“I’ve promised Jane that I would decide on the itinerary of our honeymoon and surprise her with our destination on the day we left.”
“Charles,” said Toto with a scornful laugh, “she won’t want to go to India or somewhere dreadful like that!”
Lenox laughed, too. “Precisely. That’s why I need your help.”
“How can I help? You know the capitals of all the countries, and which rivers are where, and how many windmills are in Holland, and all the tiresome things I could never remember at school.”
Again he laughed. “I’m afraid none of that will do me any good in this situation. Therefore I propose that the two of us form a committee and choose the best spot for Jane’s honeymoon. I want it to be perfect, you see, and you know Jane as well as anyone.”
“That’s awfully sweet,” she murmured and seemed to favor him with a smile. “Perhaps Switzerland?”
Sternly, he said, “No, no, idle suggestions won’t do. I’ve brought several travel guides for you to look over, with watercolor drawings and picturesque descriptions and—I’m afraid—a very few facts. The sort of thing that drives me mad.”
He pointed to the parcel he had left on a nearby table.
“I love that kind of book!” she said.
“I know. That’s why we’ll make such good collaborators—I can look for train schedules while you look for beauty. Shall we meet the day after I next return from Stirrington?”
Perhaps it was the idea of a project, or because Lenox spoke so earnestly, but Toto laughed, a real, genuine laugh, and with far more animation than before said, “We shall call it an appointment, then.”
She stuck out her tiny hand, and with a show of solemnity Lenox shook it. “Thank you,” he said. “What a weight off my mind!”
“I warn you that I’m a slow study.”
“Where did you and Thomas go, remind me?”
The smile vanished from her face. “We went to Scotland and then to Paris,” she said.
“Ah. I recall now.” In an attempt to rectify the mistake of mentioning McConnell, he said, “Did you like it?”
“I loved it,” she said with emotion in her face. “It was the happiest I’ve ever been.”
It was easy to forget, Lenox thought, how in love they had been—how profoundly in love. McConnell’s manly, kind bearing, Toto’s enthusiasm and loveliness—how happy they had seemed! The thought disturbed him for some reason.
“At any rate, I know Jane has been to Paris half a dozen times, and even I managed to spend a few months there.”
She laughed, her goodwill reinstated. “I’m glad I can help you,” she said. “I’m so looking forward to the wedding.”
“As am I,” said Lenox. “In that case, I shall take my leave.”
She stood and accepted another kiss on her cheek. “Will you tell Jane—do you mean to see Jane?”
“Yes.”
“Will you tell her, just one more night, perhaps?”
She had been staying there, then. Poor Toto. “I certainly shall.”
“I said she needn’t bother, before—but—”
“I’ll tell her first thing,” Lenox said. “Of course.”
Some moments later he was out on the steps, and in the cold evening air he stopped and gazed at the horizon. It was pink and blue, and overlaying those colors a deepening violet, and seemed to reflect back to him all the sorrow that filled his heart, cheerful though he had tried to be. Poor, innocent Toto, he thought. For so long, even through her troubles with Thomas, she had been everything fresh, everything unblemished, everything pure. Now, no matter how well she recovered, that was gone. How various, he thought, are the punishments this world may inflict on us. He stepped with a burdened heart toward his carriage.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
E
ating supper with Lady Jane restored Lenox’s good cheer. His own dining room was low-slung and comfortable, with a casual air about it even when he had a dinner party; by contrast hers was a marvel both of grace and intimacy, with candles glowing along rosewood walls. To eat they had a hearty beef and vegetable stew, which Lady Jane knew was Lenox’s favorite autumn supper, and for dessert what had gradually come to be called Victoria sponge, after the queen—an airy cake with cream poured over it. Jane offered Lenox the wine she kept in for him, but he declined it. They spoke of every subject that occurred to them, ranging between old memories and new gossip, and by the end both felt that despite their separation all was again well in the world.
He had told her straightaway about Toto’s request that Jane return that evening, and she had ordered an overnight bag prepared. As a consequence there was less time to sit in the parlor after supper than either would have liked, but they were happy moments, Lady Jane quizzing Charles about Stirrington, Crook, and Roodle and expressing over and again her wish that she might visit him there.
Finally, as a gentle rain began to slope down over the city, she left.
“Good-bye, my love,” he said.
“Good-bye,” she answered and kissed him swiftly on the lips before he handed her into her carriage. “Be well there. Don’t worry, Charles. I know you worry.”
With that, he knew he wouldn’t see her for another fortnight.
He made the short walk back to his own house as slowly as he could, savoring the raindrops on his tired face. Indeed, on his steps he stood and smoked a pipe, looking up and down the small, tidy lane they lived upon. It saddened him. The trees, the shops, they were his own, and he hated to leave again. Especially without having solved the murders of Pierce and Carruthers. He had wasted his energy, perhaps, in returning—but it had been necessary.
Inside he found he had a visitor; it was Dallington, his feet up by the fire, chuckling over the same issue of Punch Lenox had inspected before seeing Toto.
