The Fleet Street Murders (19 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

H

is first action the next morning, following his bath and his breakfast, was to go and see Thomas and Toto.

They were sitting in a drawing room when the butler led him in, Toto knitting something pink and McConnell reading the newspaper with a cup of tea close at hand, the strong green tea he preferred. They looked up at him, and both smiled. McConnell’s great florid face looked battered, even wounded, but instantly Lenox saw that a resolute companionship had sprung up between him and his wife. It was easy to admire—and made it easy to forget the doctor coming up to Stirrington when he was barmy drunk and half mad with sorrow.

“I hear you lost, Charles,” said Toto. “I’m so sorry.”

Lenox waved a hand. “It’s no great matter. I’m only happy to be back in London.”

“Have you seen Jane yet?”

“I saw her last night. Some man was in a duel, apparently—”

“Freddie Fleer,” said Toto, nodding.

“No doubt that’s him. Two other people are going to be married. All that sort of thing.”

“Was it close, the by-election?” asked McConnell.

“Quite close, yes. I think it came down to the other man’s local support. It’s hard to win over a town full of northerners in two weeks.”

“I can’t say I’ve ever tried,” said Toto with a laugh.

Lenox laughed, too. “You’ll have to take my word for it, anyway. Still, it was a close-run thing, and I’m happy I did it.” He wondered if he should ask after her health but decided against it. “What about our little project?” he said instead, referring to his honeymoon with Jane. “Have you been studying?”

“I have!” she said with some animation. “When can we speak about it?”

“Very soon,” he promised. “I have to look into these crimes at the moment, but then you’ll have my full attention.”

“What in blazes are you two so mysterious about?” asked McConnell indignantly, having watched their exchange.

“Oh, nothing,” said Toto, acting perhaps a bit more cryptic than was necessary.

Lenox laughed. “Toto’s helping me with something,” he said. “I’m sure she’ll tell you all about it after I leave. Look, though, Thomas, I thought I might put you in the way of a bit of work. Not medical, however.”

“Oh?”

“I was hoping you’d come to Carruthers’s apartment and act as a second pair of eyes for me.”

“To be sure. When?”

“This afternoon, I hope, though I have Exeter’s funeral to attend. We’ll see when they let me in. I’ll pick you up, at any rate?”

“As you like.”

“See you then.”

Lenox left soon thereafter and, after stopping at home to make sure that Dallington wasn’t waiting for him, directed his driver to Fleet Street.

Printers and pamphlet makers had inhabited Fleet Street since 1500, but it was only in the spring of 1702 that it had gained its modern character—that was when the first daily newspaper in the world, the
Daily Courant,
opened its office and began publishing from the street.

In the subsequent century and a half it had become a collegial place, its pubs full of dueling journalists who put aside their differences at the bar to drink, to laugh, and to trade barbs, often with the equally drunken and witty solicitors who inhabited the close-by Inns of Court. It all savored even now of Dickens and Dr. Johnson and the grand tradition of literature—of a certain kind of literature. As Matthew Arnold said, “Journalism is literature in a hurry.”

Lenox planned to visit the office of the
Daily Telegraph,
where Carruthers had worked, and then if he could the man’s apartment. If Pierce had been the distraction from the real crime, as he suspected, then this was where he would have to begin his investigation over again.

The
Telegraph
’s building was a busy place, with young men running in and out of the door and the tremendous whine, drum-beat, and squeal of the printing press audible from the street. On the fourth floor, however, where he knew from the newspapers that Carruthers had worked, it was quieter.

Lenox greeted a young woman, a typist, who was hurrying toward a closed door across the floor’s large foyer. “Excuse me,” he said, “but who’s in charge here?”

“Mr. Moon, of course,” she said.

“And where is—”

“Third door on your second right,” she said and was off again.

Mr. Jeremy Moon, when Lenox knocked on the door of his office and pushed it open, was a gray-haired man with big round glasses and the beginnings of a paunch. He had discarded his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, and his hands were covered with ink. He was hard at work reading proofs.

“Who are you?” he asked rather rudely.

