markets condescended to quote their price for a single orange to the various papers, and all agreed one could not be had for less than a shilling, the price of several meals. As was customary for prisoners, the pub extended no credit. Where, then, did Hiram Smalls get his coin — not to mention his nerve?
There were a few quotes from Inspector Exeter about the case. When the press urged him to explain how Hiram Smalls might have killed two men on opposite sides of town at once, Exeter said that the Yard wasn’t ruling out the possibility of a conspiracy between Smalls and several of his local associates. A gang, then, the press very naturally inquired? Possibly a gang, Exeter allowed, though we cannot say more. Did gangs not sometimes have rich or even aristocratic chieftains? Yes, said Exeter. However, it was evident that Smalls was either the sole mover or the leader of a conspiracy — such was clear from interrogation of the prisoner, canvassing of the eyewitnesses, and one particular piece of shocking evidence.
This piece of evidence was that Smalls and Carruthers’s maid, Martha, had unquestionably met and conversed within the last month. There were a dozen eyewitnesses who could place them at the Gun pub off of Liverpool Street, including one who happened to know both of them — Hiram from nearby Bethnal Green and Martha because the gentleman made deliveries to Winston Carruthers.
All this Lenox learned from yesterday’s papers.
Morning speeches given, he returned at two o’clock in the afternoon to find McConnell at a front table in the pub, gazing with a melancholy air through the small window he sat by. A glass of Scotch whisky sat before him, untouched. He stood up when he saw the detective.
“Lenox,” he said. “How can I apologize?”
“You’ve had a difficult week,” said Lenox.
“I had some wild idea of helping you with the campaign, being of some — of some goddamn
Lenox noticed McConnell’s hand trembling slightly, whether from nerves or drink. “Thomas, you must allow yourself to grieve,” he said. “You’re not at fault.”
Dismissively, the doctor responded, “Lenox, you —”
“Thomas — you’re not at fault.”
Lenox held McConnell’s gaze until the latter looked away. “At any rate,” he said.
“How is Toto’s health?” inquired Lenox in a neutral tone.
“She’s recuperating. Jane is with her.”
“How long will she require rest?”
“She can move already, but her doctor told me that she must first calm her nerves.”
“Of course.”
“It was a fluke, he also said.”
“Of course it was, Thomas. Nobody could have predicted it.”
“Well — be that as it may.”
“Nobody could have predicted it!” said Lenox, driven to a high tone. “Has it occurred to you that Toto asked you to leave because
McConnell looked chastened. “Do you think so?”
“I know it’s not because she blames you.”
“Well — thank you, Charles. Excuse me for arriving in that — in that state.”
The tension in Lenox’s face relaxed slightly. “I’m pleased to have you here. Lord knows I need help.”
“I hope I can work on your behalf.”
“I’m running against a brewer. Roodle, his name is. Apparently not well liked, but the local attitude seems to run along devil-you-know lines.”
“Have you any chance?”
“Not a week ago the men who proposed I run were optimistic. Giddily optimistic, even; but Stoke’s death has lengthened my odds considerably.”
“Did you see the
“No, what?”
“They ran a small piece about you and Hilary leaving in the dead of night.”
“How funny!”
“It referred to you as — let me remember — as ‘Charles Lenox, notable for his successful intervention in the infamous murder of Bill Dabney and the disappearance of George Payson, as well as the final capture of the so- called September Society.’ In the clubs there was quite a buzz about your campaign.”
“What did people think?”
“That it was celebrity chasing by the Liberals, I’m afraid. Those who knew you emphasized your long interest in politics, but the general opinion was derisive, unfortunately.”
“I’ve dealt with worse, of course.”
Lenox saw McConnell eye the Scotch whisky. At that moment Lucy, the energetic waitress, sailed by. “Eating, Mr. Lenox?”
“I’d love something. Whatever looks good,” he said.
“Straightaway.”
“Is there much talk of Pierce and Carruthers?” asked Lenox.
“Well — you’ll understand I haven’t been lazing about Pall Mall. I only went by my club yesterday afternoon to escape the house. I do know Shreve” — this was the McConnells’ funereal and corpulent butler — “has been censoring a great deal of below-stairs gossip. I can’t imagine there’s any more tact evident in the high houses.”
Lenox laughed. “Of course not. Oh — I say, McConnell, would you mind if I was rude for a moment? I’ve been carrying this letter about with me all day looking for a moment to read it.”
McConnell acceded with a wan nod. It was the letter from Lord John Dallington, who for the space of four months or so had been filling an awkward and new role; he was Lenox’s apprentice.
It was a strange fit. Dallington was well known in London as a dissolute and disheveled, if charming, scion of the aristocracy and the eternal worry and disappointment of the Duke and Duchess of Marchmain, whose youngest son he was. The duchess was one of Lady Jane’s very closest friends, and so for years Lenox had known Dallington without ever paying him undue attention. He was a short, trim, and handsome man, whose face was unblemished by his dissipation, dark eyed and dark haired, something of a dandy; a perfect carnation always sat in his buttonhole.
Most third sons of the aristocracy chose the military or the clergy, but Dallington, in part encouraged by his parents’ leniency, had repudiated these traditional paths and instead devoted the first years of his twenties to the Beargarden Club and pretty young girls. Then, shockingly, one day in September he had approached Lenox and requested an education in detective work. Lenox had warned the lad that it was a profession whose only rewards were internal, that it took dedication to work at a vocation held in such low esteem. Dallington pointed out that his own reputation was not high, and Lenox had taken him on. Since then, the lad had been surprisingly adept at his new work, and diligent besides, even if there had been several rocky moments. Those, though, were forgotten: Dallington had either saved Lenox’s life or come close to it, and their bond — indeed, their friendship — was now secure.
His letter was brief.
Lenox,
I once met Simon Pierce at a party — crashing bore. Nevertheless, one does feel a certain sorrow. Are you doing anything about this? I would like to help, if so. Hope you had a jolly Christmas and everything like that.
Dallington
This note raised in Lenox a sense of guilt, which combined with the poor chances of his campaign made him feel suddenly that his real place was on the trail of whoever had murdered the two London journalists, not here courting votes among people who had no affection for his presence.