“Hullo, old chap,” the young lord said and sprang to his feet with unnatural energy to shake hands.
Lenox shook hands and sat down heavily in his armchair. “How are you? Excitable, I see.”
“Well enough. You? You must be tired?”
“No, not tired. Uneasy.”
“Because of the case?”
“In part, anyway. Do you bring news?”
Dallington shrugged. “Nothing consequential, I’m afraid.”
“More’s the pity.”
“I spent much of the day wandering around Fleet Street, speaking to whomever I could find.”
“Yes?”
“I understand both of the men better now. The link between them—that’s difficult to say.”
“Other than Jonathan Poole.”
“Yes, other than that,” said Dallington. “Anyway, I know Gerald Poole didn’t do anything.”
“So you say,” Lenox answered slowly.
“So I know,” Dallington insisted, a flash of temper in his voice. “There was one interesting thing, however. About Carruthers.”
“Yes?”
“There’s a pub you may know on Fleet Street, called Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese?”
“I know it well,” said Lenox. “Dickens works there.”
“Exactly, has since he worked at the Morning Chronicle. Well, I checked in with the bartender there, a gent named Ransom, stout fellow with a red face and a great belly. Apparently Carruthers ate there every day.”
“Go on.”
“Buck rabbit, Ransom said. Can’t stand the stuff myself. All that cheese. In any event, according to Ransom it was well known up and down the street that Carruthers had his price.”
“What do you mean, exactly?”
“He accepted bribes. A few quid in his pocket and he would write an article or edit one, cut things from the paper, add things. Quite shamelessly, said Ransom.”
“Did you ask at the Daily Telegraph?”
“Oh, they were pretty indignant. Both men I spoke to would have thrown me out if I hadn’t taken a hasty leave of them.”
“Do you think it’s related to the case?”
“It’s something to kno
w, anyway.”
“That’s true. And Pierce?”
Dallington’s eyebrows furrowed. His handsome, open face looked healthier, as if he had recovered from his hangover and was the better for a day of hard work. “Quite to the contrary,” he said, “apparently Pierce was scrupulously honest. Many men had tried to bribe him, but he was untouchable. Religious, apparently.”
Lenox sighed. “This is all according to the knowledgeable Mr. Ransom?” he asked.
“Scoff if you will, but he was very specific about Carruthers’s misdeeds. Had all sorts of examples to give me. I had the feeling that he spent a lot of time eavesdropping on men in the newspaper business.”
“That’s true, I daresay.” Lenox stood up and walked to his desk. “Here’s the product of my day.” He handed Dallington the copy of the note Smalls had had in prison.
The younger man read it. “What does it mean?” he asked.
“I don’t have the faintest idea.”
“Still, there’s something about it.”
“I know,” Lenox murmured, taking the copy back. “It’s been on my mind ever since I read it.”
“At any rate—Carruthers bad, Pierce decent. That’s the bottom line.”
Lenox froze. “Wait a moment. Pierce.”
Peers.
“Lenox?”
“Wait, for pity’s sake.”
He studied the letter for thirty seconds, his face the picture of intense concentration. When at last he looked up, there was a small, twisted smile on his face. “That poor woman,” he said.
“Whom do you mean?”
“Mrs. Smalls. Hiram was guilty, I think. I feel sure, in fact. He killed Simon Pierce.”
“How do you know?”
Perhaps it had been the repetition of the name “Pierce” that had finally allowed Lenox to see what had been on his peripheral vision since he saw the note. He read the note with “peers” as a keyword, counting out its letters and words, until he realized that every fifth word of the middle paragraph held the message.
“Listen,” he said to Dallington. He read the note aloud:
Mr. Smalls—
The dogcarts pull away. I’ll see that Messrs. Jones get all the attention and care they need. For the others, George will rely on you and on your worthy peers.
No green.
“Well?”
Lenox handed him the note. “Try every fifth word—but only of the middle paragraph.”
Haltingly, Dallington read out, “I’ll—get—care—others—you—peers.” He shook his head. “It still doesn’t make any sense.”
“Think about it—‘care others’—Carruthers. ‘Peers’—Pierce. It says, ‘I’ll get Carruthers, you Pierce.’ Or am I mad?”
With dawning recognition, Dallington said, “No, you’re brilliant. Of course.”
“The names Jones and George distracted me,” said Lenox. “It’s a tidy little thing. I wonder how Smalls knew to sound it out.”
“And why he took it to prison,” said Dallington.
“That seems clear—to protect himself. He probably warned the author of the note that his effects included the letter.”
“The author believed in his code, though.”
“Exactly.”
“What of that last line—‘No green’?” asked Dallington.
“I’m not sure. It doesn’t appear to fit with the rest.”
“No,” said Lenox.
“Still, it’s a start. We may surmise Smalls killed Pierce.”
