The Fleet Street Murders

“What details did you keep out of the papers?”

“The Belgian housekeeper?”

“Yes?”

“Martha Claes, she’s called. Apparently she had bragged to one or two of her friends that she was coming into a bit of money. We think the murderer paid her enough that she could leave.”

“That tells us something about the criminal, then.”

“What?”

“Well — that he would rather use money than violence. Not many criminals are that way, in my experience. Not many criminals have enough money to send three marginally genteel people out of London, leaving all their possessions behind. No robbery from Carruthers’s rooms, I presume?”

“That’s correct, actually, yes.”

“Probably he knew the household well enough to approach Mrs. Claes as an acquaintance.”

“You think the criminal had visited Carruthers?”

“Wouldn’t he have had to? Simply approaching the man’s housekeeper on the street would have been extremely foolhardy.”

“Yes, of course.”

“It seems more likely that he was visiting upstairs than downstairs, given that he offered Mrs. Claes money.”

“Of course assuming she didn’t actually inherit it.”

“A lone foreigner in this country, without a husband? Then, too, if she had come by the money honestly, why run?”

“Fear?”

Lenox shook his head. “I doubt it. The murderer is either very rich or willing to spend his last farthing to murder these two men. More likely the first than the second, I would wager.”

Jenkins took a note of this. “Yes,” he said. “We hadn’t thought that through.”

“How is Exeter handling the matter?” asked Lenox.

“As he usually does,” said Jenkins without inflection, his loyalty in this instance to the Yard rather than his superior.

“With all the tact of an angry bull, then?”

Jenkins laughed. “If you choose to say so, Mr. Lenox. He’s roused every able-bodied stable boy and driver on the street to accuse them of the crime.”

Lenox snorted. “A clever stable boy, to use a rope ladder rather than risk getting caught by servants who walk between houses every day.”

“Indeed,” said Jenkins. “Though it backfired in the end, that cleverness — we found the ladder, after all.”

“What else?”

“One other thing about Carruthers.”

“Yes?”

“There were a pen and blotter on his supper table, both freshly used, and ink on his hands.”

“But no paper in evidence, I suppose you’ll tell me. So the murderer was partly there to steal a damaging document.”

“He might have filed it away, Inspector Exeter argued.”

“Yes, yes, or brought it from his newspaper’s office, or given it to a dove to fly to Noah’s Ark with. I’m familiar with the inane pattern of thought Exeter might employ.”

“Well.”

Lenox sighed. “I’m sorry. I oughtn’t to talk like that.”

“No, perhaps not.”

“What about Pierce?”

“That’s altogether more mysterious, actually. Nobody saw or heard a thing, other than the shot.”

“Nothing missing from his house?”

“No, nothing.”

“Do you read the News of the Day?” asked Lenox.

“Since you recommended I do so, Lenox, yes.”

“What was the ‘definite link’ between Carruthers and Pierce?”

“Excuse me?”

“Ah — you must have gotten up early to get the first edition.”

“Yes, I’ve been up all night, trying to help.”

“According to the second edition of the News Exeter had discovered a solid link between the two men, aside from their careers.”

Jenkins looked uneasy. “Oh, yes — that.”

“What was it?”

“It’s sensitive information, in fact. I fear I must exact the traditional promise from you.”

“Nothing you say will leave this room,” promised Lenox gravely.

“According to Exeter, Pierce and Carruthers were two of the three journalists who gave testimony against Jonathan Poole at his trial.”

Lenox inhaled sharply.

The British government had executed Poole six years before for high treason. During the Crimean War, Poole, born an aristocrat but with a grandmother from the Baltic region, had spied on England for Russia. Poole’s subordinate, an anonymous navy officer called Rolk, had written to three newspapers in England when he started to suspect his superior of treason. Before the letters made it home Rolk was dead — accidentally drowned, or so it appeared. By then Poole was already making plans to defect to Russia, but the British navy had apprehended him at the last moment. The trial had been a celebrated one, titillating both because of the high-ranking personages who spoke on behalf of Poole’s character and the perceived heroism of poor Rolk. Three journalists had testified behind closed doors to receiving Rolk’s letters. Apparently two of them were Carruthers and Pierce.

“Yes,” said Jenkins, as if to confirm Lenox’s surprise.

“Have you looked out for the third journalist?”

“He died four years ago.”

“How?”

“Naturally, from all we could gather this morning. His widow didn’t appreciate our questions. According to the coroner it was an entirely average death. In his sleep.”

“Still — Poole has been dead for years! I doubt most people have thought of him since it all ended.”

“Well — yes,” said Jenkins in a measured tone.

“What is it?”

“I’m not sure I should say before we’ve gathered all of the information we need.”

Lenox understood. “Yes, of course.”

Jenkins stood up. “At any rate, you’ll know before anybody else.”

“Thanks so much for coming by. Let me know if you need help.”

“Any initial thoughts?” said Jenkins, walking to the door.

“Wait,” said Lenox. There was a pause.

“What is it?” asked Jenkins.

Lenox thought for a moment. “I’ve got it.”

“Yes?”

“He had a son, didn’t he? Poole?”

Jenkins stopped in his tracks. “Oh?”

“I just remembered. Poole’s son, he’s back. He’d be nineteen, twenty, thereabouts, wouldn’t he? His grandparents took him to the Continent, but there was a small item in several of the papers about his return. Living by St. James’s Park.”

Jenkins sighed. “What a prodigious memory you have.”

“Thanks.”