The Fleet Street Murders (5 page)

CHAPTER SIX

C

rook, it emerged, was a gloomy, blunt, and practical man; Lenox took to him straightaway. He was honest and fair and had a straightforward way of speaking that engendered in his listeners an instant trust. When that evening he introduced Lenox to the small circle of businessmen and shopkeepers who formed the local party committee, he didn’t heap praise on the detective’s head. He merely said that he thought they had a candidate who could ably replace Stoke, a candidate with sufficient funds to have his voice heard, a candidate willing to work hard, and a candidate who would be—beyond any doubt—a better representative of Stirrington’s interests in Parliament than Robert Roodle, the brewer and Conservative.

After they had returned from the printers that afternoon, Crook had described the situation. “Roodle’s not well liked here, and that’s what will matter most. There’re no strong feelings about you either way, but Roodle has alienated people in a number of ways. As soon as his brewery grew, he moved it out of Stirrington; he has a farm outside town and has been in a long legal battle with both of his neighbors; and whether it’s fair or not his father was known as the most tightfisted, intemperate sod in the county. He used to beat his horses and drove his wife like a donkey. Be that as it may, there’s no mistaking Roodle’s success. Half of Durham’s pubs are Roodle pubs. He also has one other great point, in local terms.”

“What’s that?” asked Hilary with some alarm.

“He’s from here. In the north we value our own, you see.”

Indeed, as they had walked that day about town Hilary and Lenox had seen numerous flyers on that subject. “Two weeks in Stirrington, or a lifetime? Who knows you better? Vote Roodle,” read one. “Vote your own—vote Roodle,” said another.

Lenox saw the fairness of the point. It was a strange political system that led to Hilary representing Liverpool, while the Liberal Party’s current leader in the House, William Gladstone, had grown up in Liverpool but for a long time represented Oxford, of all places. Still, he also believed that his platform would genuinely help the people of Stirrington more than Roodle’s, and he resented the negative, attacking nature of Roodle’s campaign. He was ready to fight.

Lenox’s own campaign handbills were, he thought, singularly effective; they advertised what they called his “Five Promises.” Crook had written it up, and Hilary (who was invaluable for this sort of task) had revised it. The only promise that both the printer and Crook had absolutely insisted upon keeping was for a lower tax on beer. This wasn’t self-interest, Crook rather defensively assured them, but the most important issue to many Stirringtonians.

Better still, Roodle was in a bind over the beer tax. He had vocally supported a lower beer tax for many years (as a brewer interested in selling as many pints as possible), but now he found himself on the wrong side of his party, and rather than alienate the aid he received from London he had switched positions. Crook felt this hypocrisy was important, if only to show how weak willed Roodle would be if elected.

At the committee meeting there was a great deal of detailed talk about Lenox’s schedule for the next several days; by this time he was faint with fatigue, however—Hilary was still impressively spry, but he was younger—and only half heard the plan for a series of speeches, a debate, a meeting with county officials, and visits to several dances, balls, and livestock auctions. The idea was to make Lenox as visible as possible to compensate for the short time he had in which to present his platform. Through all of this conversation Crook was a gentle but forceful guide. His authority was obvious.

At last Lenox was allowed to go to sleep. In his plain, quite clean room, which had a small warm grate near the bed, he drifted off into a grateful rest, so tired that he only for a passing moment worried about McConnell and Toto.

In the morning, to Lenox’s surprise, his coffee appeared via a familiar bearer; it was Graham.

“Thank goodness you’re here, Graham.”

“I arrived late last night, sir.”

“You’re not exhausted, I hope?”

“I slept very well, sir. May I ask how things have progressed here?”

“Very well, I think, though I’m pulled in five different directions at once.”

“Such is the nature of campaign life, sir, or so I have heard.”

“Indeed it is, Graham.” Lenox took a sip of coffee and instantly felt livelier. “Well, I’m prepared for the battle.”

“Excellent, sir.”

“I say, though, was there any news about those two gentlemen—about Pierce and Carruthers?”

“I brought yesterday evening’s papers with me, sir,” said Graham.

Lenox noticed a bundle under the butler’s arm. “Cheers.”

“I am afraid there is no new information, however. Mr. Hiram Smalls is still in custody. Inspector Exeter is widely quoted in the paper as saying the case is over.”

“Is he now? Insufferable, isn’t it,” he murmured as he glanced at the headlines.