“Yes. I should say we might.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
T
he next morning Lenox woke early, with the sun not yet out and that pale white of dawn covering the sky, gray and blue mingled in silken layers behind it. The rain had stopped and left behind it a new cold, but the coals in the fireplace across the room were still orange. He lay under his covers, warm, drowsy, comfortable, for a few moments longer than he ought to have, savoring the sense of being inside his own home. It meant something—but Stirrington beckoned.
He dressed in a dark suit with a dark cloak and found that Mary had packed new clothes in a tidy overnight bag for him. Downstairs he had coffee, apple slices, and toast, a scoop of marmalade spread over the last. He thought of Jane and wished she were next door, or better yet next to him. He was melancholy, for some reason. An identical note to each of two men, Jenkins and Exeter, informing them of the previous night’s discovery, and he was prepared to leave.
Although there was a small surprise first—an early visitor. It was James Hilary.
“How do you do?” Lenox asked, answering the knock at the door himself. “I’m pleased to see you.”
The young Member of Parliament had a slightly awkward air about him, standing on Lenox’s stoop, but spoke plainly. “Are you?” he said. “I rather wondered whether you would be.”
“Because you left Stirrington?”
Hilary nodded.
Lenox shrugged. “I understood,” he said. “It wasn’t a personal decision.”
“That’s true, but nevertheless.”
“We’ve been friends for a while now, Hilary. It’s politics.”
“That’s good of you, Charles—but it was a bad decision.”
“Oh?”
“Apparently you’re pulling even in local support.”
“We worked hard after you left.”
“I heard about your encounter with Roodle,” said Hilary. “Sounds like you scored one off of him.”
“I had little taste for it, I confess,” said Lenox.
“You oughtn’t to have left, however.”
“I know Crook thought so, too.”
“I hope you don’t learn how precious time is in a county campaign too late.”
“I’m returning now,” said Lenox.
Hilary gave him a searching look. “You’ll stay? Scotland Yard can take care of themselves, you know.”
Lenox laughed. “Yes, I’ll stay,” he said. “I had to come down, James, I promise you I did, but I’ve scarcely been gone a full day, and I won’t leave again.”
Hilary nodded, apparently satisfied with this intelligence. For ten minutes he stayed and discussed strategy with Lenox, promised to keep close track of the election, and generally made himself agreeable in the way he knew how to.
The truth was that Lenox did feel slightly betrayed by Hilary, his friend; and yet when he thought of the man as a political associate rather than as a friend it seemed better. He saw Hilary away with a cordial smile, and as he put on his overcoat he had a small smile on his lips. Pulling even in local support, the phrase had been.
They would see; perhaps he might nose out Roodle in the end.
As the sun slipped over the horizon and burnished London gold, Lenox was stepping into his carriage, on the way to King’s Cross Station. As he rolled through the streets he silently contemplated his fellow men, those just setting out for their days and those just getting home from their nights—the aristocratic gamblers who were stumbling home in a daze, the elderly ladies who preferred Hyde Park at this unhurried hour, the deliverymen who gave these rich houses their milk and fruit and meat as the day began. A sense of his own inconsequence stole over Lenox. This rented world. He discovered that he did care about marrying Jane sooner rather than later. All he wanted was to be beside her, Parliament and Hiram Smalls both be damned. The low fire of love for her that always burned in his chest flared and filled him.
At the train station he sat at a café with a cup of coffee, his third of the morning, and read the Times. According to a lead column, Exeter had definitive proof that Smalls and Poole had acted in concert. “Inspector Exeter had already ascertained that Mr. Poole and Mr. Smalls met in the Saracen’s Head pub,” said the article, “but he now has further proof of their complicity. When reporters asked him to reveal the new information, Exeter said, ‘You’ll see, you’ll see.’ Speculation centers on some link between both men and the Belgian housekeeper employed by Winston Carruthers, Martha Claes,
whose whereabouts are currently unknown, with Scotland Yard eager to learn them.”
Lenox sighed. What proof could it possibly be?
Suddenly, across the vast expanse of King’s Cross Station, he heard a shout. It was coming from near the ticket booths.
“Lenox!” the voice shouted. “Lenox!”
Charles stood and turned, patting his pocket nervously to make sure his ticket was still there.
Then he saw who it was: Dallington. The young lad ran up to Lenox, people staring as he passed before they returned to whatever they had been doing.
“What on earth can it be?” asked Lenox. “How are you?”
“Quite well, quite well,” said Dallington breathlessly. “It’s Poole.”
“What happened?”
Dallington gulped the air, apparently unused to the exercise. “I didn’t think I’d catch you.”
“What happened to Poole?”
“The knife they found in the back of Carruthers’s neck? The long one?”
“Yes?”
“Poole bought it. It was Poole’s.”
“How do you know? How did you discover this?”
“Poole sent for me himself.”
“What are the details?”
“It’s a hunting knife with a red and black handle. Poole has always hunted and bought it three weeks ago.”
“Go on.”
The Fleet Street Murders Page 12
