The Fleet Street Murders (11 page)

CHAPTER NINETEEN

B

ack at home there was a telegram from Sandy Smith, Crook’s associate, with a list of commitments that Lenox had to return in time to fulfill the next day. He would have to be on the train by six the next morning, he saw with frustration. Still, it had been a productive half day. He had some grasp of the case, however uncertain.

As he passed the threshold of his home, he traded the uncertainty of the three murders for the domestic uncertainty that mattered far more to him.

“Has Lady Jane returned here, Mary?” he asked after he had changed into a new suit.

“No, sir. Shall I see if she’s in next door?”

“Yes, please do.”

She curtsied and left. With dismay he saw the stack of unanswered letters that had built up in his absence, sitting on his desk. He shuffled through them listlessly and waited for Mary to return. She was downstairs now, ringing a bell strung through to the servants’ quarters next door. If they rang back once Jane was in, twice and she was out. Lenox smiled as he thought of this—the ties between them both literal and figurative.

He hoped so.

Mary returned. “Lady Grey is in, sir,” she said.

“Thank you. I’ll go over there, then. I’ll want lunch when I get back.”

“Sir?”

“Oh—” Lenox waved his hand. “Graham would know. Something warm. Ask Ellie.”

This was the house’s cook. “Yes, sir,” said Mary. “I did, sir, and she says she—well she didn’t know.”

Ellie had a salty vocabulary, and Mary blushed.

“I suppose we must have some sort of potato lying around, gathering dust? No doubt a single homely carrot might be procured from the fruit and vegetable man? If I dream I can imagine a very small cut of meat with sauce?” He snapped. “Tell Ellie if she values her job she’ll put two or three things on a plate by the time I return. The same goes for you.”

“Very good, sir.”

Even as the door closed behind her he sighed. It was rare for him to lose his temper, and he always regretted it instantly. Mary would know his threats were hollow, in all probability—Ellie certainly would—but they still might distress her. It was all because of his fear of this tête-à-tête with Jane.

He strode outside and over there in a burst of determination, however, and once Kirk, Jane’s very fat, very dignified butler had admitted Lenox, he felt silly. It was a house that made him comfortable in all its details, for it reminded him of her, and suddenly things seemed as if they might be all right.

She came out at the knock of the door and saw him. “Hello, Charles,” she said.

“Hello, Jane. I’m so pleased to see you, now that I have a moment to breathe.”

“Will you eat something?”

“No, thanks. Ellie’s cooking.”

“Come into the sitting room, then.”

She wore a plain blue dress with a gray ribbon at her slim waist and a matching one in her hair, which was slightly different now, lying in curls down her neck. Her thin, graceful hands, which had more than once shown surprising strength, were folded over each other, and it was slightly awkward that the two didn’t touch as they went to the sofa and sat down.

“I’ve missed you very much, Jane,” Lenox burst out. “Your letter made me miserable.”

“Oh!” she said. Tears came into the corners of her eyes.

“Did you mean what you wrote?”

“I don’t know, Charles.”

There was a moment’s unhappy and uncomfortable quiet, while each of them pondered the letter she had written—which as Lenox had thought at every stray moment since then was so out of character, so flighty in contrast to Lady Jane’s stable, un-dramatic personality.

He forced himself to speak of something different. “How is Toto?” he asked.

“Physically, entirely well, but as I wrote you—well, you read what I wrote.”

Now he took her hand and, looking straight at her, said with conviction, “Can’t you see how different and how well suited to each other our temperaments are? Haven’t all our years of friendship revealed our true compatibility?”

This eruption led to some silence while Jane cried. Lenox looked at his hand and realized with some detachment that it was shaking.

“I fear I must tell you a secret now, Charles.”

His stomach plummeted. “What can you mean?”

She sighed and looked pale. “You remember my first marriage, I know.”

Indeed he did. At the age of twenty she had made a spectacular marriage, one entirely apposite considering her beauty and nobility, to Lord James Grey, the Earl of Deere and a captain in the Coldstream Guards. It had been the wedding of the season, breathlessly gossiped about, with an invitation seen by those who were on the borderline of receiving one as more precious than rubies and emeralds.

