The Fleet Street Murders

by Charles Finch

  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.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  T

  homas and Toto McConnell lived in one of London’s grandest houses, her parents’ wealth visible in every aspect of it—everything new or just replaced, everything shiny and fresh. It had a ballroom, where McConnell played solitary games of horse less polo, and more bedrooms than they could ever use. These must have seemed a bitter reproach to Toto, who hadn’t yet filled them with the festive decorations of childhood though her entire family expected her to.

  Lenox sighed as his carriage stopped. It was near dark, and the flickering candlelight in the windows felt gloomy. All the banal ornaments of sorrow sat upon the house. The stoop and sidewalk were dingy, unswept, the servants having more serious charges than cleanliness for once. Or congregating in corners to whisper, just as likely. There was a black crepe sash over the knocker, though that sign of gentility was at Toto’s house usually pink or white. The black, color of mourning, warned visitors away perhaps. Curtains were pulled shut over the window of the McConnells’ bedroom.

  Lenox knocked at the door, and duly Shreve came to answer.

  Now, Shreve was by general consent the most depressing butler in all of London, a present to the newlyweds from Toto’s father. He was surpassingly tactful and skillful in the discharge of his duties but in personality couldn’t have been more different than the effervescent and eternally happy Toto. Saying hello, Lenox thought that perhaps Shreve ought to have seemed an oppressive figure in this now sorrowful house but that in fact he was some comfort. Strange. He only hoped Toto felt so, too.

  “I’m here to see Mrs. McConnell,” said Lenox, handing over his hat and coat.

  “Please follow me, sir.”

  He led Lenox down the front hall and to a large, well-appointed sitting room. Nobody was in it.

  “May I bring you anything to eat or drink while you wait, Mr. Lenox?” asked Shreve in his gloomy baritone.

  “Thanks, no. Is she up and about?”

  “At certain hours of the day, sir. Excuse me, please.”

  Shreve left, and without much interest Lenox picked up a copy of Punch that sat on a nearby table. He leafed through it, preoccupied—both by his concern for the McConnells and by that note Smalls had taken to jail. He had truly believed Mrs. Smalls’s protestation of innocence, but was it possible that both Poole and Smalls were innocent of all wrongdoing? On the other hand, Smalls had a criminal background of some kind, though it was obscure what his specific crimes might be.

  “My lady will be down shortly,” said Shreve, jerking Lenox out of his daydream.

  “Thank you, thank you,” he said. “Shreve, has Mr. McConnell been home today?”

  “No, sir,” said the butler with a slight tone of rebuke. It was an intrusive question.

  “Thank you.”

  At length Toto came into the room. Lenox rose to meet her and with a chaste kiss led her
to the sofa he had been sitting upon.

  “My dearest Toto,” he said, “I’m so sorry I left London when I did.”

  “I understand,” she said in a quiet voice. “Thank you for coming to see me now.”

  “Of course. Has Jane been here since this morning?”

  “She just left.”

  “I hope she has comforted you.”

  “She is so—so good,” said Toto, and a sob caught in her throat before she could compose herself.

  She did not wear the traditional black but a dark blue dress that was unlike her usual clothes, colorful as they were. Her face was somber and not in the least frantic, as if the hours of manic anxiety had passed and left one encompassing, mountainous feeling behind: grief.

  “I saw Thomas this morning,” Lenox said. “He’s helping me. Those two journalists who died.”

  “Oh, yes?” she asked coldly.

  “He is—may I speak plainly, Toto?”

  “I would ask that we discuss another subject.”

  “Ah,” said Lenox, nonplussed.

  A silence.

  “How do you feel?” he asked.

  “I think my health has returned,” she said. Her voice was still so terribly cold. It was jarring, when he was so used to her good spirits lifting his. “Thank you.”

  It was as if she had decided Lenox belonged to McConnell’s camp, Jane to her own. Some barrier had gone up between them, after years of the closest intimacy. He didn’t know quite how to break through to her.

  He sighed. “I came here for two reasons.”

  “Oh, yes?” she said, without any apparent interest in this piece of information.

  “I was worried about you, of course.”

  Here she softened slightly. “Thank you, Charles.”

  “I also need advice.”

  “Do you? Thomas can’t help you?”

  He waved a hand impatiently. “Not like that,” he said. “It’s about Jane.”

  “Oh?”

  “About our wedding. You know I’m fond of travel, perhaps?”

  “I do know that, Charles.” The roll of her eyes as she said this was the first glimpse of the Toto Lenox knew.

  Indeed, it might have been a rhetorical question. Travel was one of Lenox’s great passions, and he spent much of his leisure time planning elaborate trips to far-off lands—the Middle East, Asia, the Americas. Sadly, these trips (which always included Graham) remained largely theoretical. True, he had spent a blissful two weeks in Russia some years earlier, and after Oxford had toured Italy and France, but every time he was on the verge of leaving London nowadays something interrupted his plans. Usually a case, which he could never resist. Nonetheless, he was an enthusiastic member of the Travellers’ Club, whose charter decreed that all its members should have traveled at least five hundred miles in a straight line from Piccadilly Circus, and a frequent patron of several mapmakers, purveyors of durable luggage, and travel agents.