“Charles Lenox.”

Moon scowled. “I know that name. The detective, the Oxford murder. You appeared in our news section three consecutive days in September . . . let me recall . . . was it the ninth, tenth, and eleventh?”

Lenox shrugged. “I’m not sure.”

“Of course, you may not read the
Telegraph
as attentively as I do,” said Moon with a short laugh. “How can I help you, then? I should mention that I’m rather short on time today. Are you any relation to the chap by your name who lost the election up north two days ago?”

“I’m him.”

“Are you! Blimey, you put yourself about. At any rate, as I say, I’m quite busy. How may I help you?”

“Are you doing the duties for which Winston Carruthers was generally responsible?”

“It’s about that, is it? I am, some of them. Others have fallen to our writers. He had a wide-ranging brief here, did Win.”

“I had taken a passive interest in the case before Inspector Exeter died, but now I find myself in a more active role and hoped to discover from you what I might about your colleague.”

“Well—what sort of thing?”

“Was he a genial man?”

Moon laid the proofs he had been reading down on his desk and pushed the big, round glasses from the bridge of his nose thoughtfully. “Yes,” he said. “After his fashion. He lived for his postwork drink, and here in Fleet Street he had a wide circle of friends. Carruthers was the sort of chap who could tell you at a moment’s notice all the particularities of some obscure government matter to do with—well, say one of the colonies, and break it down so it made perfect sense. He could write an article on a subject he knew nothing about in half an hour. Save for those rather remarkable qualities, he would have been fired long before his death.”

“Why?”

“He was indolent and, as I say, overfond of drink. Had a bad temper.”

“Did he have enemies, then?”

“Perhaps, but I don’t really think so—that sounds very sinister and all, but we lead pretty mild lives here, the pub aside, I promise you.”

“What was he working on before he died?”

“I’m not entirely sure, though I know in a general way. Because of his talent he was the only writer or editor we had who didn’t quite answer to me. He was a pet of our publisher, Lord Chance. I reserved space for his articles and ran an eye over them but never asked much beyond that.”

“What was he working on in a general way, then?”

“He had a story he had been working on for months about Gladstone—a profile of the rising man in the other party, you know.” Moon smiled. “We’re Conservative here, as you may know. Pleased to see Roodle get in, though you seem a decent chap.”

“What else?”

“Let me see—he had a story about the Royal Mint—one about Ascot—one about the new railroads—and probably half a dozen others whose premises he scribbled down somewhere.”

“Was he writing about crime, in any way? The gangs?”

“He may have been. I didn’t know about it.”

“Did he ever mention”—Lenox tried to think of a delicate way to say it—“any testimony he had given?”

Moon laughed. “The Poole thing? Only every day of his life. Which is how I happen to know that Gerald Poole killed him, Mr. Lenox. It’s our first lead tomorrow morning. I can promise you we’re taking Win’s death pretty seriously around here, and Poole’s involvement, too. He should swing for what he did.”

“Then who killed Inspector Exeter?”

“That’s why you’re here, I presume. To discover who Gerald Poole’s allies were, no?”

“Well,” Lenox murmured, unsure of what to say.

Moon nodded. “Take it as read, yes, that’s fine.”

“Did Carruthers ever mention Poole’s son to you?”

The answer to this question Lenox was destined never to get, for just then a bright-looking young man came in without knocking.

“Who’s he?” he asked Moon, pointing at Lenox.

“Nobody you can’t speak in front of. Why?”

“It’s the Carruthers thing.”

“What is it?”

“Winston Carruthers’s maid is back, Martha Claes. She says she assisted Poole every step of the way.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

T

he funeral of Police Inspector William Exeter took place in a small church near his home named St. Mary Abbots, a peaceful ground of ancient provenance that was perhaps to be rebuilt, according to someone Lenox overheard. Exeter had lived with his family in the Portobello Road, off of Notting Hill, and although it was in Kensington Lenox scarcely knew the area, which was spotted by hayfields and untouched meadows.

