The Fleet Street Murders

CHAPTER FOUR

The next morning, Lenox was scheduled to visit his friend Thomas McConnell, a doctor who often helped on Lenox’s cases, and McConnell’s wife, Toto, a young, vivacious woman, with an endearingly cheerful way about her; the most scurrilous gossip, on her lips, seemed little more than innocent chatter. She was a beauty, too, and had married the handsome, athletic Scot though she was some twelve years his junior.

Yet their marriage had been troubled — had even at times seemed doomed — and while Toto’s personality had remained essentially the same throughout the couple’s troubles, his had not. Once bluff and hale, an outdoorsman with gentle manners, he had begun to drink, and his face now, though still handsome, had a sallow, sunken look to it.

However, things had for a year or so been better, more loving, and it appeared that now the couple had passed the rocky shoals of their first years and settled into a contented marriage on both sides, with more maturity and tenderness, more selflessness, after all of their early turmoil. The apotheosis of this newfound happiness was a pregnancy: In six months Toto would give birth. It had been to check on her that Lenox was going to visit the McConnells’ vast house.

When he woke, however, Lenox received a note from McConnell begging his pardon and asking him to delay his visit until he was bidden come. Lenox didn’t like the tone of the note, and visiting Lady Jane for his lunch, asked her about it.

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” she said, worried. “Shall I visit Toto?”

“Perhaps, yes,” said Lenox.

She had stopped eating her soup. “Despite his request?”

“You and Toto are awfully close, Jane.”

“Yes, that’s true.”

“Will you tell me what happens?”

“Of course.”

After she finished eating, she called for her carriage and in time went to her relation’s house. Lenox was in the midst of a biography of Hadrian and sat back with his pipe to read it. He was an amateur historian and, without a case, devoted at least a few hours of each day to study of the Romans. His monographs on daily life in Augustan Rome had been well received at the great universities, and he had a wide, international correspondence with other scholars. That day, however, all his thoughts had been on Pierce and Carruthers.

Jane returned sometime later, looking ashen. “It’s bad news,” she said.

“What?” he asked.

“Toto fell ill in the middle of the night.”

“Good God,” he said, sitting by her on his red leather couch.

“They called the doctor in just past midnight. Thomas is worried to the point of utter exhaustion and blames himself for poor — what did he say? — poor medical supervision of his wife.”

“She has a dozen doctors.”

“So I told him.”

“Is it —” He could scarcely ask. “Have they lost the baby?”

A tear rolled down Lady Jane’s cheek. “It seems they may have. The doctors can’t say yet. There’s — there’s blood.”

With that she collapsed onto his shoulder and wept. He held her tight.

“Is she in danger?”

“They won’t say, but Thomas doesn’t think so.”

It was an anxiety-filled early evening. After Lady Jane had returned with her news, Lenox had written to McConnell offering any help he could give, down to the smallest errand. Now Lenox and Lady Jane waited, talking very little. At some point a light supper appeared before them, but neither ate. Twice Lenox sent a maid to McConnell’s house to inquire, and both times she came back without any new information.

At last, close to ten o’clock, McConnell himself appeared. He looked drawn and weary, his strong and healthy body somehow obscene.

“A glass of wine,” Lenox told Graham.

“Or whisky, better still, with a splash of water,” McConnell said miserably. He buried his head in his hands after Lenox led him to the sofa.

“Right away, sir,” said Graham and returned with it.

McConnell drank off half the glass before he spoke again. “We lost the child,” he said at last. “Toto will be well, however.”

“Damn it,” said Lenox. “I’m so sorry, Thomas.”

Lady Jane was pale. “I must go see her,” she said.

Lenox thought of all Toto’s long, prattling monologues about baby names and baby toys, about painting rooms blue or pink, about what schools a boy child would attend or what year a girl would come out in society. Lenox and Jane were to have stood godparents. He thought of that, too.

“She didn’t want to see anything of me. May you do better,” said McConnell.

Lady Jane left.

After some minutes Lenox said, “You have a long and happy future ahead, Thomas.”

“Perhaps,” said the doctor.

“Will you sleep here tonight?”

“Thanks, Lenox, but no. I have to return. In case Toto needs me.”

“Of course — of course.”

McConnell stifled a sob. “To think I once called myself a doctor.”

“She had every attention a woman could,” Lenox gently reminded his friend.

“Except the one she needed, perhaps.”

“You mustn’t blame yourself. Truly.”

After several more drinks and a meandering, regretful conversation, McConnell left. Lenox promised to be in touch the next day and went to bed troubled in his mind.

At four in the morning, as Lenox slept, there was an urgent knock on his bedroom door. It was Graham, carrying a candle, bleary eyed.

“Yes?” said Lenox, sitting up instantly flooded with anxiety about Jane, about his brother, about the future. A nervous day had made for nervous rest.

“A visitor, sir. Urgent, I believe.”

“Who is it? McConnell?”

“Mr. Hilary, sir.”

“James Hilary?”

“Yes, sir.”

Hilary was the MP and political strategist Edmund had recommended Charles speak with. What on earth could he want?

Lenox made his way downstairs as quickly as he could. Hilary was sitting on the sofa in Lenox’s study. He was a handsome man, with nobility written on his brow; he had a pleasant and open face usually but at the moment appeared profoundly agitated.

“Goodness, man, look at the hour,” said Lenox. “What can it be?”

“Lenox, there you are. Come, you must tell your butler to pack a bag. Some sandwiches would be welcome for the trip, too. Even a cup of coffee.”

“What trip, Hilary?”

“Of course — where is my head? We’ve received a telegram; we need to go to Stirrington now.”

“Why?”

“Stoke is dead.”

“No!” cried Lenox.

Stoke was the Member of Parliament for Stirrington, whose retirement was going to prompt the election Lenox would compete in. He was a rural-minded, rough-mannered old man from an ancient family, who loved nothing but to run after the hounds and confer with his gamekeeper and for whom retirement held only happy prospects. He had never been meant for Parliament, but he had served his time honorably.

“Yes,” said Hilary impatiently. “He’s dead. His heart went out.”

“That’s awful.”

“Yes, and in two weeks Stirrington votes.”

“Two weeks?” said Lenox blankly. “You mean nine weeks. I have pressing matters to attend to here —”

“Two weeks will decide the by-election, Lenox. Come, we must fly.”