The Fleet Street Murders

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

The funeral of Police Inspector William Exeter took place in a small church near his home named St. Mary Abbots, a peaceful ground of ancient provenance that was perhaps to be rebuilt, according to someone Lenox overheard. Exeter had lived with his family in the Portobello Road, off of Notting Hill, and although it was in Kensington Lenox scarcely knew the area, which was spotted by hayfields and untouched meadows.

As soon as his carriage stopped, Lenox had a lump in his throat. He felt for his colleague some unlooked-for affinity that they had never shared in life. Perhaps it was because, whatever their two views of it had been, they did the same work, and it was work for which Exeter had died.

The inspector’s death was the great story of the day in the newspapers and the neighborhoods of London, and the trappings of his funeral combined what might have been normal for a man of his station and what might have been normal for a man of a much higher one. A long procession of empty carriages, sent by their illustrious owners, was passing the church, and from a respectfully gentle clatter nearby Lenox saw that the funeral line was to be quite grand. He himself was standing on a small patch of green earth near the front of the church, watching people amble in, generally of two types — Exeter’s relatives and his fellow officers of Scotland Yard — and occasionally of a third, more exalted type, whom Lenox could recognize by the black velvet breeches they wore, or the silver-headed cane they carried. These would be Members of Parliament and London officials. He saw the Lord Mayor arrive and make his way breathlessly up the steps of the church.

It was intensely sad to Lenox.

The service was short. There were two hymns and a eulogy from Exeter’s direct superior at the Yard before a speech by the church’s vicar. Lenox found himself sitting with Jenkins, somewhere in the back third of the pews, listening with half his mind and speculating about Exeter’s death with the other half.

Soon it was time for the standard procession between the church and the cemetery. On this no expense had been spared. First there were men on foot, an assortment of pallbearers in black, a series of young pages, and three mutes wearing black cloaks and carrying wands. All of these men, from the youngest lad to the oldest mute, were very certainly pickled to the gills on gin — a license of their profession, since they had to stand outside in the cold continually — but they did their duty solemnly.

Next came the funeral hearse, a grand black and silver object with gold trim everywhere, and following it a line of carriages full of Exeter’s friends and relatives. His widow, a handsome, dark-haired woman, had held up admirably well, and their young son was well dressed and well behaved.

“I have my carriage if you need a ride to the cemetery,” said Lenox to Jenkins.

“I must be getting back to town, in fact.”

“Look — do you think I could see Carruthers’s rooms, either today or tomorrow?”

Lenox had expected a difficult argument, but he got none. “Yes. Certainly.”

“Thanks.”

“Not at all. You’ve the unofficial license of the entire Yard behind you now; in fact, I was instructed to tell you as much. I was only just going to do so.”

“How can I get in?”

“There’s a constable there — constables everywhere, since Exeter died and this all became so famous.”

“You’ll send him word —”

“Yes, go over any time.”

“Are you officially at work on this case?” Lenox asked.

“Now, yes.”

“Who do you think killed Exeter?”

“Honestly? I think it was unrelated to all this. A fluke. His job made him enemies all over the East End.”

Lenox nodded. “Perhaps.”

“See you soon, Charles.”

Exeter was interred in a small cemetery not a mile from the church, and the procession made its increasingly ragged way back to Exeter’s house. It was a modest, handsomely kept two-story building, white with a thatched roof and blue shutters.

Inside it was warm and comfortable, and Lenox had a vision of Exeter after hours, sitting by his hearth with his family around him. By now they had sloughed off the Lord Mayor and the majority of his ilk, and it was Exeter’s cousins, his uncles, his subordinates at the Yard who ate ham and drank ale. Lenox found himself with nobody quite to talk to and soon wandered outside to the side of the house for a smoke.

It was here that he saw Exeter’s son, John.

They had met once before. After a case that Lenox had been instrumental in solving, Exeter had taken the credit for himself and received a commendation from Scotland Yard. Lenox, used to it, offered no objection but was surprised when Exeter had invited him to the ceremony. There, by way perhaps of apology or explanation, he had introduced the eight-year-old John Exeter to Lenox with a sort of rough pride. Lenox had understood the inspector better in that moment than ever before.