As soon as his carriage stopped, Lenox had a lump in his throat. He felt for his colleague some unlooked-for affinity that they had never shared in life. Perhaps it was because, whatever their two views of it had been, they did the same work, and it was work for which Exeter had died.

The inspector’s death was the great story of the day in the newspapers and the neighborhoods of London, and the trappings of his funeral combined what might have been normal for a man of his station and what might have been normal for a man of a much higher one. A long procession of empty carriages, sent by their illustrious owners, was passing the church, and from a respectfully gentle clatter nearby Lenox saw that the funeral line was to be quite grand. He himself was standing on a small patch of green earth near the front of the church, watching people amble in, generally of two types—Exeter’s relatives and his fellow officers of Scotland Yard—and occasionally of a third, more exalted type, whom Lenox could recognize by the black velvet breeches they wore, or the silver-headed cane they carried. These would be Members of Parliament and London officials. He saw the Lord Mayor arrive and make his way breathlessly up the steps of the church.

It was intensely sad to Lenox.

The service was short. There were two hymns and a eulogy from Exeter’s direct superior at the Yard before a speech by the church’s vicar. Lenox found himself sitting with Jenkins, somewhere in the back third of the pews, listening with half his mind and speculating about Exeter’s death with the other half.

Soon it was time for the standard procession between the church and the cemetery. On this no expense had been spared. First there were men on foot, an assortment of pallbearers in black, a series of young pages, and three mutes wearing black cloaks and carrying wands. All of these men, from the youngest lad to the oldest mute, were very certainly pickled to the gills on gin—a license of their profession, since they had to stand outside in the cold continually—but they did their duty solemnly.

Next came the funeral hearse, a grand black and silver object with gold trim everywhere, and following it a line of carriages full of Exeter’s friends and relatives. His widow, a handsome, dark-haired woman, had held up admirably well, and their young son was well dressed and well behaved.

“I have my carriage if you need a ride to the cemetery,” said Lenox to Jenkins.

“I must be getting back to town, in fact.”

“Look—do you think I could see Carruthers’s rooms, either today or tomorrow?”

Lenox had expected a difficult argument, but he got none. “Yes. Certainly.”

“Thanks.”

“Not at all. You’ve the unofficial license of the entire Yard behind you now; in fact, I was instructed to tell you as much. I was only just going to do so.”

“How can I get in?”

“There’s a constable there—constables everywhere, since Exeter died and this all became so famous.”

“You’ll send him word—”

“Yes, go over any time.”

“Are you officially at work on this case?” Lenox asked.

“Now, yes.”

“Who do you think killed Exeter?”

“Honestly? I think it was unrelated to all this. A fluke. His job made him enemies all over the East End.”

Lenox nodded. “Perhaps.”

“See you soon, Charles.”

Exeter was interred in a small cemetery not a mile from the church, and the procession made its increasingly ragged way back to Exeter’s house. It was a modest, handsomely kept two-story building, white with a thatched roof and blue shutters.

Inside it was warm and comfortable, and Lenox had a vision of Exeter after hours, sitting by his hearth with his family around him. By now they had sloughed off the Lord Mayor and the majority of his ilk, and it was Exeter’s cousins, his uncles, his subordinates at the Yard who ate ham and drank ale. Lenox found himself with nobody quite to talk to and soon wandered outside to the side of the house for a smoke.

It was here that he saw Exeter’s son, John.

They had met once before. After a case that Lenox had been instrumental in solving, Exeter had taken the credit for himself and received a commendation from Scotland Yard. Lenox, used to it, offered no objection but was surprised when Exeter had invited him to the ceremony. There, by way perhaps of apology or explanation, he had introduced the eight-year-old John Exeter to Lenox with a sort of rough pride. Lenox had understood the inspector better in that moment than ever before.

The lad was playing near a chicken coop, among the rows of a small, productive-looking garden. He had on a black suit that was dirtied at the knees because he had been kneeling between two tomato vines.

Suddenly Lenox felt the pain of it all: Exeter had been alive, and now he was dead. The industry and hominess and practicality of the little rows of vegetables seemed somehow to summarize it all, more than the gloomy, garish funeral ever could, and it touched him profoundly.

