Read Online The Fleet Street Murders by Charles Finch - Free Book Online

work, and diligent besides, even if there had been several rocky moments. Those, though, were forgotten: Dallington had either saved Lenox’s life or come close to it, and their bond—indeed, their friendship—was now secure.
    His letter was brief.

Lenox,
I once met Simon Pierce at a party—crashing bore. Nevertheless, one does feel a certain sorrow. Are you doing anything about this? I would like to help, if so. Hope you had a jolly Christmas and everything like that.
Dallington
 

    This note raised in Lenox a sense of guilt, which combined with the poor chances of his campaign made him feel suddenly that his real place was on the trail of whoever had murdered the two London journalists, not here courting votes among people who had no affection for his presence.
    “From Dallington,” he said. “Asks about the journalists. I do feel I should be there, rather.”
    McConnell did something strange then—he literally smacked his forehead. “How could I have forgotten, Lenox! I come bearing news.”
    “What is it?”
    “We had just spoken about the matter,” said McConnell with a bemused shake of his head. “It’s the drink—it puts me awkward—I’m not . . .” He trailed off nervously. “My memory.”
    “For the love of Christ, what is it?” Lenox asked.
    “Hiram Smalls? The chap in jail?”
    “Yes?”
    “He’s dead, apparently. Just before midnight yesterday evening. I was in the train station when I heard about it.”

CHAPTER NINE

    L
    enox was stunned. “Are you sure?”
    “Yes,” said McConnell.
    “You’re absolutely certain of that?”
    “They were selling an extra edition of the paper with a story to that effect—I’m sure of that anyway.”
    “Did you buy it?”
    McConnell looked embarrassed. “I’m afraid I was—not myself,” he said.
    With any luck the late papers from the night before might make it up to Stirrington tonight. Otherwise he would have to wait until the morning. It was maddening, just maddening. For a tenth of a second every fiber in Lenox’s body strained against the town and his task there.
    “What did it say? Do you remember? Murder? Suicide? Was it unclear?”
    Rather lamely, McConnell answered, “Only that he had just died, actually.”
    Then Lucy arrived with a bubbling pie of some kind or other for Lenox, which despite his focus on Smalls was a welcome sight after a morning of what had been cold campaigning.
    “Lucy, a moment—do you take telegrams here?”
    “No, sir, but the boots will take a telegram to the post office for a small tip.”
    “Could you send him over?”
    The boots, when he appeared, turned out to be a lad of not more than thirteen or so, with a pronounced overbite and black hands from his work shining shoes. Lenox had quickly scribbled out a message and an address, and he handed these to the boots along with a large tip, in addition to the money it would cost to send the telegram. Admonishingly, he instructed the boy not to lose it or to tarry on his way to the post office. Thinking it over, he took back the tip and promised to hold it until the lad returned with a receipt. Perhaps this wasn’t the most trusting thing to do, but Lenox remembered what he had been like at thirteen.
    “To whom did you write?” asked McConnell, who was looking slightly ill again.
    “Dallington.”
    “Telling him?”
    “Asking him for information, primarily. Also telling him to keep an eye on matters there.” Lenox looked at his pocket watch. “I wish I had time to wait for a reply, but I’m afraid I’m scheduled to speak soon. Excuse me, will you?”
    “Where?” asked McConnell.
    He received no reply, though, for Lenox had already walked up to Crook at the bar for a brief consultation. Either Crook or Hilary had introduced him before all of his speeches so far, but Hilary was gone, and Crook was working; another member of the Liberal committee, Sandy Smith, was going to meet Lenox at his first speech and accompany him for the rest of the