The lad was playing near a chicken coop, among the rows of a small, productive-looking garden. He had on a black suit that was dirtied at the knees because he had been kneeling between two tomato vines.

Suddenly Lenox felt the pain of it all: Exeter had been alive, and now he was dead. The industry and hominess and practicality of the little rows of vegetables seemed somehow to summarize it all, more than the gloomy, garish funeral ever could, and it touched him profoundly.

“Hello, John,” said Lenox.

“Hello, Mr. Lenox,” said the boy, his face serious and handsome.

“You remember me?”

“Of course. My fa talks about you all the time, sir.”

Lenox absorbed this uncertainly. “What have you got there?” he said.

John held out his dirty hand, which clutched a toy train. “It’s the best one I’ve got,” he said.

“Do you like trains, then?”

“Oh, yes.”

“I do, too.”

“I want to ride one.”

“Haven’t you?”

“Not yet, sir.”

“You will, someday soon. When is your birthday?”

“March eighth, Mr. Lenox.”

“Well, we’ll see,” said Lenox. “Perhaps someone will send you an even better train set on March eighth. I feel sure of it, in fact, John — just wait. Will you shake hands?”

The boy stood up and with grave concentration put his small, sweaty brown hand into Lenox’s. “Good-bye, Mr. Lenox.”

His pipe done, Lenox went inside to say good-bye to the widow. On the way home to Mayfair he looked out through the window of his carriage at the clear, cold day and felt the melancholy that veiled the city to his eyes.

Dallington was waiting for him in Hampden Lane.

“How are you?” Lenox asked.

“Bloody awful.”

“Gracious, what is it?”

“He really did it, by God. It was the worst twenty minutes of my life, listening to him. He had a reason, and he — he knew exactly how it had been done.”

“Forgive me, but — Poole?”

“Yes, Gerry Poole. He was a different creature today than he had ever been before. He talked about plunging a knife in a man’s back as if it were the most natural thing in the world.”

It was the most upset Lenox had ever seen the younger man, who was always so quick with a joke and a smile.

“Did he give you any details?”

“Not really.”

“Anything about Martha Claes?”

“Not a thing.”

The return of the Belgian maid (who had apparently been moving along the Norfolk coast, unsuccessfully trying to find a way out of the country) had offered very few details about the murder of Winston Carruthers. She was in police custody now, but according to Jenkins she had only said she had acted as Poole’s assistant, helping him gain access to Carruthers and standing by as he murdered him. She had returned seeking immunity to prosecution for providing evidence and refused to speak another word until she got it.

Dallington stayed for a few minutes longer, then left, still disconsolate. Lenox had felt that sort of anguish before, in his early days as an amateur detective.

Despite the confession, he had work to do still, he felt. Who had killed Inspector Exeter and Hiram Smalls? Not Gerald Poole, certainly; and if his proxies had done it, why and who were they? Almost at the same hour as Exeter was lying on his deathbed, Poole had been giving his confession. It made no sense.

So Lenox decided to persevere — and to begin with Winston Carruthers’s rooms, a few streets away.

It was dark by now and cold outside. He waited for his carriage on the curb, stamping his feet to stay warm. Eventually it came and he stepped in.

Just as he was going to close the door, a voice called from behind him, “You dropped a penny, sir.”

It was one of the footmen who had brought the horses around.

“Cheers,” said Lenox.

He took the penny in his hand — and as he sat down his mind started racing.

A penny.

What had he found under Hiram Smalls’s bed? A farthing, a halfpenny, a penny, threepence, sixpence, and a shilling, he had told the warden of Newgate. All the coins of the realm…

Smalls had been sending a message, Lenox realized with a thud in his chest, a message pointing to the man who made those coins — at the Mint.

Then Lenox remembered: He had a story about the Royal Mint, Moon had said of Carruthers. A story about the Mint — had he discovered something about the Mint? Corruption there? Was he trying to blackmail Barnard?

Just like that, Lenox remembered something funny — Barnard had called Carruthers “Win,” his common nickname, at Lady Nevin’s party but claimed he hadn’t known the man the press called Winston.

A last thought flitted into his mind about what Jane had said, George Barnard was to have a party, but he’s gone to Geneva instead.

It appeared that these murders led back, as half the crimes in London did, to one man: George Barnard. Who now had fled to Geneva.