“Hello, John,” said Lenox.

“Hello, Mr. Lenox,” said the boy, his face serious and handsome.

“You remember me?”

“Of course. My fa talks about you all the time, sir.”

Lenox absorbed this uncertainly. “What have you got there?” he said.

John held out his dirty hand, which clutched a toy train. “It’s the best one I’ve got,” he said.

“Do you like trains, then?”

“Oh, yes.”

“I do, too.”

“I want to ride one.”

“Haven’t you?”

“Not yet, sir.”

“You will, someday soon. When is your birthday?”

“March eighth, Mr. Lenox.”

“Well, we’ll see,” said Lenox. “Perhaps someone will send you an even better train set on March eighth. I feel sure of it, in fact, John—just wait. Will you shake hands?”

The boy stood up and with grave concentration put his small, sweaty brown hand into Lenox’s. “Good-bye, Mr. Lenox.”

His pipe done, Lenox went inside to say good-bye to the widow. On the way home to Mayfair he looked out through the window of his carriage at the clear, cold day and felt the melancholy that veiled the city to his eyes.

Dallington was waiting for him in Hampden Lane.

“How are you?” Lenox asked.

“Bloody awful.”

“Gracious, what is it?”

“He really did it, by God. It was the worst twenty minutes of my life, listening to him. He had a reason, and he—he knew exactly how it had been done.”

“Forgive me, but—Poole?”

“Yes, Gerry Poole. He was a different creature today than he had ever been before. He talked about plunging a knife in a man’s back as if it were the most natural thing in the world.”

It was the most upset Lenox had ever seen the younger man, who was always so quick with a joke and a smile.

“Did he give you any details?”

“Not really.”

“Anything about Martha Claes?”

“Not a thing.”

The return of the Belgian maid (who had apparently been moving along the Norfolk coast, unsuccessfully trying to find a way out of the country) had offered very few details about the murder of Winston Carruthers. She was in police custody now, but according to Jenkins she had only said she had acted as Poole’s assistant, helping him gain access to Carruthers and standing by as he murdered him. She had returned seeking immunity to prosecution for providing evidence and refused to speak another word until she got it.

Dallington stayed for a few minutes longer, then left, still disconsolate. Lenox had felt that sort of anguish before, in his early days as an amateur detective.

Despite the confession, he had work to do still, he felt. Who had killed Inspector Exeter and Hiram Smalls? Not Gerald Poole, certainly; and if his proxies had done it, why and who were they? Almost at the same hour as Exeter was lying on his deathbed, Poole had been giving his confession. It made no sense.

So Lenox decided to persevere—and to begin with Winston Carruthers’s rooms, a few streets away.

It was dark by now and cold outside. He waited for his carriage on the curb, stamping his feet to stay warm. Eventually it came and he stepped in.

Just as he was going to close the door, a voice called from behind him, “You dropped a penny, sir.”

It was one of the footmen who had brought the horses around.

“Cheers,” said Lenox.

He took the penny in his hand—and as he sat down his mind started racing.

A penny.

What had he found under Hiram Smalls’s bed?
A farthing, a halfpenny, a penny, threepence, sixpence, and a shilling,
he had told the warden of Newgate.
All the coins of the realm
. . .

Smalls had been sending a message, Lenox realized with a thud in his chest, a message pointing to the man who made those coins—at the Mint.

Then Lenox remembered:
He had a story about the Royal Mint,
Moon had said of Carruthers. A story about the Mint—had he discovered something about the Mint? Corruption there? Was he trying to blackmail Barnard?

Just like that, Lenox remembered something funny—Barnard had called Carruthers “Win,” his common nickname, at Lady Nevin’s party but claimed he hadn’t known the man the press called Winston.

A last thought flitted into his mind about what Jane had said,
George Barnard was to have a party, but he’s gone to Geneva instead.

It appeared that these murders led back, as half the crimes in London did, to one man: George Barnard. Who now had fled to Geneva.