“Will you eat breakfast here, sir?” Graham asked.

“Is the pub open?”

“Yes, sir. I ate there earlier and can heartily recommend the poached eggs.”

“Put in an order for me, would you? I’ll be down in twenty minutes. Plenty more of this, too,” said Lenox and raised his coffee cup.

“Yes, sir. May I draw your attention to the two letters on your nightstand, sir?”

There were a pair of white envelopes next to Lenox’s book. “Thanks,” he said.

“Thank you, sir,” said Graham and left.

Good to have him here, thought Lenox. It will make life much easier.

He took the first envelope, which he recognized as being on the heavy, cream-colored stationery of Lord John Dallington. The second, however, caught his eye, and he discarded Dallington’s note for it; inside was white paper ringed with pale blue. It was from Lady Jane.

Dear Charles,

I pray this finds you well. Thank you for your kind note, and Godspeed in Stirrington. I sit here at Toto’s side; under sedation she has lost all her good cheer and effervescence, and their absence does what their presence could not and makes me realize how much I had come to rely on them. Thomas handles himself badly, I’m afraid; and as I would only say to you. His concern for Toto is patent, and he harries the doctors with questions when they come in, but he has also been drinking. Toto instructs me during her coherent moments to bar him from the room, and he’s half mad at the exclusion, persuaded that these sorry circumstances are his fault. I try to mediate between them when I tactfully can, to soften words, but there is much I cannot do.

Charles, my mind is so full of doubt! Would that you were here beside me; then I might be at ease for twenty minutes together. I know we are hoping to marry in the summer, six months from now, but witnessing our two friends’ difficulties I wonder whether we might delay our union? Do we know that we won’t fall into the same traps? If there were days when I couldn’t stand the sight of you I don’t know that I could go on living.

I can hear your wise words from across England: that Toto and Thomas rushed into marriage; that we have long been friends; that our tempers are quieter than theirs; that our history and upbringing suit us to each other, as well as the content of our minds. Still, I cannot believe that it is right to marry so quickly upon the heels of your wonderful proposal (which I still count the happiest moment of my life, Charles). May we give it a year? Or longer? Please believe that this is written in love. From your own,

Jane

At the bottom in a hurried and untidy scrawl she had added:
I send this by Graham. Please don’t mistake my doubt for doubt in you, dear one
.

Lenox sat in his bed, dumbfounded. What surprised him more than the sentiment of the letter was its wavering fretfulness; for years Lady Jane had been so dependable, the person in his life he knew he could count on should all others desert him. It was out of character. He wondered if there was something more than she confessed to in the letter, to make her feel as she did.

As he was about to read it for a second time, there was a sharp rap at the door, and Hilary came in.

“Good morning, Lenox. Sorry to catch you waking up.”

“Oh—it’s quite all right, James, of course.”

“Your first speech is in forty minutes?”

“That’s right, yes.”

“Do you know what you’re going to say?”

“I’ll follow what Crook planned out for the handbills. There are a few words I wrote down after you came and asked me to run.”

“Good, good,” said Hilary.

“Is anything the matter? You seem nervous.”

“Well, Lenox, I’m afraid I have to return to London this afternoon.”

“What? Why?”

“There are committee meetings to be attended, and . . . that sort of thing.”

“But you knew your schedule when you came up.”

Hilary sat down and sighed. “I’m sorry to say it, old chap, but Roodle looks awfully strong here. I got a telegram requesting that I return, in response to my telegram sending them the numbers Crook had worked up of past votes. It’s the time, you see—because Stoke died we don’t have enough time.”

Lenox felt at a conversational disadvantage, lying in bed, and his heart plummeted. “How does Roodle look strong?”

“He’s spending as much money as you’ll be able to, which frankly we didn’t expect. He has a much higher name recognition—and, though it’s not your fault, and though people here feel respectful of old Stoke, they’re ready for a change.”

“How poor do you think my chances are?”

“If you fight hard, you might get within a few hundred votes of him. Then—who knows?”

“But the chances aren’t good enough for you to stay?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Hilary with a guilty look. “You know we’re friends, and in the SPQR club together, Lenox, but damn it—politics is a ruthless game, and we have to follow the momentum.”

“I see.”

Hilary looked pained. “If it were simply up to me, I would have stayed till the bitter end. You know the respect I entertain for you, Lenox.”

“Well,” said Lenox, unsure of what to say.

