Charles Finch - Fleet Street murders

“Oh, yes-but in some vast house.”

“Well-big enough.”

“We’re sharper in these small towns than you might expect.”

“After meeting your fellow townsmen, I’ve little doubt of your sharpness here in Stirrington.”

“We don’t appreciate interlopers or arrivistes, either. Still, I bear no love for Robert Roodle.”

“No?”

“My nephew worked at the brewery before it left. A young lad with a family. He looked for six months before he found work again-and at a mill, terrible work at a lower wage.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

“Well, we need jobs, no doubt of that. The men here may care about this beer tax, but the women know better.”

“I’m relieved to hear you say that-I thought beer might be the local god from the way some people talk,” said Lenox.

At this Sandy Smith looked terrified, but after a moment of silence Mrs. Reeve gave her first real laugh, warm and long. Lenox liked her, in fact. A strange woman. She had gained some of the outward symbols of the gentry by virtue of her small fortune and intellect but retained the sense of a workingman’s wife, he saw. She corrected her maid when she brought out the largest teapot.

“Wasteful, Sally,” she said as she poured. “Well, and what can I do for you, Mr. Lenox?”

“Ma’am?”

“Sandy?”

“We would appreciate your support.”

Lenox hastened to say, “Although before we can ask for that, I thought I’d meet you.”

“Well-let us see,” she said, but in a benevolent enough way. “Would you call again tomorrow evening? There’s a group of women who meet then, who I’m sure would like to meet you.”

“Of course I should be honored.”

Just then there was a knock at the door, and Sally ushered in a woman who said she “absolutely must talk privately with you, my dear Alice,” and after brief introductions Lenox and Sandy Smith left their teacups mostly full and made their way outside.

“That was painless,” said Lenox.

“I thought it went very well indeed. Lucky you’d read that book. I forgot to mention that she’s a great reader.”

“What do you think will be the effect of our visit?”

“Cigar? No? I think probably you have her support. She’s one of ours, by tradition. Only I think she wanted to be courted a bit, and old Stoke never had to set foot in Stirrington to win his seat. The Stoke name means a lot here.”

That was the second time Lenox had heard words to that effect. “Are there any Stokes remaining?”

Smith looked pained. “Stoke’s daughter married a local landowner-very respectable chap, no title, but a family that stretches straight back to the Domesday Book. Quite religious, she is, and rarely comes to town except on Christmas.”

“So I’ve just missed her.”

“Indeed-both for that and for Stoke’s funeral. As for Stoke’s son-that’s a sadder tale, I’m afraid. There were bright hopes for him at Cambridge, but after he went down from university he fell in with a gambling crowd in London and lost great sums of money. Eventually his father paid the debts-and was severely the worse for it, if local rumor means anything-and banished his son to India to make his fortune. There he contracted yellow fever, and nobody’s quite sure if he’s dead or alive. This town always loved Anthony Stoke, however. Such a merry lad, he was.”

By now they were coming to Main Street. “Where are we going?” Lenox asked.

“I’m going to drop you off now. You’ve your speech at the library this afternoon-nothing until then. This evening will be important, however. You’re meeting with a group of businessmen, those who would favor Roodle in the normal course of things but want to see what sort of man you are.”

“What time shall I see you?”

“I’ll be at the library.”

“You’re not coming with me?”

“Oh, no-Crook will. His niece, Nettie, volunteers there. Very loyal to the library.”

Telegrams, sir!” sang Lucy as Lenox came in the door.

She made her usual rounds, picking up empty glasses and bringing full ones, until she met Lenox again and reached into her pocket, gone again before he could thank her. The first people for lunch were at the pub. Interesting, staying here, to watch the ebb and flow of it. Crook was too busy to acknowledge him.

The telegrams were from Dallington and Scotland Yard. With great curiosity Lenox put the latter aside and tore open his apprentice’s note. Which hand had killed Hiram Smalls, he wondered? Perhaps Dallington would know the answer.

DO YOU REMEMBER JONATHAN POOLE THE TRAITOR STOP

THEY HAVE ARRESTED HIS SON STOP

MET THE CHAP ON MY TOUR SOMEWHERE IN PORTUGAL AND HE SIMPLY COULD NOT HAVE KILLED ANYBODY STOP

AIRIEST FELLOW I KNOW STOP

EXETER IS CROWING TO THE PRESS STOP

TORN BITS OF PAPER ARE SMALL SHREDS OF PAPER STOP

WOULD HAVE THOUGHT THAT WOULD BE CLEAR TO THE MEAGEREST INTELLIGENCE STOP

NOBODY KNOWS WHAT THEY SAY STOP

RETURN STOP

LONDON NEEDS YOU STOP

POOLE NEEDS YOU STOP

DALLINGTON

Scotland Yard couldn’t afford such extravagance when telegrams cost by the word, but the other note was just as arresting.

FEAR EXETER ARRESTED WRONG MAN STOP

PRESS EXCITABLE STOP

CAN YOU SPARE TIME STOP

JENKINS

With these two telegrams Lenox’s mind flew into motion. Exeter had arrested Poole’s son, a lad no more than twenty who had never seen England since he was a child and been brought up in the softest ways by his maternal family, and here were a character witness and an evidentiary one (perhaps?) from two people whom Lenox trusted? There was a chance, of course, that young Poole really had conspired with Hiram Smalls-or indeed independently of the man-to kill Simon Pierce and Winston Carruthers. However, Lenox held Exeter’s certainties in very low esteem and at the moment felt disinclined to believe him about Poole.

The two implorations to return to London tempted him powerfully. Both because of the case and, less consciously, because of Lady Jane’s letter, he had been uncomfortably longing to go back since he arrived at Stirrington. Moreover, while he liked Crook and Smith and still held his dream of entering Parliament, he wasn’t sure but what the campaign didn’t suit him. It made him uneasy. He would stick it out because the prize was so great, but it was another feeling that pushed him homeward. Often in his adult life he had told people that he was a Londoner and hated to be away from the metropolis, but it had always seemed a pro forma rather than a meaningful statement. Now it rang true to him again, and he remembered why he had begun saying it when he was a youth.

Counterweighing all this was Lenox’s inborn, or at any rate early taught, feeling of responsibility. He couldn’t possibly turn his back on Stirrington when he had vowed to Hilary, Edmund, and now Crook to fight his hardest and do his best.

Still, couldn’t they spare him for forty-eight hours?

“You look thoughtful, Mr. Lenox,” said a female voice.

Lenox’s distracted thoughts vanished, and he looked up. “Why, hello, Nettie.” He stood up. “Would you care to sit down?”

She shook her head. “No, thanks. I’ve come to give Uncle his lunch.”

Lenox laughed. “He doesn’t have what all these gentlemen are having?”

“Oh, he likes the little meals I make him. If you work in a public house long enough, Mr. Lenox, you grow weary of steak and kidney pie with ale.”

“I can imagine.”

“I trust you’re coming to the library this afternoon?”

“Yes, I shall certainly be there.”

“I’ll see you then.”

Lenox watched as she took her uncle his midday meal, noting the momentary softening in Crook’s eyes as they spoke. He promised to return the plate unbroken. Then he signaled to Lucy that he was stopping to eat, filled the pint glasses that were empty, and went to a quiet back table with his food and a glass of fizzy lemonade. Lenox was loath to interrupt Crook’s only respite of the day, but as soon as the publican had taken his last bite the detective went over.