The Fleet Street Murders (14 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

W

ith every person he met, Lenox could feel himself gaining ground. In his absence, ironically, the town had adjusted to his presence. The speech in Sawyer Park—and the subsequent talk of it—had doubtless played its part, as had the confident energies of Crook, Smith, and Graham. Whatever it was, Lenox was well met everywhere, men and women stopping to shake his hand as he passed. Each stride through Stirrington encouraged him further.

He expected the worst when he met the corn and grain merchants but found them to be in fact a pleasant lot, and when he stopped in for an afternoon cup of tea at a teashop along Foul Lane he had a long and interesting conversation with the proprietor, a woman named Stevens who promised she would have her husband vote for him. Lenox’s ideas on the cost of beer would persuade Mr. Stevens, she said, while his plan to lower taxation persuaded her.

By the time of Mrs. Reeve’s dinner, then, Lenox was feeling assured and happy; Roodle seemed an altogether smaller figure in his mind, and the cacophony of good and supportive voices that had followed him through the day rang in his ears.

All of that lasted about ten minutes into the party.

Now, Mrs. Reeve herself was perfectly nice, a fact from which Lenox took some solace. So was Mr. Rudge, the wine merchant who detested Robert Roodle. Here were two supporters.

Not so nice, on the other hand, were several of the other party guests, whose personalities seemed calculated to grate on Lenox’s nerves. Worst among these was a woman whom for years afterward he thought of with a shudder. Her name was Karen Crow. She was a fervent Roodleite.

“Mr. Lenox,” she said when they were all sitting at the table for supper, soup before them, “is it true that you have never visited a brewery?”

“That is true, yes,” he said.

“Mr. Roodle has been in the brewery all his life.” She said this with great significance—greater than Lenox could perceive it to have—and turned her head from side to side, as if to say to her neighbors, “Now, did you catch
that
?”

“I understand that beer is important in Stirrington?”

“Mr. Lenox,” she said, “is it true that you have
always
lived in London?”

“No,” he said shortly.

“Surely Mr. Lenox’s provenance is well enough known?” said Mrs. Reeve.

“But you have lived in London
most
of your life,” clarified Mrs. Crow.

“Yes,” he said.

“Mr. Roodle has lived in Stirrington all his life.”

After relating this wonderful anecdote, she set to her soup with a dainty ferocity.

“His factory hasn’t, though,” said Rudge, the wine merchant. Lenox shot him a grateful look.

After this Mrs. Crow retracted her claws until dessert was served, when she again began to delineate the biographical differences between Roodle and Lenox. Picking up the baton in the meanwhile was a man named Spronk, who managed a clothiers on the High Street. Spronk’s plan of attack was to associate Lenox with every misdeed of any member in the history of the Liberal Party. All of his sentences either began or ended with the phrase “Now, isn’t it true . . .” For instance, he said, “Now, isn’t it true that Gladstone visits prostitutes?”

“In an attempt to reform them, I believe,” murmured Lenox, “though I scarcely think that in this company it is appropriate to discuss—”

“The party betrayed Russell, didn’t they? On his reform bill? He was a radical, to be sure, but nonetheless it indicates a certain slipperiness. Now, isn’t true?”

“Perhaps,” said Lenox. “Who better to be a radical than the son of a duke, however, like Russell?”

“Now, isn’t it true as well that Palmerston was a Tory first, and only changed parties to gain power? You can scarcely claim credit for Mr. Palmerston, I think, Mr. Lenox,” Spronk said with a chastising chuckle, as if Lenox had been taking credit for Palmerston all over Stirrington.

“He shifted parties wisely, in my view,” was all the candidate managed.

After several other questions of this variety, Spronk sat back with a satisfied “humph.” Thus he and Mrs. Crow between them spoiled Lenox’s appetite before the lamb arrived.

Almost worse than Spronk and Crow, though, was the way in which Mrs. Reeve, after having invited him into this lions’ den, constantly tried to “save” him by interjecting a soft word or two when the assaults on him became intemperate. He appreciated her intent but bridled against her proprietary manner. It made him feel a slight snobbery. It occurred to him that, having lived in his own small circle in London for so long, he had without knowing it narrowed his social life to exclude the Mrs. Reeves of the world; and then it occurred to him in the same moment that perhaps the men and women in Stirrington who were suspicious of him for being from London were right. He didn’t understand them as well as Roodle did, in all probability. Previously he had assumed it was an unenlightened and fearful sort of instinct in the locals, but maybe they knew their business. It was a depressing idea.

According to the Bible, though, all things pass under heaven, and despite Lenox’s doubts that it would, the supper eventually did, too. Mrs. Reeve offered him a few words of consolation as he parted, but he returned to the Queen’s Arms in a foul mood.

The place was humming, voices and laughter mingling in the eaves of the ancient building. It was warm inside, and whether from that or from drink, nearly all of the patrons at the bar and at the tables were red faced. Crook was dispensing pints at a rapid rate but paused to greet Lenox.