Lenox had sat next to his brother and his father in the third row, a flower in his buttonhole, and the queer feeling he had in his stomach as he watched her walk down the aisle, straight backed and lovely, was the first intimation he had that he might feel something more than friendship for her. Her father, the Earl of Houghton, was Lenox’s godfather, and Lenox and Jane had always been playmates—never more.

Then, not six months later, tragedy—James Grey had died in a skirmish with locals in India, where he was stationed with his regiment.

“I do, of course,” said Lenox softly. “Was it unhappy?”

“We hadn’t time to be either happy or unhappy, I think, only joyful, as newlyweds are. Yet I never told you Charles—it’s a difficult thing to talk about—”

“Yes?”

“I found I was pregnant just a few weeks after the wedding.”

“But that makes no sense—”

He stopped.

“Yes,” she said. “Just the same as Toto.”

All he could say, after a minute of silence was, “I’m so very sorry, Jane.”

“It has made these few weeks difficult for me, you must understand, and I need—I simply need more time, Charles.”

Tears stood in her eyes. His heart went out to her, undercut by a thin stream of jealousy of her first husband—a decent chap, Lenox had always thought, except that now he stood on through time noble, handsome, and flawless, an idol rather than a man of flesh and blood. How could Lenox compete against her memories?

It took all of his courage to say, then, “If you wish me to release you from your word, I shall consent, of course.”

At that Lady Jane did something unexpected: She laughed. It broke the tension between them, and Lenox found himself smiling, too.

“What?” he said.

“It’s not funny, I know,” she said, still laughing, “but of course I want to marry you! As dearly as I did the moment you asked. Oh, Charles! Can’t you understand? I need time, that’s all.”

He put his arm around her waist, and she put her head onto his shoulder. “Then you shall have it. I know I’m selfish.”

“Can we wait until the fall? Next fall? Wouldn’t it be lovely to marry next September? None of our plans yet are definite?”

“September,” he said. “Of course.”

“We have our long lives ahead of us, you know. I want some time—so we can know each other better.”

“Is that possible?”

“Say—say know each other differently, then. It’s frightening, isn’t it?”

He laughed. “A little.”

“I know we’ll be happy, Charles. I shall never doubt that.”

After this their conversation devolved into all the endearments and stolen kisses and long laughs that belong to any new love—and that scarcely need to be repeated here.

Half an hour later Lenox left Jane, promising he would dine with her that evening after he spent the afternoon out. He ate lunch in front of his fireplace, reading over a new journal on Roman history and having a wholesome sort of meal for a cold day, with a glass of red wine to go along. Finally he finished eating, and Mary came to clear the things.

“Thank you,” he said. “Oh, and Mary? Please excuse me for losing my temper with you. You did nothing wrong.”

“Sir,” she said and curtsied. “There’s bread and butter pudding if you care for it.”

Lenox smiled. “Only to be given should I behave?”

“No, sir! Of course—”

“Only joking, Mary.”

“It’s quite tasty, sir.”

Normally Lenox, a thin man, skipped dessert, but he decided to have some today. Mary brought the flaky pastry, doused in a sauce of sweet vanilla cream, and it was so good that when he was done he asked for a second helping and ate that too.

By now he was thoroughly warm and thoroughly sated, and as he sat reading, whether he realized it or not the cares of his life at that moment—the election, the murders, Toto and Thomas, and Jane—began to fall away from him. An observer might have seen his face relax, just slightly at first, and then into a smooth kind of repose. The warmth of the room was wonderful, really, he thought.

He would just rest the journal on the table and look into the fire for a moment—ah, and then perhaps rest his weary eyes—he felt his cheeks relax—his eyelids closed ever so comfortably—and soon the detective was deep in sleep, and not even Mary, who tripped into the library with the coffee a little while later, could wake him up.