Hilary stood up. “I’ll be downstairs. Come,” he said encouragingly, “let’s give a fight. This morning will be a good start.”

Lenox sat in his bed and listened to the footfalls as Hilary walked downstairs. Uncertainty, suddenly, where all had seemed promising. Lady Jane’s letter was still in his hand.

CHAPTER SEVEN

I

t was a long slog of a day, his first full one in Stirrington. Hilary took the latest train back that he could, with another string of apologies for Lenox before he went. More hopefully, Crook said, “Never mind him. These London types are weak willed, when it comes to politics. There’s fighting left to be done.” Strangely, because Crook was so gloomy these words meant much more than they would have coming from a more sanguine character.

Walking around the town that evening, Lenox felt heartened. He had given four speeches that day; the first, before a handful of shopkeepers on the edge of town, had been a timorous, uncertain homily about the importance of lending one another a hand. The line he had concluded with, “Friends before treasure!” had earned him only a few disapproving stares, not the applause he had hoped for, and he only realized belatedly that the men in the crowd were primarily concerned with their treasure—of friends they had enough. He had gained confidence as he went, though, and having walked around Stirrington all day, he now recognized some of the faces and many of the shops he passed.

He stopped into a chop house and had a supper of lamb and wine, talking the whole while with several men at the bar. At first they were taciturn, but Lenox did have one gift as a politician, even though he hadn’t had time to develop more than a raw way about him—he could listen. He liked to listen, in fact. When these men found that one of the quality was interested in what they said, they found their voices. Primarily they talked about Roodle.

“Bleeding Robert Roodle,” said a thin and thin-voiced one, “I was workin’ in his brewery and lost my job.”

“Did you get another one?”

“Well—yes,” said the man, in that particular grudging way of the English, “but no thanks to ’im.”

Here a jollier fellow, who had introduced himself to Lenox as the local blacksmith, chimed in. “What’s worse was ’is father, ’e was. A reg’lar tyrant.” Then he braced himself for a long soliloquy. “The facts about Stirrington, sir, is that we here like hard work, we like our ale, we like our Sunday service, and we like promises kept. That’s the secret, Mr. Lenox. Don’t make promises you can’t keep; we’ll find you out, sir, we will.”

“We will,” agreed Roodle’s aggrieved former employee.

“Beer tax—you’ve made a good start, sir.”

“Aye, it’s true,” said several of the mute chorus who had been listening to the conversation as they ate.

“One other thing, Mr. Lenox—there’s nothing to be gained by attacking Roodle. Everyone here knows his faults, we know his virtues—for he
does
’ave ’em, Sam, and pipe down—and before anyone votes for you the people of this town will need to know yours.”

“Thank you, gentlemen,” said Lenox. “I hope I may count on your votes, at least?”

Not so fast
, their looks said, though they all nodded agreeably enough

Finally, after supper, Lenox had time to return to his room and write back to Lady Jane. He sat for some time at the small table at the window of his room; it overlooked a large vegetable garden, but all was dark now, and he felt wracked with doubt. Doubt about Jane herself—never. Doubt in himself. He finally wrote:

My Dearest Jane,

Even your doubtful letter was the sweetest part of my day because it came from you, but I cannot lie: These have been difficult hours in my life. Hilary returned almost instantly to London, expressing grave concerns about my chances here before he left. I have constant visions of Thomas and Toto in their sorrow and feel I have shirked my duty in leaving, whatever the purpose. I can’t help but think that the two deaths that I take it still dominate the papers there might have been cleared away under my eye. Yet of all this I feel most sorrowful that you should doubt our marriage in June.

Which is not to say that I do not understand, dearest Jane; for I have analyzed at greater length than you will have had leisure to my own faults, the defects in my character that would preclude me from making a happy marriage. In fact, I stated them to you before that (indeed happy!) moment when you accepted my offer.

Nonetheless, I have more confidence in my love for you than in all the rest of this doubtful world put together. My dearest hope, to which all my dreams and aspirations have been bent, is our joint happiness, which will begin in earnest when we marry. I hope that is in June, but I will wait as patiently as you like, unto the end of my days.

I cannot help but wish I were in London to speak with you in person and to gaze at your wise and serene face; all would be well then, I somehow believe. Until that blessed moment, believe me to be your most faithful and loving,

Charles

It was a sentimental letter, perhaps, but an honest one. After he had finally started writing it the words had come easily. He blotted the letter and didn’t read it over but simply sealed it in an envelope and left it on the small table in the hallway where residents of the inn could leave their letters to be sent.

