The Fleet Street Murders

CHAPTER FIVE

Stirrington, which lay at the heart of the constituency Lenox hoped to represent, was a modest town of fifteen thousand souls, large enough to have several doctors, two schools, and a dozen pubs but small enough that cattle and sheep were still driven down the long High Street and everyone knew everyone else. To residents there the phrase “the City” referred not to London but to Durham, with its beautiful riverside cathedral, and as Hilary explained on their ride north, one thing Lenox must be sure not to do was speak down to them, or come off as oversophisticated, or glib, or slick.

“I’ll be myself, of course.”

“Of course,” said Hilary. Then he laughed. “Yet politics often requires certain attitudes. To adopt them one needn’t abandon one’s character.”

“Yes,” said Lenox uncertainly.

The trip there took hours upon hours. Durham County was nearly as far north as one could travel without reaching Scotland. The train arrived outside of town well after noon had struck, and both Lenox and Hilary — who had otherwise passed pleasant hours in doing what they loved, talking about the nature and strategy of politics — were famished. A small voice asked Lenox, too, whether he was now definitely beyond the distance at which he might have kept track of the two murders, and of course the great bulk of his thoughts were taken up with Thomas and Toto.

“To be honest, I wouldn’t accompany every candidate this far,” said Hilary. “But we’re friends, and perhaps more importantly, the balance is very fine in the House right now.”

“It is,” agreed Lenox. “I’ve followed the numbers on each side closely.”

“Every vote will see us closer to accomplishing our goals.” As two lads loaded luggage onto a carriage, Hilary stopped. “In other words,” he went on, “we need you to do your level best here.”

“To be sure,” Lenox responded and nodded with what he hoped was appropriate comprehension and solemnity.

Of course, what all this meant was that they wanted Lenox to spend money. The vast majority of parliamentary campaigns were self-funded or else funded by powerful local interests. Lenox was happy to lay out his own money, as his father and brother had. Still, Hilary’s message was, even if friendly in delivery, clear in intent. As Lenox already knew, their Conservative opponent, a brewer named Robert Roodle, was quite willing to lay out money on votes. Still, Lenox felt confident that the bank drafts in his pocket would be sufficient to argue his case (for broader civil rights and a firm but reasonable international policy) to the people of Stirrington.

That morning had been a busy one. First Lenox had dressed, as the harried servants packed; then the budding politician had written a brief but loving note to Lady Jane next door, begging her tolerance for his hasty departure, and a similar, more somber note to McConnell, promising his swift return and sending his dearest wish that Toto would recover quickly. Graham, it was decided, would follow on the evening train. Then a dash through dawn to the train station, followed by long hours of travel and conversation. Lenox was ready for lunch and a moment to breathe, in whatever order he could get them. Alas, the first was makeshift, and the second they skipped.

Their first destination was a pub, the Queen’s Arms, which dated to Queen Anne’s reign. They were going there to meet Lenox’s political agent, his chief local strategist and the man whom Lenox and Hilary hoped would deliver a large block of business voters, Mr. Edward Crook. It wasn’t a promising name.

“He’s the proprietor of the place,” said Hilary as they drove through the town. “Apparently from a long-standing Stirrington family, much respected here.”

Lenox was observing what he could: maids stringing up laundry, a small but fair church, a slightly more bitter cold than London. “Any family?”

Hilary consulted his notes. “Wife, deceased. No children. Crook’s niece lives with him and keeps his house, a girl named Nettie.”

“What’s Crook’s political history?”

“He helped Stoke win — but as you know that was no great achievement. The Stoke name means a good deal in this area, and Stoke has run largely unopposed since he first came into office. Before either of our times, of course. Undistinguished but loyal.”

“So Crook hasn’t much experience?”

Hilary frowned. “I suppose not much, but we have firm knowledge of his stature within the community. Apparently there’s a consortium of shop and tavern owners who listen to his every word. Shop owners, Lenox, win elections of this rural sort.”

“Yes?”

Hilary laughed. “By God, you’re lucky to run in such a place. My seat” — he represented part of Liverpool — “took a good deal more money and a great deal more maneuvering than this one will.”

Soon they pulled up to the Queen’s Arms. It was a distinguished-looking public house, with whitewashed walls that had black beams running across them, giving it a rather Tudor feel. An ornately painted, and really rather beautiful, sign depicted Anne with a crown and a detailed image of the world beneath her foot. There were stables to the rear of the house, rooms upstairs, and, from what they saw through the windows, a spacious one-room bar below.

They went in and found a hot, roaring fire at one end and a decent trade for the time of day; in chalk on a board were lunch specials (lamb with potatoes, hearty beef stew, hot wine), and Lenox’s hunger returned to him with a growl. A pretty, busy girl was coming to and fro from the kitchen, while a massive, red-nosed gentleman stood behind the bar, pouring drinks with surprisingly deft hands. He had on a bottle green spencer jacket, and a dirty towel was slung over each shoulder. This, Lenox saw, was Mr. Crook.

“Shall we have a bite?” Lenox asked with barely concealed yearning.

“Best ask Mr. Crook,” said Hilary sympathetically. “We’ve much work to do.”

“Yes, yes.”

They approached the bar, a wide, immaculately clean slab of slate, with glasses hanging above it and gleaming brass fixtures at either end. Like the outside of the house, the pub’s inside seemed the province of a fastidious, clean, and honest man.

“Gentlemen,” he said in a heavy northern voice. “Here for dinner?”

“I’m Hilary, actually. I sent word of our arrival. This is Charles Lenox, your candidate.”

Crook gave them both an evaluating look. “Very pleased to meet you, Mr. Lenox,” he said. “I promise nothing, let me say from the start.”

“I understand.”

“Still, we shall do our best, and I daresay by the end we’ll see you through, and before long you can return to London and forget all about us. Johnson, another pint of mild?”

Before Lenox had a chance to deny Crook’s prediction, the tender was already sliding a pint glass of foamy, rich brown ale down the bar. It looked lifesaving to Lenox’s eye.

“Thank you for your help,” said Lenox.

“Well — and you look solid enough.” This Crook said rather glumly. “It will be difficult.”

“Do we have time to sit for a moment and eat?”

“No,” said Crook. “Lucy!” he shouted. “Bring a couple of roasted beef sandwiches.”

The pretty girl raised her hand in brief acknowledgment.

“You two must go — with money, mind — straight to the printers. We need handbills, flyers, posters, all that sort of thing — we need ’em before the end of the day. I’ve designed it all, but run your eyes over what he has. Lucy!”

The girl returned with two sandwiches. Without either of the two Londoners noticing, Crook had poured two half-pints of mild and pushed them across the bar. “You look peaky,” he said. “Drink these off and eat on your way. Six doors down, to your left. Make sure you bring cash. The stables have your bags? Good, I’ve got two rooms for you. Nice to meet you, Mr. Lenox. Mr. Hilary. All will turn out well if you trust me. Clark, one more pint of bitter before you go back to work?”

With that their introduction to Edward Crook was over, and the two men looked at each other, shrugged, and turned away, both taking ravenous bites of their sandwiches before they left.

“What do you think?” asked Hilary as they walked down the street.

“He seems competent.”

“Fearfully so, I should have said.”

“The sort of chap we want on our side, rather than the other,” Lenox added.

“Yes, absolutely. By God, these sandwiches aren’t half bad, are they? Look, this must be the printer.”