The Fleet Street Murders

“How can you say so?”

Lenox explained McConnell’s hypothesis about the bootlaces and the second hook.

Jenkins shook his head, as if the enormity of his loss were sinking in. “For once Exeter has it all right,” he said.

“It’s maddening,” Lenox agreed, thinking of his meeting with Exeter some days before, when the inspector had assured Lenox the case was well in hand. Had lorded it over him, in fact.

Still, even if he was right about Smalls’s death he might be wrong about the man’s involvement. Or Poole’s, for that matter. Dallington seemed so sure of his friend’s character.

“I say, have you any ice?” Jenkins asked.

“Of course.” Lenox called for Mary. “Will you bring ice?” he said when she came. “And two more glasses of hot whisky.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How long is your suspension meant to be for?” Lenox asked when he and Jenkins were alone again.

“Two weeks, but Exeter has far more power than I do. Fighting him was damnably stupid.”

“Still, you’ll get a fair shake, won’t you?”

“I hope so. In point of fact, I was wrong to show Dr. McConnell those documents, but police inspectors generally have a fair amount of latitude. Exeter has chosen to follow the letter of the law in this one instance, despite breaking it a hundred times himself.”

“What do you think you’ll do?”

“I don’t know. Search for another job, I suppose. This is the only one I want.”

It pained Lenox. “I’m so sorry,” he said.

“I’m an adult,” said Jenkins. The ice and whisky came then, and he applied the first to his face and the second to his gullet, both liberally. “Anyway, there are always small-town jobs for the taking, even if you’ve left the Yard under a cloud. I rather fancy the South Coast. It’s beautiful, I’ve heard.”

“It is indeed,” said Lenox, “but we must keep you in London. May I speak to people on your behalf?”

“If you wish. I know you have friends in high places, of course, but you must remember that the Yard keeps to itself. We don’t generally abide the interference of others, be they ever so powerful in other spheres of life.”

“Of course,” said Lenox, although his mind had returned to the letter Hiram Smalls had carried with him into prison.

“It’s just the way of our profession, I’m afraid.”

“Wait here a moment — I’ve got use of your faculties even if Scotland Yard has disposed of them.”

“By all means,” said Jenkins stiffly.

The joke had fallen flat, and after an apologetic grimace, Lenox fetched his copy of Smalls’s letter.

“The dogcarts pull away,” Jenkins muttered. He read the rest to himself.

“What do you make of it?” Lenox asked when the other man had done.

“I don’t know. I’ve never had a knack for these codes. Unimaginative on the part of the criminal underclass, I’ve always felt. Been reading the penny bloods.”

Lenox laughed. “You’re right. Still, something about it bothers me. I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

“I wish I could help.”

“Well — thanks anyway.”

“Keep me apprised of any breaks in the case?” said Jenkins, standing up.

“I shall. Be of good cheer.”

“It’s difficult.”

“Exeter has moved hastily before, and it rarely ends up well for him. You’ll be back at work soon.”

“Perhaps,” said Jenkins and shook hands.

Lenox stood still for a moment, contemplating his friend’s unhappy fate, and then took a last sip of tea. He had another errand to run before his day was through.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Thomas and Toto McConnell lived in one of London’s grandest houses, her parents’ wealth visible in every aspect of it — everything new or just replaced, everything shiny and fresh. It had a ballroom, where McConnell played solitary games of horse less polo, and more bedrooms than they could ever use. These must have seemed a bitter reproach to Toto, who hadn’t yet filled them with the festive decorations of childhood though her entire family expected her to.

Lenox sighed as his carriage stopped. It was near dark, and the flickering candlelight in the windows felt gloomy. All the banal ornaments of sorrow sat upon the house. The stoop and sidewalk were dingy, unswept, the servants having more serious charges than cleanliness for once. Or congregating in corners to whisper, just as likely. There was a black crepe sash over the knocker, though that sign of gentility was at Toto’s house usually pink or white. The black, color of mourning, warned visitors away perhaps. Curtains were pulled shut over the window of the McConnells’ bedroom.

Lenox knocked at the door, and duly Shreve came to answer.

Now, Shreve was by general consent the most depressing butler in all of London, a present to the newlyweds from Toto’s father. He was surpassingly tactful and skillful in the discharge of his duties but in personality couldn’t have been more different than the effervescent and eternally happy Toto. Saying hello, Lenox thought that perhaps Shreve ought to have seemed an oppressive figure in this now sorrowful house but that in fact he was some comfort. Strange. He only hoped Toto felt so, too.

“I’m here to see Mrs. McConnell,” said Lenox, handing over his hat and coat.

“Please follow me, sir.”

He led Lenox down the front hall and to a large, well-appointed sitting room. Nobody was in it.

“May I bring you anything to eat or drink while you wait, Mr. Lenox?” asked Shreve in his gloomy baritone.

“Thanks, no. Is she up and about?”

“At certain hours of the day, sir. Excuse me, please.”

Shreve left, and without much interest Lenox picked up a copy of Punch that sat on a nearby table. He leafed through it, preoccupied — both by his concern for the McConnells and by that note Smalls had taken to jail. He had truly believed Mrs. Smalls’s protestation of innocence, but was it possible that both Poole and Smalls were innocent of all wrongdoing? On the other hand, Smalls had a criminal background of some kind, though it was obscure what his specific crimes might be.

“My lady will be down shortly,” said Shreve, jerking Lenox out of his daydream.

“Thank you, thank you,” he said. “Shreve, has Mr. McConnell been home today?”

“No, sir,” said the butler with a slight tone of rebuke. It was an intrusive question.

“Thank you.”

At length Toto came into the room. Lenox rose to meet her and with a chaste kiss led her to the sofa he had been sitting upon.

“My dearest Toto,” he said, “I’m so sorry I left London when I did.”

“I understand,” she said in a quiet voice. “Thank you for coming to see me now.”

“Of course. Has Jane been here since this morning?”

“She just left.”

“I hope she has comforted you.”

“She is so — so good,” said Toto, and a sob caught in her throat before she could compose herself.

She did not wear the traditional black but a dark blue dress that was unlike her usual clothes, colorful as they were. Her face was somber and not in the least frantic, as if the hours of manic anxiety had passed and left one encompassing, mountainous feeling behind: grief.

“I saw Thomas this morning,” Lenox said. “He’s helping me. Those two journalists who died.”

“Oh, yes?” she asked coldly.

“He is — may I speak plainly, Toto?”