The Fleet Street Murders clm-3 Read online

  Lenox returned to Lady Jane’s to find her ready and was enjoying a quick sip of the Talisker when there was a knock on the door.

  It was Graham. Because Lenox and Lady Jane lived in houses that adjoined, their servants often popped back and forth to deliver messages.

  “You have a visitor, sir,” said Graham.

  “Damn. Who is it?”

  “Inspector Exeter.”

  “Oh, yes? Well, Jane, do I have time to see him?”

  She looked over at the silver clock that stood on her desk. “Yes, if you like,” she said. “I’ll order my carriage. That should take a quarter of an hour.”

  “I’ll be faster than that, I hope.”

  Exeter was waiting in Lenox’s study. He was a large, physically imposing man, who — to give him his credit — had evinced time and again tremendous physical bravery. Cowardice was never his flaw. Rather, it was that he was so hidebound and resistant to new ideas. He had a stubborn face, adorned somewhat absurdly with a fat black mustache. He was twisting the ends of this with two fingers when Lenox came in.

  Well, thought Lenox, what will it be: a plea for help or a warning to stay out of the case? The two men stood facing each other.

  “Mr. Lenox,” said Exeter with a supercilious smile.

  Here to crow, then, thought Lenox. “How do you do, Inspector? Good evening.”

  “I expect you’ve been following the murders? The Fleet Street murders?”

  “I have, certainly, with keen interest. I hope their solution progresses well?”

  “In fact it does, Mr. Lenox. In fact it does. We have apprehended the criminal responsible.”

  Lenox was shocked. “What? Poole?”

  Exeter frowned. “Poole? How did you — never mind — no, it’s a young cockney chap, Hiram Smalls. He’s a short, strong fellow.”

  “Oh?” he said. “I’m delighted to hear it. How, pray tell, did he move between the two houses so rapidly? He flew, I take it?”

  The smile returned to Exeter’s face. “We expect Smalls to give us his compatriot, after a few solitary days with the prospect of the gallows in mind.”

  “Indeed,” said Lenox and nodded. “How did you find him?”

  “Eyewitness. Always begin, Mr. Lenox — and I say this with the benefit of many professional years of hindsight — always begin with a canvass of the area. Now, that’s something an amateur might find difficult, comparatively, given the resources in manpower and time of the Yard.”

  Damn the man’s insolence, thought Lenox. “Indeed,” was all he said.

  “Well, I thought I ought to let you know.”

  “I thank you.”

  “I know you’ve taken an interest… an amateur interest in several of our cases and even helped us once or twice, but I wanted to tell you that this one is solved. No need for your heroics, sir!”

  “I’m very happy for you.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Lenox, most gracious. Well — and good day.”

  “Good day, Mr. Exeter.”

  “Enjoy your party.”

  These words he said with as much sarcasm as he could muster, and then he nodded to Lenox and left.

  “It’s for the best anyway,” Lenox muttered to himself as he poured a glass of sherry at his side table. It was time to focus on politics, after all.

  The dinner party that evening was at the house of Lady Emily Nevin, a rather mysterious Hungarian woman (said to be the daughter of some nobleman in her home country) who had married a romantic young baronet just before his death. She had inherited everything but his title, which had gone to an impoverished country cousin who could make no bread by it and still had to till his own earth. Still, people “went to see her,” as the phrase went — because the Prince of Wales, on whom Lady Nevin exerted all of her many charms, did.

  It was Lady Nevin’s great conceit that wherever she went she kept a pet on a leash — a hedgehog. It was called Jezebel and waddled around with a surly look on its face, its well-groomed coat glistening with perfume and pomade. She had found it in the basement of her house; indeed, many people in London kept hedgehogs in their basements — the animals slept a great deal in whatever warm corner they could find and voraciously discovered and ate all of a house’s insects. Few, though, brought them upstairs as Lady Nevin had. She even took the creature to other people’s houses. It was considered either wickedly funny or profoundly tasteless, depending whom you spoke to. Lenox found it primarily silly, although he never entirely discounted the bond between a human and an animal because of a Labrador (Labbie, by name) that he had been given as a child and loved with all his heart.