“How was it?” he asked, shaking hands.

“Rather like hell,” said Lenox.

Crook laughed. “I’m afraid we let you in for it. Mrs. Reeve keeps a mixed company—politically, I mean to say. Anyway, now they’ve vetted you, whether they like you or not. You must trust me that it was important.”

“I do,” said Lenox.

“We didn’t want to warn you—felt you might do a runner.”

“I’m not some skittish pony,” said Lenox irritably.

“There, there,” said Crook with another expansive laugh. “How about a pint of ale on the house?”

“It wouldn’t go amiss, I suppose. Thanks.”

Crook drew the dark, golden liquid into a pewter pot and slid it across the bar to Lenox. “There you are,” he said. “Cures what ails you.”

“Have you seen Graham?” asked the detective after a long pull at the drink.

“He accepted an invitation to supper as well, just after you left. A few men were off to a chop house and brought him.”

“He’s been valuable, has he?” asked Lenox.

Crook nodded. “To be sure.”

“What do you think our next set of handbills should be?”

“You didn’t like the last ones? The five promises, Mr. Lenox?”

“I do like them, but I worry that Roodle’s signs are more direct, more effective.”

“
Vote Roodle—Vote Your Own,
you mean?”

“Hm.”

“How about
Vote Lenox—Vote Your Wallet
?” said Crook.

“I like that. Or
Vote Lenox—Vote Your Interest
.”

“Folks care more about their wallets than their interests, I reckon.”

“
Vote Lenox—Lower Roodle’s Beer Tax
.”

“That’s much better. Roodle will hate it.”

“It’s not quite his, is it?” said Lenox.

“It don’t do to be too fine in politics.”

“No,” Lenox said with a smile.

“We’ll print a few hundred more of the five promises and add in some of the more blunt handbills, then?”

“Glad it’s decided.”

“You’ll need to go back to the printers in the morning.”

“Graham can do it.”

“I’ll think about it overnight, see what I can come up with. I like
Lower Roodle’s Beer Tax,
though.”

“So do I,” said Lenox.

“We’ll call it settled, then.”

“And tomorrow?”

“A speech at the theater. That will be crucial. In two days’ time you have the debate, of course. The debate will be crucial, too, Mr. Lenox.”

“I debated at Harrow.”

“Sir?”

“At school.”

Suddenly the gap between them was tangible; perhaps only to Lenox, after his long supper. Talking politics leveled their perspectives, however, and he was glad to have work in front of him.

“Then you’ll do well,” said Crook. “Johnson, another half of stout?” He flew off down the bar.

Lenox stood and realized that he was bone tired. It had been the longest two days he could remember; all he wanted was sleep.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

I

n the morning there was a telegram from Dallington. Lenox had had his breakfast with Crook and Nettie and was again in his room, eating an apple, when Graham brought it in. It was the first Lenox had seen of him since the night before.

“How was dinner with the lads?” he asked.

“Productive, I hope, sir.”

Good. “Thank you.”

Graham nodded and withdrew. Lenox tore open the telegram and read it with curiosity.

EYEWITNESS PLACES SMALLS AT PIERCE HOUSE AT TIME OF
MURDER STOP WIDOW IN HOUSE ACROSS LANE STOP SMALLS
WALKED UP TO HOUSE RAN AWAY MOMENTS LATER STOP
IMPOSSIBLE TO SEE DOORWAY FROM WINDOW ONLY STREET
BUT MAN SHE SAW MATCHES STOP SEE EVENING PAPERS STOP
HOPE IT HELPS STOP GOOD LUCK THERE STOP DALLINGTON

Dallington was profligate in his style of telegram, but on this occasion Lenox was glad. It was confirmation of what that coded letter to Smalls had already implied, but, he hoped, more conclusive. Unfortunately it drew the noose a little tighter around Gerald Poole’s neck. With a guilty start Lenox crumpled the paper and threw it into the wastepaper basket. He took a final bite of his apple and tossed the core on top of the telegram. With a moody sigh he stood up. Another day of campaigning.

The speech at the theater went moderately well. It was on the opposite side of Stirrington and drew a different crowd than his speech in Sawyer Park had. There were a few lively questions afterward, which Lenox parried as well as he could, and encouragingly several men stopped by the stage to meet the candidate and promise him their vote. Two of these men asked to be remembered to Graham, and Lenox silently marveled at the man’s energy. He seemed to have met more people in Stirrington in twenty-four hours than Lenox had in a week. Another gentleman, though, came up and with a rude smirk vowed that only Roodle could possibly win the hearts of his “local brethren.” A prominent abstinence pin on the man’s chest meant he probably didn’t care about the beer tax.

“Only a handful of days to go now,” said Crook. “The debate tomorrow is important.”

“Have we got the new handbills yet?”

The bartender shook his head. “He’s working all night. We should have them in the morning. They’ll work a treat, I reckon.”

“I hope so.”

“Roodle’s had a bad day, too.”

“How so?”

“He gave a speech and didn’t get much of a crowd. Those who did go were all being paid. You’re more of a novelty, it would seem.”

