“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
In 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 ob
scured 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.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The prior evening’s London papers arrived the next morning, bringing Lenox in fuller detail the news Dallington had relayed to him by telegram. He was breakfasting in his room on eggs, bacon, and dark tea, and between practicing snatches of dialogue for the debate he ran his eye over the news.
A letter came up the stairs; he recognized Jane’s handwriting on the envelope. It read:
Charles —
How wonderful to know that your foot fell somewhere in London again yesterday. You left this morning, and already I miss you. Your house, though you couldn’t know it, looks quite desolate when you aren’t there.
There is only one piece of news to relate to you — Thomas and Toto have made up, and Thomas is living in their house again. Needless to say I am relieved. It happened in a roundabout way. I was in Toto’s bedroom when the card of a gentleman named Dr. Mark Lucas came up. The doctor was waiting downstairs and said he arrived on medical business. Toto was disinclined to admit him (her mood has been a little happier in the past day or two, but she still has black stretches of time; I wish for her above all an occupation) until he said he came at the behest of Thomas. She asked I stay but consented to see him.
He was a strange little man, but quite evidently proficient. He asked poor Toto, who seems to have seen every doctor London could dredge up, an exhaustive series of questions about her diet, her pregnancy, her habits, and every other thing under the sun. At last he said, “In my medical opinion no doctor could have predicted your misfortune. Not even one in daily contact with you.”
“Does that change anything?”
“Not even Dr. McConnell,” he said with a significant glance.
Toto groaned. “That fool,” she said. “Does he think I blame him?”
“I’ve offered my opinion,” he said.
About half an hour later Thomas came in, as formally as you like, and though I left the room they soon called me back again. Neither looked happy but both quite relieved, and some of the anxiety of Toto’s face was gone, thankfully. I agree with her — what a fool. It is for the best, of course. I am glad of it.
James Hilary was at the duchess’s last night. He is full of excited plans for your political career. I told him it was all the same to me whether you were Prime Minister or a pauper, which he frowned at and couldn’t agree with at all. Still, it is true.
I send this by fastest post, that it may carry my love to you all the more quickly. Please know me to be your very own,
Jane
Lenox folded the two sheets of paper carefully (two sheets — since one paid by the sheet, this was an extravagance) and put them on his dresser with a contented sigh.
Graham, who had brought the letter in and then gone out, knocked at the door again and entered.
“You have an uncanny ability to know when I finish letters,” said Lenox.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Is there something else?”
“I came to ask whether you require any assistance in your preparations for the debate, sir.”
“How do you mean?”
“I could play Roodle, for instance, sir, or simply pose questions to you.”
“Do you think you know Roodle well enough?”
“My new… acquaintances have thoroughly briefed me on his character and tactics, to be sure.”
“He gave away his hand a bit last night.” Lenox described Roodle’s visit to the Queen’s Arms and the two men’s subsequent meeting. “Well, let’s give it a try. You be Roodle. Shame we don’t have a moderator, but we can either of us offer the subject of discussion.”
So the two men sat for above two hours, practicing. Now, Lenox considered Graham a member of his family and would have done anything in the world for him, but by the time they were finished he comprehensively disliked the man. His insinuating manner and obnoxious insistence on Lenox’s London background were irritating beyond all reason. Still — Lenox was better prepared than he had been that morning. His soul was a little lighter, too, now that he knew Toto and Thomas were on the mend.
Soon Sandy Smith showed up, dancing a little jig of nervousness, and Lenox slowly and neatly dressed, with Graham’s discerning aid.
“The debate is at the Guild Hall,” said Smith as Lenox put a tie on.
It was a tie from the local grammar school, in what the shop there had referred to as “Stirrington purple and gray.” He fleetingly hoped it would be recognized, only to think how silly politics could be.
“Oh, yes?” Lenox said.
“It’s important to speak calmly and evenly, Mr. Lenox, because a loud noise will do funny things up among the rafters.”
“Yes?”
“At the Christmas play last year — we did The Cricket on the Hearth — the director barked orders from the wings all night long, and we could hear every word he said. It was a disaster.”
“All right.”