  Despite the hedgehog, Lenox was having no fun at the party. Held in a broad, overheated room with windows overlooking the Thames, it contained few people he knew and fewer of his friends. Lady Jane, with her inexhaustible acquaintance, moved easily among the small groups, but Lenox stood by the window, glumly eating a sherbet. They made a funny sort of couple on occasions like this.

  Just then Lenox heard a voice behind him, and every nerve in his body went taut.

  “An orchid, for the lady of the house,” it said, in a tone that had once sounded arrogant to his ears but now sounded sinister as well.

  “Why, thank you, Mr. Barnard,” said Lady Nevin graciously. “How kind you are to a poor widow.”

  Lenox half-turned, if only to confirm that it was indeed George Barnard.

  He was a powerful man, aged fifty or so, who had served time in Parliament and just finished a successful stint as Master of Great Britain’s Royal Mint. He had retired into private life with an eye toward the House of Lords; judicious donations to the correct charities (and he was opulently rich, if nothing else) were, society assured him, enough to earn a title to match his wealth. He was a self-made man who had grown up somewhere in the north of England, which London associated, to the region’s detriment, with factories and soot, but he had shaken off that dubious birth to rise to his current heights. He was well liked now and known for the beautiful orchids he grew himself and always brought to parties — or, if there wasn’t one at its peak, a bowl of the oranges and lemons he grew in his green house.

  He was also, Lenox felt with complete certainty, the most dangerous man in London.

  For many years his feelings toward Barnard had been neutral. Lenox had gone to the man’s parties and suppers and met him in society. Two years before, that had changed.

  It was a famous case, which Lenox had been proud to solve. One of Barnard’s maids had been killed, and while Barnard was innocent of that crime — his two nephews had committed the murder — in the course of his investigation Lenox had discovered something shocking: Barnard had stolen nearly twenty thousand pounds of the Mint’s money for himself. Once he knew this, Lenox began to trace a whole host of crimes back to Barnard, carefully taking notes on the unsolved mysteries in Scotland Yard’s files and developing a dossier on them.

  It was personal, too, Lenox’s pursuit of Barnard, for two reasons. First, he had sent his thugs (he worked with an East End group called the Hammer Gang, who provided him with muscle) to beat half the life out of Lenox; second, and more irrationally, Barnard had proposed marriage to Lady Jane. Ever since she had rejected him and taken Lenox, Barnard had been scornful of Lady Jane, which was more than Lenox could take.

  In all this time, though, he had been careful to keep his hatred of the man to himself, to greet Barnard with cordiality, never to let on what he knew.

  “George, how do you do?” he said, shaking hands.

  “Not badly, Lenox, not badly. There, thanks,” he said, handing a footman his overcoat. “A lovely party with a lovely hostess, isn’t it? How is Jane?”

  Lenox didn’t like the sneer on Barnard’s face. “Very well, thank you.”

  “Good, excellent. I admire her greatly, you know, for looking past your… profession. Or would you call it a hobby?”

  “How are your days occupied now, Barnard?” asked Lenox, in a tone that even he recognized was barely civil
.

  Barnard wouldn’t let go of the subject. “Fine, fine,” he said, “but you — are you looking into these murders at the newspapers? It’s a great shame about, what are they called, Win Carruthers and Simon Pierce.”

  “Did you know them?”

  “Oh, no, of course not. Vulgar chaps, no doubt, but we mustn’t allow anarchy. Are you looking into it?”

  “I’m running for Parliament soon, actually. Everything has fallen behind that priority in my life, I’m afraid.”

  Barnard looked bilious at this and only said in response, “Ah — I see Terence Flood, I must speak to him.”

  “Good evening,” said Lenox with a nod.

  Lady Jane came back to Lenox. “Are you almost ready to leave?” she asked.

  “Lord, yes,” he said.

  They returned to Lenox’s house after circulating to say good-bye. Though he was troubled both by Exeter’s visit and by seeing Barnard, Lenox threw off his cares long enough to have a late snack — milk and cake — with his betrothed, and an hour’s conversation with her put him in a better mood. Walking back up her stoop, she permitted him a short kiss before going inside with a cheerful laugh. Well, he thought; all will be well in the end. This time next year perhaps I’ll be in Parliament.

  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.”

  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.”