Telegrams, sir!” sang Lucy as Lenox came in the door.
She made her usual rounds, picking up empty glasses and bringing full ones, until she met Lenox again and reached into her pocket, gone again before he could thank her. The first people for lunch were at the pub. Interesting, staying here, to watch the ebb and flow of it. Crook was too busy to acknowledge him.
The telegrams were from Dallington and Scotland Yard. With great curiosity Lenox put the latter aside and tore open his apprentice’s note. Which hand had killed Hiram Smalls, he wondered? Perhaps Dallington would know the answer.
DO YOU REMEMBER JONATHAN POOLE THE TRAITOR STOP
THEY HAVE ARRESTED HIS SON STOP
MET THE CHAP ON MY TOUR SOMEWHERE IN PORTUGAL AND HE SIMPLY COULD NOT HAVE KILLED ANYBODY STOP
AIRIEST FELLOW I KNOW STOP
EXETER IS CROWING TO THE PRESS STOP
TORN BITS OF PAPER ARE SMALL SHREDS OF PAPER STOP
WOULD HAVE THOUGHT THAT WOULD BE CLEAR TO THE MEAGEREST INTELLIGENCE STOP
NOBODY KNOWS WHAT THEY SAY STOP
RETURN STOP
LONDON NEEDS YOU STOP
POOLE NEEDS YOU STOP
DALLINGTON
Scotland Yard couldn’t afford such extravagance when telegrams cost by the word, but the other note was just as arresting.
FEAR EXETER ARRESTED WRONG MAN STOP
PRESS EXCITABLE STOP
CAN YOU SPARE TIME STOP
JENKINS
With these two telegrams Lenox’s mind flew into motion. Exeter had arrested Poole’s son, a lad no more than twenty who had never seen England since he was a child and been brought up in the softest ways by his maternal family, and here were a character witness and an evidentiary one (perhaps?) from two people whom Lenox trusted? There was a chance, of course, that young Poole really had conspired with Hiram Smalls-or indeed independently of the man-to kill Simon Pierce and Winston Carruthers. However, Lenox held Exeter’s certainties in very low esteem and at the moment felt disinclined to believe him about Poole.
The two implorations to return to London tempted him powerfully. Both because of the case and, less consciously, because of Lady Jane’s letter, he had been uncomfortably longing to go back since he arrived at Stirrington. Moreover, while he liked Crook and Smith and still held his dream of entering Parliament, he wasn’t sure but what the campaign didn’t suit him. It made him uneasy. He would stick it out because the prize was so great, but it was another feeling that pushed him homeward. Often in his adult life he had told people that he was a Londoner and hated to be away from the metropolis, but it had always seemed a pro forma rather than a meaningful statement. Now it rang true to him again, and he remembered why he had begun saying it when he was a youth.
Counterweighing all this was Lenox’s inborn, or at any rate early taught, feeling of responsibility. He couldn’t possibly turn his back on Stirrington when he had vowed to Hilary, Edmund, and now Crook to fight his hardest and do his best.
Still, couldn’t they spare him for forty-eight hours?
“You look thoughtful, Mr. Lenox,” said a female voice.
Lenox’s distracted thoughts vanished, and he looked up. “Why, hello, Nettie.” He stood up. “Would you care to sit down?”
She shook her head. “No, thanks. I’ve come to give Uncle his lunch.”
Lenox laughed. “He doesn’t have what all these gentlemen are having?”
“Oh, he likes the little meals I make him. If you work in a public house long enough, Mr. Lenox, you grow weary of steak and kidney pie with ale.”
“I can imagine.”
“I trust you’re coming to the library this afternoon?”
“Yes, I shall certainly be there.”
“I’ll see you then.”
Lenox watched as she took her uncle his midday meal, noting the momentary softening in Crook’s eyes as they spoke. He promised to return the plate unbroken. Then he signaled to Lucy that he was stopping to eat, filled the pint glasses that were empty, and went to a quiet back table with his food and a glass of fizzy lemonade. Lenox was loath to interrupt Crook’s only respite of the day, but as soon as the publican had taken his last bite the detective went over.
