Charles Finch - Fleet Street murders

The first was already dangerous. “Why would you care about Stirrington?” a man a few feet off to the side asked.

“Because there’s an election here!” somebody farther back shouted, and everyone laughed.

“It’s true that I’m here because of this by-election,” Lenox said when the noise had died down, “but I’m here because I care about every corner of England and all her people, and Stirrington is just as much a part of this country as Sussex, where I’m from, or London, where I live. People here, like people anywhere, want a decent wage, a strong government, and”-here Lenox gulped back his pride-“a fair price for beer.”

This answer earned Lenox a round of applause.

“What’s a fair price?”

“Less than you’re paying,” the candidate answered.

“Do you drink?”

“Not right now, thanks.”

Another laugh, and Lenox felt he was getting the hang of the questions. A little humor mixed with broad answers.

Then a short, fat, sharp-faced man standing not five feet away said, loudly enough for everyone to hear, “You should go back to London, Mr. Lenox.”

Smith’s voice behind Lenox whispered, “That’s Roodle.”

“I will when I’m elected, Mr. Roodle, so I can represent this wonderful town.”

In the crowd there was total silence, almost an anticipatory inhale of breath, as the two candidates faced each other for the first time.

“So you can prance around in Parliament and forget all about us back here.”

“No man who knows me could deny that all of my convictions, all of my beliefs, are directed toward the protection of people like these. A better life for people here in Stirrington, and everywhere across England. I’ll never forget that.”

“You don’t know ‘these people,’ ” he said with a scoffing laugh. “I’ve been here my whole life, sir.”

Lenox felt a riposte forming somewhere in his brain. “Your whole life?” he said.

“My whole life,” confirmed Roodle.

“Yet your brewery hasn’t.”

There was a moment of silence, followed by an absolute roar of laughter. When it subsided just a little, Smith said, “Thank you!” and pulled the candidate offstage.

The small man was thrilled. “Leave ’em on a high note,” he said. “That was wonderful! You showed Roodle! Round one to Lenox! Come, come, we must wade into the crowd and shake every hand we can find! Come! ‘Yet your brewery hasn’t,’ he says! Wonderful!”

Flushed with success, Lenox spent an hour in Sawyer Park, until he had indeed shaken every hand he could find. Smith was invaluable-had grown up in Stirrington and seemed to know every soul who lived within the town limits and a good many that lived beyond. On Roodle’s behalf several beefy-looking gentlemen were circulating in the park, saying that glib talk would get them nowhere, that the beer tax would probably be lowered regardless of this election’s outcome, and most importantly that Lenox was an interloper and a fraud-but all to little avail. Lenox was the man of the hour, and people of every stripe crowded around him, congratulating him and asking him questions (often very personal ones-one young man asked what Parliament could do about getting him onto the county cricket team, which Lenox still wasn’t sure had been a joke).

Finally Smith and Lenox had met everyone there was to meet, and Lenox, who after the headiness of the speech remembered again that Hiram Smalls was dead and began speculating in his mind about the Pierce and Carruthers murders, inquired what they were to do next.

“It’s a fearful proposition, but I thought perhaps we might call on Mrs. Reeve.”

“Who is that?”

“Has Crook not told you about her, then? Perhaps we should wait.”

“Who is she?”

“Mrs. Reeve is a widow, about fifty. She was married to Joe Reeve, famous in these parts as Durham’s best horse trainer. He left her with a comfortable living, and her house is a kind of stopping point for every woman in town. There’s always food and tea, and people agree to meet there as if it were a shop or a train station. Mrs. Reeve herself is very influential with all of the women I know.”

“She sounds a fascinating character.”

“Aye, and a powerful one. Men with little time to waste on politics will often listen to their wives, I believe.”

“What is she like in person?”

“Oh-fat-exceedingly fat.”

“What else?”

“Well-I don’t think she’s ever properly left Stirrington. It’s possible -and mind, I don’t say probable-that she’s never left town. She may have been to Durham once, but I can’t remember hearing of it.”

“On the provincial side of things?” Lenox asked, with what he hoped was delicacy.

Smith laughed. “I didn’t want to say it.” Then he paused. “I’ve been to France, actually.”

“Mr. Smith, I hope you don’t think I class you in such a way? I really don’t look down on Stirrington, you have my absolute word. Whatever Mr. Roodle says.”

“No, no, of course,” said the lawyer, red faced. “At any rate-to Mrs. Reeve’s?”

However, Mrs. Reeve was-and Mr. Smith called it an aberration-away from home. According to her housekeeper, who looked flustered, Mrs. Reeve was at her doctor’s.

“And if people would stop visiting until she returned I wouldn’t complain,” she added. Then rushed to say, “Not meaning you, Mr. Smith.”

It was just past four o’clock by then. “I hate to waste any daylight,” said Smith, “but perhaps we should visit Mrs. Reeve after supper?”

“Will she be up that late?”

“She keeps very late hours-requires next to no sleep, apparently.”

“She does sound a peculiar woman,” Lenox said.

“Well-quite.”

Back at the Queen’s Arms, Lenox found Crook serving pints of ale to the first men who were getting off work. He had already heard all about the speech and congratulated Lenox on the success of his conversation with Roodle.

“Dirty trick,” the bartender added, “but we’ll see him done for.”

“I hope so, anyway.”

“If he wants a fight, he’ll have a fight.”

“I’ve never asked you, Mr. Crook: Why do you involve yourself in politics? Is it of special interest to you?”

“I’ve always thought a man ought to believe in something, Mr. Lenox, and if he believes in something he ought to support it. Good evening, Mr. Pyle. A pint of mild, I expect?”

With that Crook was at the other end of the bar.

“Perhaps we could see Mrs. Reeve tomorrow, Mr. Smith? I don’t feel my most vigorous.”

“Of course,” said Sandy, although he looked chagrined.

Lenox didn’t care a fig at the moment, however, and bade farewell to his companion even as he began to walk tiredly up the stairs to his room.

“Wait, sir!” said the voice of Lucy, the waitress, behind him. “Here’s your telegram!”

With some excitement Lenox took it from her, enfolding a few pennies’ tip in her hand.

It was from Dallington, sent in at Claridge’s Hotel. Lenox knew this was one of Dallington’s watering holes and hoped the young man wasn’t reverting, as he occasionally had even under Lenox’s tutelage, to his old, dissipated ways. Still, the telegram was coherent.

GLAD YOU ARE INTERESTED IN THE CASE STOP

LONDON TEDIOUS AT THE MOMENT STOP

SMALLS FOUND HANGING BY BOOTLACES FROM WALL HOOK IN HIS CELL STOP

APPARENT SUICIDE STOP

EXETER CONVINCED MURDER STOP

VERY FEW DETAILS RELEASED BUT SPOKE TO WARDEN TODAY STOP

SMALLS LEFT BEHIND SEVERAL TORN BITS OF PAPER AND ON TOP OF THEM THE FAMOUS ORANGES STOP

GOOD LUCK THERE STOP

DALLINGTON

As Lenox was reading, McConnell knocked at the door and came in, looking fresher after his day’s rest but troubled nevertheless.