The Fleet Street Murders

As Lenox was reading, McConnell knocked at the door and came in, looking fresher after his day’s rest but troubled nevertheless.

“Read this,” said the detective.

“Interesting,” said McConnell when he was finished. He handed it back. “What do you make of it?”

“Well — I wonder whether it was murder. If Exeter believes something, I always examine the opposite possibility.”

“Suicide?”

“Doesn’t it seem more likely than murder? Why murder Smalls if you were his partner? Wouldn’t it draw attention to you?”

“Of course,” said McConnell. “Hence the appearance of suicide.”

Lenox sighed. “You’re right, of course, and it’s easy enough to enter a prison if you wish to — those guards will look away for a price, no matter what you do. Only it seems so transparent. Still, there was always the risk of Smalls ratting out whomever he worked with.”

“Yes.”

“I wish I knew what ‘several torn bits of paper’ meant, exactly.” Lenox paused. “McConnell, how are you feeling?”

The doctor shrugged. “Well enough physically, I suppose. Full of regret as well.”

“I know you came all this way, but how about some work?”

To Lenox’s surprise, McConnell fairly leapt at the idea. “I would like that beyond anything.”

“It would be back in London.”

“About Smalls?”

“Yes — and to see if you could find any information others missed about Pierce and Carruthers, too.”

McConnell laughed. “I haven’t been here twenty-four hours,” he said.

In part Lenox was hoping a trip to London would force McConnell to see Toto, but he didn’t say that. “Still, I’m glad you came,” he said. “I felt terrible having to leave at the moment of your loss.”

“Does this mean you’re looking into the Fleet Street murders?”

“I suppose I shouldn’t. I shall have to stay here.”

“Yes,” said McConnell. “This is important.”

“Please let me know of your progress, however.”

“By telegram, yes.”

The two men, each unhappy in his own way — Lenox to be out of London and because of Lady Jane’s worries, McConnell for more profound and sorrowful reasons — sat for another moment and spoke. Then McConnell stood up and said he’d better pack.

Lenox rang for Graham then. He hadn’t seen his valet since that morning.

“Graham,” he said when the man appeared in the doorway, “take a look at this.” He passed over Dallington’s telegram.

“Yes, sir?” said Graham when he had finished reading it.

“Well? What do you make of it?”

“Are you inclined to believe it was murder, sir, as Inspector Exeter does?”

Lenox again expressed his ambivalence on the question.

“With so few facts, I suppose there’s little to speculate about, sir.”

“Yes,” said Lenox. “Wait, take this telegram to the post office, would you?”

Graham waited while Lenox wrote out a note to Dallington asking for more information.

“I guess we’re stuck here,” Lenox said as he handed the note over.

“Most certainly, sir,” said Graham somewhat severely.

“Oh, I know, I know. I’m curious, that’s all.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The next morning Sandy Smith picked Lenox up at the Queen’s Arms after breakfast, and they went again to see Mrs. Reeve. This time she was in.

McConnell had left by the early train, assuring Lenox that it would be a marvelous distraction to work and promising to give Lenox’s best to Toto and Lady Jane. (Especially Jane, wished Lenox in his silent heart.) Meanwhile Graham had asked Lenox what help he might be in the campaign, and Lenox asked him to take over the various forms of propaganda that candidates had usually found necessary in parliamentary campaigns: the printing of further handbills and flyers, the circulation of Lenox’s name by a new patron who stood everyone in the pub a pint, the quick word to servants and livery about the by-election. Lenox could think of nobody better suited to the job. He and Graham had for many years now been more friends than master and man, and he knew now that Graham had a particular talent for sliding into unfamiliar situations and earning quick friends and allies. He could speak deferentially to a (perceived) superior and confidentially to a (perceived) equal, and his good looks meant young women were often willing to listen to him.

“Plenty of beer,” said Lenox. “Hilary tells me that’s crucial in these matters.”

“Shall I state baldly that I represent you, sir?”

“I think probably. Your discretion shall dictate what you do, of course. Here are a few notes.”

As Smith, in his usual snug gray waistcoat and with his favorite gold watch bulging on one side, led Lenox to Mrs. Reeve’s, he advised the candidate what to say.

“Flattery is poison to her,” he said. “Equally, however, she’s always watching out for what might be an insult or condescension. Her back will be up because you’re from London. It works to your benefit, though, that you’ve gained some fame even here for that case.”

“The September Society business?”

“Yes, exactly. Mrs. Reeve rather collects celebrities, if you see what I mean.”

“I do, unfortunately. Who has she collected so far?”

Sandy Smith frowned, thinking. “Well, there was a lad who fell into a well and lived. An actor named Crummles who comes through sometimes and does a decent show. There are more, though I can’t think of them.”

“I’m honored to be in such company,” Lenox said with mock formality.

Smith laughed. “You’ll find her a strange woman, no doubt. Still, she’s sharp enough in her way, I can promise you.”

They arrived at her well-maintained house, which was white with two tidy gables, and the maid let them in, then guided them down a front hall and into a sitting room that seemed purposely designed as a kind of permanent salon for guests. There were small clusters of chairs and couches spread throughout the room, each centered around a sizable tea table; all of these bore tea rings and hot water stains, bespeaking long hours of intimate conversation. On the walls were a few portraits in black and white of what might be deemed “Olde Stirrington,” sentimentalized pictures of rural lanes and young couples in bygone churchyards. The largest of these pictures was of a blacksmith shop from some impossibly halcyon time, with a brawny man at the hammer and tongs and awed small children watching him, as a row of ducks passed in the foreground. All of it made Mrs. Reeve’s vision of the world very clear.

As for the woman herself: She sat on the largest of the sofas, perhaps because it was the only one that fit her, wearing a regal maroon gown the size of a ship’s sail and reading Dickens’s latest novel, Our Mutual Friend.

“How do you like it?” asked Lenox before they had been introduced.

“Have you read it, Mr. Lenox?” she asked in a low-pitched voice, one with more charm and power in it than he had expected.

“I have indeed.”

“It’s very black, I think — but funny, too.”

“They say he’s sick.”

“Mr. Dickens? I hope he lives forever, as long he can always write.”