“How do you do?” he asked Crook.
“Quite well enough, thank you.”
“I fear I may need to return to London. Only for two days or so-three days perhaps.”
Crook was astounded. “With scarcely a fortnight until the vote!”
“Call it two days. Less than forty-eight hours.”
“Mr. Lenox, I’ve never been so shocked in all my life!”
“It’s because of a murder.”
“Let there be twenty murders, see if I care! You cannot leave!”
“I’m aware of my duties here, but I feel I can still discharge them. What if I were to add another hundred pounds to our budget for advertising?”
“The town is pretty well covered.”
“My man, Graham, has been buying beer.”
“Not here,” said Crook, temporarily distracted.
“I thought it would look ill.”
“Because it’s my public house?”
“Well-precisely.”
“Be that as it may, you simply cannot leave. Think of all that they say about you being a creature of London, and caring nothing for our Stirrington-and as soon as you arrive you leave!”
Gradually, though, as Lenox convinced Crook of his seriousness and promised further funds for all the sundry expenses of a campaign, the bartender’s position altered. Promising that he would leave Graham in place, Lenox reached a compromise-he would leave that evening on the last train, stay in London for one day and one morning, and return in time to speak at Sawyer Park again on the second evening. He would be in London for something less than thirty-six hours.
“We’ll have to tell them you’re going to Durham to meet with county officials about the issues of Stirrington. That’s all.”
“We cannot lie,” said Lenox, frowning.
“Ha! Ha!” said Crook, coughing as he laughed. “You’ve been in politics a very short time! Make that face all you like, but lie we must, and lie we shall. Luckily Durham is a very impressive place to many of these voters, and they’ll like that you have the power already to meet with those who control the city. Roodle could never get in.”
“Well-if we must.”
“We must.”
For another ten minutes (by which time there were several disgruntled drinkers clattering their pint pots on the bar with meaningful strength) Crook and Lenox discussed the matter.
As a sort of final condition Crook said, “You must promise me that this afternoon and when you return, you will shake the hand of every person you meet on the way to and from your appointments.”
“Well-all right.”
“Promise me! It’s no easy thing.”
“I promise I shall speak to as many people as I possibly can. Surely I’ll miss some while I talk with others.”
“Well-yes,” said Crook begrudgingly. “Very well. Now you must knock at the door of my house. Nettie will walk you to the library. I’m afraid I won’t be able to come, Mr. Lenox.”
“No?”
“I’ve wasted enough time away from my business.”
Lenox went through the afternoon shaking every hand that would reach out to meet his and speaking to people with a sunny optimism he didn’t quite feel until he was hoarse. He impressed the town burghers at the library and earned the respect, if not the vote, of perhaps three-quarters of the severe-looking businessmen he met with that night. True to his word, he shook the hand of even the waiter who brought postprandial coffee into that meeting.
Even so, it must be owned: All the time his thoughts were bent toward London, toward Pierce and Carruthers, toward Dallington, Jenkins, and McConnell, and above all toward Lady Jane Grey, whom he hoped was still his engaged love.
Graham took him to the station.
“Don’t stint on the pints of beer!” Lenox said to his man. “Spend money where it must be spent!”
“I shall, sir.”
“Would you like me to take any messages back to London?”
“No, sir, thank you.”
“Did you pack my gray checked suit?”
“You’re wearing it, sir.”
“Ah-so I am.”
“Return quickly and safely, sir.”
The train began to move. “Good-bye, Graham! Conciliate Crook, if you can! Remember, money is no object!”
The detective turned into the train with a wave and found his empty compartment. It was something past midnight after a long, wearying day, yet as he felt the train gather pace beneath him and knew it was headed toward his home, he felt his heart lighten and his senses refresh themselves.