gravely when they came out, and the three men walked over. At City Hall there was an agonizing half hour while the last few votes were counted and Mayor Adlington was roused from a nap to read the results. Just before they were ready, Roodle came storming in. Then, in a surreal tableau that Lenox felt more observer of than participant in, they went into a small room and heard the results.
It was over. He had lost.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
It was a bitter, bitter thing to swallow. In the end only two hundred votes had separated the men. Pushing his pride to the side, Lenox reached out his hand to Roodle, but the brewer pushed past him with a sneer and went outside to announce the news to his waiting supporters. Lenox knew he had to do the same, though he scarcely felt equal to the task.
He was glad there were books in the world, at that moment; glad that there were maps and encyclopedias, and warm fires and comfortable armchairs. He wanted to retreat into his library for a year without leaving it and eat good lunches and take long naps. But he told himself that a Lenox of Lenox Hall ought to have more mettle than to wish for something like that, and he went outside and delivered a brief, grateful encomium to his supporters before going back to the Queen’s Arms.
“It should never have been so close,” was all Crook said. “Roodle thought he’d win by a landslide. We did our side proud.”
“I can’t help but think of that single day I wasn’t here. Mightn’t I have met another two hundred people that day and perhaps impressed upon half of them my suit? Mightn’t I have won a hundred of them and drawn even with Roodle?”
Rather surprisingly, Crook said with a severe glance, “That’s no way to think at all — Charles. You did your level best. No other candidate short of Peel reincarnated could have done more or worked harder.”
They arrived back at the Queen’s Arms, and in his weariness Lenox wrote two brief telegrams with the same message (“I lost. It’s all right.”) to Edmund and to Lady Jane. Then he took himself upstairs, had a few solitary moments of self-recrimination and sorrow, and fell into bed, exhausted.
When he woke in the morning it was to see Graham seated at the table by the window, a tray with coffee and sweet rolls before him.
“Is there something wrong, Graham?”
“Good morning, sir. I merely wished to see if you required anything.”
Lenox chuckled. “Are you worried about me? I’m all right, I suppose. A bit of a setback, but these things happen.”
Graham stood. “It was a pleasure to help you,” he said and then left.
Lenox went to the table and poured himself a cup of coffee. The rolls were good, chewy, soft, and sweet, and the dark warmth of the coffee complemented them well. Meditatively he chewed and looked out the window, trying to suppress even to himself the disappointment of the night before. He sighed deeply and swirled the last sip of coffee in the bottom of his cup before swallowing it. There was a telegram on the tray, which at last he opened with a sense of dread. It was from Jane (Nothing from Edmund? He worried he had let his brother down) and proved a very kind and thoughtful note, but at that particular moment Lenox detested the idea of pity, of consolation.
He was tired both in spirit and in body, aching all over from the exertions of the day before, but he was conscious that he had a duty to return to London and help Dallington. While he was glad that he had fought, how much more use might he have been in the capital, following the Fleet Street murderers? Then the depressing thought occurred to him that he was no closer to exposing George Barnard’s criminality to the world than he had ever been — but he pushed that away. There were other priorities in the short term. It would have to wait.
He dressed and asked Graham to get tickets for the afternoon train. Given his preference, Lenox would have liked to hide out in his room until the train left, avoiding all of the people who knew his ignominy, but he keenly understood the cowardice of that and forced himself to descend the stairs to the main chamber of the Queen’s Arms.
There he saw the most welcome sight he could imagine, perhaps even more than the sight of Lady Jane would have been.
It was his brother, Edmund, sitting with a cup of coffee and a morning newspaper.
“Edmund?”
“Hullo, Charles,” said Sir Edmund Lenox, the 11th Baronet of Market house. “How are you going along?”
The two men shook hands. “Not too badly,” said Charles, “but what in heavens brings you here?”
Edmund shrugged. “I had your telegram,” he said. “I thought I would come visit you, and perhaps we might take the train back to London together.”
“That was kind of you indeed.”
Edmund smiled sadly. “I’m only sorry that I encouraged you to run. It was always going to be a challenge after Stoke died.”
“Are Hilary and Brick very disappointed?”
“Yes, of course, but they understand how hard you worked. Still, I don’t come here as a Member of Parliament but as your brother.”
Indeed, Charles felt like a little brother, grateful for his older brother’s consideration.
“Well — it was a disappointment, that’s all.”
“I’m awfully sorry, Charles.”
The two men sat down, and Lenox declined a cup of coffee but said he wouldn’t mind a soft-boiled egg with a square of toast. Edmund said that sounded good, and soon enough they had their food and were talking companionably about Edmund’s sons, about the old lands at Lenox House, where they had both grown up but only Edmund lived now, and about Lenox’s forthcoming marriage to Lady Jane.
“I was sorry to hear about Toto,” said Edmund.
Lenox nodded. “What a terrible blow that was. Of course, she and Thomas were treading on thin ice already.”
“Any news?”
“Apparently they’ve reconciled. I certainly hope so.”
“How about” — Edmund tried to sound unconcerned — “the Fleet Street murders? And Exeter?”
Lenox laughed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You make a poor actor.”
For all the responsibilities of his position in Sussex and in Parliament, Edmund had a childlike enthusiasm for his brother’s profession, often begging for details. Once he had been able to help with an investigation, and other than his wedding day it was the closest Charles had seen him to nirvana.
“Well?” said Edmund, now eagerly. “What do you know?”
“Nothing very current, I’m afraid. I know that Hiram Smalls killed Simon Pierce, and another man — his accomplice — killed Winston Carruthers.”
“Do you? How?”
Lenox explained the note and indeed described his whole day of research into the mystery of Hiram Smalls’s death.
“Who could have penetrated the prison?” Edmund asked.
Lenox sighed. “Any number of people, unfortunately. Poole wasn’t there yet, of course. Men making deliveries, other inmates. The gangs run riot in Newgate. Tell me, though, what do you hear of Exeter? Your knowledge is surely more current than mine.”
“Apparently he will make it through. The bullet perforated one of his organs, I forget which.”
“He was shot in the back?”
“Yes,” said Edmund. “They’re keeping him under wraps, however. There’s very little information. The entire city is fascinated by the story, it goes without saying. Some poorer people are saying it’s a good riddance.”
“Exeter was never tactful or gentle in his methods. Still, he deserved better than this. I shall take the matter in hand when I return to town this afternoon.”