CHAPTER TWENTY

S

hadows fell along the floor of the library, and that particular golden glare at the edge of the windows showed that it was late afternoon. With pleasantly heavy eyes Lenox stirred and awoke, his gaze on the fire, which sparked and flared when its logs shifted. When at last he was entirely back in the world, he noted the time—it was nearly four—and thought with lazy happiness of his reconciliation with Lady Jane. Soon they would be married, whether in six months or a year, and all would be right with the world. He trusted her judgment—more than his own, perhaps.

He rang the bell, and after some delay Mary came into the room. “Sir?”

“You were busy?”

“I apologize, sir, I was polishing silver.”

“Will you bring me some tea, please?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then take the rest of the day off, would you?”

She didn’t know quite what to make of that. “Sir?”

“I’m eating next door, and I can find my own clothes. Go to the theater. Here—” He handed her a couple of coins.

“Thank you, sir, I shall,” she said, with a glad curtsy.

“Tea first, though, please.”

“Of course, sir. Straightaway.”

Though she blushed easily, could be awkward around guests, and fumbled with some of her tasks, in the matter of making tea Mary was supremely assured. Lenox liked Indian leaf brewed strong, and between the first cup she had made him and this one there had been no variation in the perfection of her technique, whatever it was. She brought it in with a plate of cookies. Lenox ignored these but took a deep draught of the tea and found his senses tingling and his skin a little warmer.

He wandered over to his desk, which sat by the high windows overlooking Hampden Lane. What was he to make of this case? Who was Hiram Smalls? From a pocket Lenox pulled his copy of the cryptic note Hiram had taken into prison.

He wondered again, as he had before,
why
take it into prison? Either he had assumed the code was impenetrable, he was stupid, or he wanted some small artifact of his crime with which he might blackmail his partner. Lenox strongly favored the latter theory but couldn’t dismiss any of them at this moment.

The dogcarts pull away
.

It was a strange, forced style of prose, which made Lenox again wonder about the nature of its encryption. Of course, it was just as likely that “dogcarts” was a prearranged synonym for any number of words—drugs, money, even people. The same held true for the names in the letter, Jones and George. It was a hopeless jumble. Soon after picking it up he threw the letter aside in disgust and stood over his desk, tea in one hand, trying to puzzle through some itch in his mind he couldn’t quite scratch.

There was a knock at the door then, and Mary, in direct contradiction to Lenox’s order that she take the rest of the day off, flew up the servants’ stairs to answer it as the detective came out of his library. She opened the door and gasped involuntarily.

It was Inspector Jenkins, Lenox’s sole friend within Scotland Yard, and he looked awful. A painful red and black welt had risen on his cheekbone, and there was a cut just under his left eye. In the normal course of things he was an efficient and serious-looking fellow, but between his face and his disheveled clothes he now looked like a reject from one of the gin mills by the docks.

“There you are, Lenox,” he said, peering around Mary. “I didn’t know where I ought to go.”

“Come in, I beg of you. Mary, take his coat and clean it.”

“Yes, sir,” said Mary, though there was a doubtful note in her voice. She wasn’t used—as Graham was—to the frequent admission of outwardly insalubrious characters to the house.

“You don’t have anything like a hot whisky, do you?” he asked.

“Of course,” said Lenox. “Before you see to his coat, bring one, won’t you? Bring two, in fact. I’ll drink with you, Jenkins. Now, what the devil has happened?”

Lenox motioned him down the hallway, and Jenkins came forward. The two men shook hands, and Jenkins smoothed down his ruffled hair.

“It’s been a long day,” was all he said.

There was a jittery kind of energy left over in him from whatever altercation had painted him black and blue. When the whisky arrived, he gulped at it gratefully, then took a deep breath.

“Well,” he said, “I think it very likely that before the day is out I shall have been officially dismissed from the Yard.”

“No!” said Lenox, genuinely shocked. “Why on earth would they do that?”

“They’ve just suspended me for showing Dr. McConnell our internal reports. Exeter did it, in fact. Called me a traitor. I asked him if he would say it again, and he did, and I jolly well showed him he shouldn’t have.” Jenkins laughed bitterly. “Although I didn’t come out of it unscathed, mind. He walloped me twice.”

“I’m shocked! Exeter has tolerated my involvement in cases of his before, even asked me for help.”

