The Fleet Street Murders

solved the murders of Pierce and Carruthers. He had wasted his energy, perhaps, in returning — but it had been necessary.

Inside he found he had a visitor; it was Dallington, his feet up by the fire, chuckling over the same issue of Punch Lenox had inspected before seeing Toto.

“Hullo, old chap,” the young lord said and sprang to his feet with unnatural energy to shake hands.

Lenox shook hands and sat down heavily in his armchair. “How are you? Excitable, I see.”

“Well enough. You? You must be tired?”

“No, not tired. Uneasy.”

“Because of the case?”

“In part, anyway. Do you bring news?”

Dallington shrugged. “Nothing consequential, I’m afraid.”

“More’s the pity.”

“I spent much of the day wandering around Fleet Street, speaking to whomever I could find.”

“Yes?”

“I understand both of the men better now. The link between them — that’s difficult to say.”

“Other than Jonathan Poole.”

“Yes, other than that,” said Dallington. “Anyway, I know Gerald Poole didn’t do anything.”

“So you say,” Lenox answered slowly.

“So I know,” Dallington insisted, a flash of temper in his voice. “There was one interesting thing, however. About Carruthers.”

“Yes?”

“There’s a pub you may know on Fleet Street, called Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese?”

“I know it well,” said Lenox. “Dickens works there.”

“Exactly, has since he worked at the Morning Chronicle. Well, I checked in with the bartender there, a gent named Ransom, stout fellow with a red face and a great belly. Apparently Carruthers ate there every day.”

“Go on.”

“Buck rabbit, Ransom said. Can’t stand the stuff myself. All that cheese. In any event, according to Ransom it was well known up and down the street that Carruthers had his price.”

“What do you mean, exactly?”

“He accepted bribes. A few quid in his pocket and he would write an article or edit one, cut things from the paper, add things. Quite shamelessly, said Ransom.”

“Did you ask at the Daily Telegraph?”

“Oh, they were pretty indignant. Both men I spoke to would have thrown me out if I hadn’t taken a hasty leave of them.”

“Do you think it’s related to the case?”

“It’s something to know, anyway.”

“That’s true. And Pierce?”

Dallington’s eyebrows furrowed. His handsome, open face looked healthier, as if he had recovered from his hangover and was the better for a day of hard work. “Quite to the contrary,” he said, “apparently Pierce was scrupulously honest. Many men had tried to bribe him, but he was untouchable. Religious, apparently.”

Lenox sighed. “This is all according to the knowledgeable Mr. Ransom?” he asked.

“Scoff if you will, but he was very specific about Carruthers’s misdeeds. Had all sorts of examples to give me. I had the feeling that he spent a lot of time eavesdropping on men in the newspaper business.”

“That’s true, I daresay.” Lenox stood up and walked to his desk. “Here’s the product of my day.” He handed Dallington the copy of the note Smalls had had in prison.

The younger man read it. “What does it mean?” he asked.

“I don’t have the faintest idea.”

“Still, there’s something about it.”

“I know,” Lenox murmured, taking the copy back. “It’s been on my mind ever since I read it.”

“At any rate — Carruthers bad, Pierce decent. That’s the bottom line.”

Lenox froze. “Wait a moment. Pierce.”

Peers.

“Lenox?”

“Wait, for pity’s sake.”

He studied the letter for thirty seconds, his face the picture of intense concentration. When at last he looked up, there was a small, twisted smile on his face. “That poor woman,” he said.

“Whom do you mean?”

“Mrs. Smalls. Hiram was guilty, I think. I feel sure, in fact. He killed Simon Pierce.”

“How do you know?”

Perhaps it had been the repetition of the name “Pierce” that had finally allowed Lenox to see what had been on his peripheral vision since he saw the note. He read the note with “peers” as a keyword, counting out its letters and words, until he realized that every fifth word of the middle paragraph held the message.

“Listen,” he said to Dallington. He read the note aloud:

Mr. Smalls —

The dogcarts pull away. I’ll see that Messrs. Jones get all the attention and care they need. For the others, George will rely on you and on your worthy peers.

No green.

“Well?”

Lenox handed him the note. “Try every fifth word — but only of the middle paragraph.”

Haltingly, Dallington read out, “I’ll — get — care — others — you — peers.” He shook his head. “It still doesn’t make any sense.”

“Think about it — ‘care others’ — Carruthers. ‘Peers’ — Pierce. It says, ‘I’ll get Carruthers, you Pierce.’ Or am I mad?”

With dawning recognition, Dallington said, “No, you’re brilliant. Of course.”

“The names Jones and George distracted me,” said Lenox. “It’s a tidy little thing. I wonder how Smalls knew to sound it out.”

“And why he took it to prison,” said Dallington.

“That seems clear — to protect himself. He probably warned the author of the note that his effects included the letter.”

“The author believed in his code, though.”

“Exactly.”

“What of that last line — ‘No green’?” asked Dallington.

“I’m not sure. It doesn’t appear to fit with the rest.”

“No,” said Lenox.

“Still, it’s a start. We may surmise Smalls killed Pierce.”

“Yes. I should say we might.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The next morning Lenox woke early, with the sun not yet out and that pale white of dawn covering the sky, gray and blue mingled in silken layers behind it. The rain had stopped and left behind it a new cold, but the coals in the fireplace across the room were still orange. He lay under his covers, warm, drowsy, comfortable, for a few