham thoughtfully.

“Precisely. I feel sure we’re right. Please go see Dallington when we get back and tell him that I think Poole is innocent. Fetch him to me then, would you? I haven’t the patience to wait for a note to find him.”

“Very good, sir.”

“What’s all this?” said Edmund, stirring.

“Gerald Poole is innocent,” said Lenox, eyes blazing.

Edmund blinked. “How long was I asleep?”