“It was a pretense, I believe,” said Jenkins, taking another sip of his whisky. “Exeter has resented me for some time. One of his lackeys saw me closeted with Dr. McConnell and reported me to the great man.” Another bitter laugh.

“There’s been tension between the two of you?”

“Yes, and I made it pretty plain that I didn’t think he was right about the Pierce and Carruthers murders. The great joke is that he may have been.”

“Why do you say that?” Lenox asked.

Jenkins shrugged. “Poole met with Smalls, and the two dead journalists had his father hanged. The motive is ironclad, and the meeting is a strong piece of circumstantial evidence.”

“Did Gerald Poole even know the details of his father’s case?”

“I don’t know, but the meeting with Smalls . . . I confess it seems damning.”

“Are they bringing him to trial?”

“Within a fortnight. All of Exeter’s men are out looking for evidence.”

“Do they have any idea who killed Smalls?”

“None, but Exeter certainly believes it was murder.”

“It was.”

“How can you say so?”

Lenox explained McConnell’s hypothesis about the bootlaces and the second hook.

Jenkins shook his head, as if the enormity of his loss were sinking in. “For once Exeter has it all right,” he said.

“It’s maddening,” Lenox agreed, thinking of his meeting with Exeter some days before, when the inspector had assured Lenox the case was well in hand. Had lorded it over him, in fact.

Still, even if he was right about Smalls’s death he might be wrong about the man’s involvement. Or Poole’s, for that matter. Dallington seemed so sure of his friend’s character.

“I say, have you any ice?” Jenkins asked.

“Of course.” Lenox called for Mary. “Will you bring ice?” he said when she came. “And two more glasses of hot whisky.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How long is your suspension meant to be for?” Lenox asked when he and Jenkins were alone again.

“Two weeks, but Exeter has far more power than I do. Fighting him was damnably stupid.”

“Still, you’ll get a fair shake, won’t you?”

“I hope so. In point of fact, I
was
wrong to show Dr. McConnell those documents, but police inspectors generally have a fair amount of latitude. Exeter has chosen to follow the letter of the law in this one instance, despite breaking it a hundred times himself.”

“What do you think you’ll do?”

“I don’t know. Search for another job, I suppose. This is the only one I want.”

It pained Lenox. “I’m so sorry,” he said.

“I’m an adult,” said Jenkins. The ice and whisky came then, and he applied the first to his face and the second to his gullet, both liberally. “Anyway, there are always small-town jobs for the taking, even if you’ve left the Yard under a cloud. I rather fancy the South Coast. It’s beautiful, I’ve heard.”

“It is indeed,” said Lenox, “but we must keep you in London. May I speak to people on your behalf?”

“If you wish. I know you have friends in high places, of course, but you must remember that the Yard keeps to itself. We don’t generally abide the interference of others, be they ever so powerful in other spheres of life.”

“Of course,” said Lenox, although his mind had returned to the letter Hiram Smalls had carried with him into prison.

“It’s just the way of our profession, I’m afraid.”

“Wait here a moment—I’ve got use of your faculties even if Scotland Yard has disposed of them.”

“By all means,” said Jenkins stiffly.

The joke had fallen flat, and after an apologetic grimace, Lenox fetched his copy of Smalls’s letter.

“The dogcarts pull away,” Jenkins muttered. He read the rest to himself.

“What do you make of it?” Lenox asked when the other man had done.

“I don’t know. I’ve never had a knack for these codes. Unimaginative on the part of the criminal underclass, I’ve always felt. Been reading the penny bloods.”

Lenox laughed. “You’re right. Still, something about it bothers me. I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

“I wish I could help.”

“Well—thanks anyway.”

“Keep me apprised of any breaks in the case?” said Jenkins, standing up.

“I shall. Be of good cheer.”

“It’s difficult.”

“Exeter has moved hastily before, and it rarely ends up well for him. You’ll be back at work soon.”

“Perhaps,” said Jenkins and shook hands.

Lenox stood still for a moment, contemplating his friend’s unhappy fate, and then took a last sip of tea. He had another errand to run before his day was through.