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humor mixed with broad answers.
    Then a short, fat, sharp-faced man standing not five feet away said, loudly enough for everyone to hear, “You should go back to London, Mr. Lenox.”
    Smith’s voice behind Lenox whispered, “That’s Roodle.”
    “I will when I’m elected, Mr. Roodle, so I can represent this wonderful town.”
    In the crowd there was total silence, almost an anticipatory inhale of breath, as the two candidates faced each other for the first time.
    “So you can prance around in Parliament and forget all about us back here.”
    “No man who knows me could deny that all of my convictions, all of my beliefs, are directed toward the protection of people like these. A better life for people here in Stirrington, and everywhere across England. I’ll never forget that.”
    “You don’t know ‘these people,’ ” he said with a scoffing laugh. “I’ve been here my whole life, sir.”
    Lenox felt a riposte forming somewhere in his brain. “Your whole life?” he said.
    “My whole life,” confirmed Roodle.
    “Yet your brewery hasn’t.”
    There was a moment of silence, followed by an absolute roar of laughter. When it subsided just a little, Smith said, “Thank you!” and pulled the candidate offstage.
    The small man was thrilled. “Leave ’em on a high note,” he said. “That was wonderful! You showed Roodle! Round one to Lenox! Come, come, we must wade into the crowd and shake every hand we can find! Come! ‘Yet your brewery hasn’t,’ he says! Wonderful!”

CHAPTER TEN

    F
    lushed with success, Lenox spent an hour in Sawyer Park, until he had indeed shaken every hand he could find. Smith was invaluable—had grown up in Stirrington and seemed to know every soul who lived within the town limits and a good many that lived beyond. On Roodle’s behalf several beefy-looking gentlemen were circulating in the park, saying that glib talk would get them nowhere, that the beer tax would probably be lowered regardless of this election’s outcome, and most importantly that Lenox was an interloper and a fraud—but all to little avail. Lenox was the man of the hour, and people of every stripe crowded around him, congratulating him and asking him questions (often very personal ones—one young man asked what Parliament could do about getting him onto the county cricket team, which Lenox still wasn’t sure had been a joke).
    Finally Smith and Lenox had met everyone there was to meet, and Lenox, who after the headiness of the speech remembered again that Hiram Smalls was dead and began speculating in his mind about the Pierce and Carruthers murders, inquired what they were to do next.
    “It’s a fearful proposition, but I thought perhaps we might call on Mrs. Reeve.”
    “Who is that?”
    “Has Crook not told you about her, then? Perhaps we should wait.”
    “Who is she?”
    “Mrs. Reeve is a widow, about fifty. She was married to Joe Reeve, famous in these parts as Durham’s best horse trainer. He left her with a comfortable living, and her house is a kind of stopping point for every woman in town. There’s always food and tea, and people agree to meet there as if it were a shop or a train station. Mrs. Reeve herself is very influential with all of the women I know.”
    “She sounds a fascinating character.”
    “Aye, and a powerful one. Men with little time to waste on politics will often listen to their wives, I believe.”
    “What is she like in person?”
    “Oh—fat—exceedingly fat.”
    “What else?”
    “Well—I don’t think she’s ever properly left Stirrington. It’s possible —and mind, I don’t say probable—that she’s never left town. She may have been to Durham once, but I can’t remember hearing of it.”
    “On the provincial side of things?” Lenox asked, with what he hoped was delicacy.
    Smith laughed. “I didn’t want to say it.” Then he paused. “I’ve been to France, actually.”
    “Mr. Smith, I hope you don’t think I class you in such a way? I