Going back to his room, feeling somewhat restless, he happened to notice a slip of paper he must have missed coming in. Stooping to fetch it, he saw it was a note from Crook’s niece, Nettie, inviting him to have breakfast with them the next morning. Whether this missive came from Crook or the girl herself, he was grateful for it, alone as he was in this strange town.

The next morning he presented himself at the door of the small house adjoining the Queen’s Arms, a charming and tidily kept place. A very young maid, not past fourteen, answered the door and took Lenox into a sitting room that was perhaps over-furnished with examples of needlework, with small and amateurish watercolors—in other words, the sitting room of a young woman who spent much time alone and whose diversions were all, or nearly all, of her own making.

Nettie Crook came in at the same moment Lenox sat down. She was a plain girl but with a healthy look about her, and he was surprised she remained unmarried. She could not be below twenty-five years of age. It was entirely proper for them to be alone together—she was evidently the woman of the house—but Lenox rather wished her uncle had been there to introduce them.

“How do you do, Mr. Lenox? I’m so pleased you could come.”

“Thank you, thank you, Miss Crook. I was pleased to receive your invitation.”

“How do you find Stirrington, if I may ask?”

“Altogether charming, Miss Crook. I would have preferred to view it at a more leisurely pace, but it has been pleasant nonetheless.”

“My uncle will arrive downstairs in only a moment or two.”

Lenox nodded graciously. Here was an odd situation, he thought; although he gazed on the strictures of class with a more critical eye than many he knew, it was plain that two people of very different rank were about to dine together. He liked Crook, liked Nettie, too, for that matter, but he hoped it wouldn’t be awkward.

In fact, it was not. To Lenox’s shock, the glum, agile proprietor of the pub, the shrewd political leader, was at home as soft as warm butter. The reason was Nettie.

“Have you observed my niece’s watercolors?” was the first thing he asked Lenox after they exchanged civilities.

It was extraordinary. The man’s face, which in the bar was screwed into an impassive and calculating glare, was now softened by emotion. He looked his age.

“I have,” said Lenox, “and cannot recall a more interesting view of that famous clock tower that I’ve seen in all my brief time here.”

“Tell him about the clock tower, dear heart,” said Crook with great complacency.

“Uncle,” Nettie chidingly answered.

“Pray, do tell me,” said Lenox.

They had moved by now to a small breakfast nook, which just managed to fit three (though it would have been perfect for two), and she put eggs on his plate.

“I was once very late in running my errands,” she said, “so late I feared I would miss supper.”

“Miss supper,” Crook echoed softly, gazing with pure love up at his niece.

“I’m generally inside at that hour, of course, but I happened to be in such a rush that I stumbled—and as I stood up saw the clock hanging just between two houses. It was so beautiful, Mr. Lenox, you could scarcely credit! Well, the next evening I went out and drew a few sketches of it—art is a hobby of mine—and then completed the work you see.”

Now, as stories go, Lenox acknowledged to himself, this wasn’t
much
of one. Yet through it all Crook looked as enthralled as Thucydides listening to Herodotus in the town square.

“My brother, Nettie’s father, was a fine chap,” said Crook, “but died fighting the Russians.”

“In the Crimea?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so. That would have been 1855, eleven years since. I took her in as a teenager, and she has been my sunshine ever since.”

“Uncle,” said Nettie again in an undertone. “My mother died in childbirth, Mr. Lenox.”

“I’m terribly sorry to hear it.”

“It was a shame,” Crook said. The bell chimed behind him. “Blimey—already? All right, dear, give us a kiss.”

This received, he took a great ring of keys from his wallet and left with a scant word of good-bye, already, perhaps, the grim and reliable publican that Stirrington knew.

Lenox was finishing his food when the young girl came in. “Pardon,” she said, “but there’s a visitor at the inn, sir.”

“Who is it, Lucy?” asked Nettie.

“I’ve never seen him, ma’am. A gentleman. I’m afraid he’s—” Here she stopped.

“Yes?”

“Well—been drinking, mum.”

Lenox had a sinking feeling in his heart. “What’s his name?”

“He said to tell you, ‘It’s McConnell, the poor sod,’ sir. He said you’d know what that means.”