“Whether that bodes well for election day is anyone’s guess. Novelty wears off.”

Crook shrugged. “If the novelty gets them in the door, it’s up to you to get them to your side of things.”

“True enough.”

As Dallington had directed him to do, Lenox took in all of the evening papers and looked at them, but the news of Smalls’s guilt had yet to reach Durham and the north, and he had to content himself with rehashed stories from the papers he had read on the train that morning. It was dreadful to be beyond the reach of information—how he depended on it, how vital it seemed when he couldn’t have it!

One of the evening papers had an article that caught Lenox’s eye. It was about George Barnard—Lady Jane’s former suitor, the Royal Mint’s former Master, and Lenox’s bête noire. The thief of—Lenox was certain—nearly twenty thousand pounds from the mint. Apparently Barnard was on a tour of French foundries, in preparation for a report to Parliament. Shaking his head with disgust, Lenox thought of all the crimes he had proved Barnard guilty of—though only to his own satisfaction. The evidence was too tenuous for the courts, but Lenox recognized the same hand behind various thefts and shakedowns, many of them in connection with the Hammer Gang. What was he doing up here in Stirrington, he wondered doubtfully. Wasn’t his place among the criminals of London? At Gerry Poole’s side? Investigating George Barnard, as he had off and on for a year? Was it simply vanity, this candidacy?

No—he wanted to make a difference. He must remember that. It would be crucial to have the confidence of his beliefs the next afternoon at the debate.

It was about ten thirty now, and the Queen’s Arms was packed. Every ninety seconds or so the bell over the door signaled another entrance or departure, more often the former than the latter. The line to get drinks at the bar was three or four men deep, and the high chatter of voices was more like silence than noise, so used had everyone inside become to it. Crook was sweating and red, his agile hands flying up and down the taps. The lad who washed dishes was running to and fro with dirty and fresh pint pots.

Then there was another ring of the bell, and when a man entered all of the commotion stopped. Silence.

It was Roodle.

His eyes scanned the room. “Mr. Lenox,” he said when his eyes lit on the Liberal candidate. “May I have a private word with you?”

“If you wish,” said Lenox gamely.

“Perhaps you would consent to visit the Royal Oak, down the street, with me?”

“Terrible place, that,” said a voice in the silence.

“Terrible beer, too,” said another.

There were snickers all over the room. The Royal Oak was a Roodle pub, which served Roodle beer.

“After you,” said Lenox, putting down his newspaper.

They left and walked the short way to Roodle’s pub without speaking.

Compared to the Queen’s Arms, the Royal Oak was an entirely different kind of place. The lights were dim, and under them morose patrons sat singly and doubly, nursing their beers. Its charm lay perhaps in its quiet nature; it lacked the slightly rowdy good cheer of Crook’s bar.

“Well? What can I get you?” Roodle asked.

“Nothing, thanks.”

“It’s free, you know.”

Lenox smiled. “That certainly is an inducement,” he said, “but I don’t want a drink.”

Roodle ordered a pint of stout, and the barman skipped over two customers to deliver it. That attempt at ingratiation failed, however; the brewer chastised his employee and told him to give the two customers free half-pints. He then led a bemused Lenox to a table in the back, next to a cobblestone wall.

“You know why I asked you here, Mr. Lenox?”

“On the contrary, I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“You ought to leave the race.”

At this Lenox laughed outright, though he knew he ought not to. “Why, pray tell, should I so gratify you?”

In a sudden passion, Roodle said, “Is it dignified for a detective to seek a seat in Parliament? For a Londoner to visit a town he has never seen and compete against a candidate with roots there? Is it dignified for you to seek the seat of Stoke, whose family has been here for generations? No, it is not. It is not.”

Lenox was no longer smiling. For a moment there was tense silence.

“My party has seen fit to let me stand here,” he answered at length, “and I can pay my bills. Your opinion of my profession is your concern, but I will answer for it to any man in the world. As for my being a Londoner—seeking Stoke’s seat—that is the politics we have, Mr. Roodle. Whether we think it ideal or not, it is the politics we have, and by which we must abide.”

“A gentleman’s code stands above politics.”

This whipped Lenox into a lather. With all the restraint he could muster, he said, “Let us each define what a gentleman’s code is for ourselves, Mr. Roodle. I am at ease with my own definition.”

“You ought to leave,” muttered Roodle.

“Yet I shan’t.”

“I come to you civilly with that request, sir.”

“On the contrary, you have insulted my profession, questioned my honor, and attempted to bully me.”

Roodle glared. His heaviness had not obscured his sharp, intelligent face. “Then we are at an impasse,” he said. “I take my leave of you.”

He left the pub by the front door, his pint standing untouched on the table, and after a moment Lenox stood and followed him through the door. Suddenly he remembered why he was running for Parliament, and it seemed important again to him—as important as any murder—to keep small-minded men away from the nation’s big decisions. He walked back to the Queen’s Arms feeling a renewed determination.