“A disaster!” said Smith fervently. “Now, the year before that, it was a wonderful show — everyone spoke evenly and calmly — there was a little girl in the lead, and she was —”
Lenox, though he considered himself broad-minded about regional theater, was impatient. “Evenly, calmly, yes, yes.”
“Well — exactly,” said Smith. “If you raise your voice in anger, the building turns it into a kind of squeal.”
“Thank you,” said Lenox.
“More ridiculous than impressive, you see.”
Graham, who had popped out to freshen his own attire, came back now. “I neglected to mention, sir, that there are several gentlemen in the audience who are prepared to offer gentle questions during the final period of the debate.”
“Excellent,” said Smith.
“Of what nature?” asked Lenox.
He was cut off by a knock on the door. It was one of the lads who cleared dishes about the place.
“Telegram, sir,” he said.
Lenox gave the boy a coin and took the paper, expecting it to be another missive from Dallington. Instead it was from Inspector Jenkins.
Lenox blanched when he read it. Then he scanned his eyes over it twice more. “Christ,” he muttered.
“Sir?” said Graham.
“Mr. Lenox?”
It was to Graham that the detective looked. “Christ,” he said again.
“What is it, sir?”
“Exeter has been shot. He’s not dead, but he’s close.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Half an hour later all three men were at the Guild Hall. Lenox, shaken but determined, was trying his best to concentrate. Crook arrived. All four of them now looked around the hall.
“Adlington,” said Smith, and Crook nodded knowingly.
Adlington was apparently officiating the debate, and Lenox already knew him to be an important personage: the mayor of Stirrington.
Now here was a grand figure. As the crowd filed into the hall he sat at the center of the stage in a dignified manner, with a look that showed his abstraction from the petty cares of the world. Years of diligent work at the dinner table had earned him a shape more akin to a small building than to any of his fellow men. He had a proud paisley waistcoat stretched taut across his girth, and strung along it was a (by necessity) very long gold watch chain.
Crook leaned over to Lenox as they stood on the wings of the stage. “Do you know what the most important part of a public house is, Mr. Lenox?”
“What’s that?”
“The brass. Even more important than the beer, you know. Gives eve
rything that golden gleam, reflects the fire and the faces — makes it out of the normal, if you see my meaning. Not like home.”
Lenox smiled. “How interesting.”
Crook nodded. “Great man taught me that, you know. My Uncle Ned, who had the pub before me. Now, that watch chain on our gracious mayor — it serves a similar purpose. Adds to the dignity of the office, you see, to have ten yards of gold chain stretched across your belly.” Crook laughed loudly, and Lenox joined him. “I haven’t been called slim recently, but I could never hope to pull off that watch chain. It would hang down to my knees.”
Lenox was grateful to Crook for trying to lighten his mood, but butterflies still stirred in his belly and anxiety for Exeter, the fool, in his mind.
Exeter. For years Lenox had alternately aided and squabbled with the man. His bullheadedness had jeopardized more than one case, and his lack of imagination had made Lenox a necessary evil in his life. Half of the time he warned Lenox off, and the other half he came to see him hat in hand, asking for help. It was maddening.
Yet — Lenox couldn’t help but recall meeting Exeter’s small, quiet son, and the look of paternal love in the inspector’s eyes as he gazed at his lad. How painful it was to think of Exeter’s family now. His sins, in the end, had been mostly venial ones; a little too rough with a criminal now and then, obstinate about taking advice. He abused his power, too, but he wasn’t at heart a malicious man.
Furthermore, who on earth would be either stupid or brazen enough to shoot one of the most important figures in Scotland Yard? None of the gangs; they knew how to skirt attention and didn’t bother with the police when they could help it at all. Of course, Exeter had been working on the deaths of the two journalists. Standing beside Crook, watching the auditorium fill, Lenox felt a chill run down his spine. He was grateful to be here in Stirrington.
Lenox couldn’t help but think that a boy like Gerald Poole, full of years’ rage, would be more likely than anybody to lash out without regard for the consequences. Yet Dallington seemed so sure — and Poole so airy. Besides, Poole was behind bars.
The Fleet Street Murders clm-3 Page 14
