The next afternoon he was reading through the file again when there was a knock at the door. It was Dallington. He looked downcast and ill, wearing the same clothes he had been the day before.
“Hullo,” said Lenox.
“Before you ask, yes, I’ve been drinking.”
“Am I so draconian?”
“I can’t get Poole out of my head.”
“I’m sorry, John.”
“What bothers me most is Smalls! If he had killed Carruthers in a fit of passion-well, I don’t know, it would be somehow less appalling. Still appalling, of course, but less… less cold-blooded.”
“It’s the worst part of our profession, seeing all of this up close. I liked Poole.” Lenox hesitated. “In addition, I’m not as certain as you are that he did the murder.”
“Oh, he did it.”
“How can you say?”
“He was persuasive.”
“He was also persuasive when he told us that he was innocent.”
“What makes you doubt his word, anyway? He’s nothing to gain from confessing to murder.”
“There’s another lead.”
“What is it?”
Lenox sighed. “I don’t know if I should say anything until I’m more sure of what I mean. I don’t want to raise your hopes.”
“I see,” said Dallington.
It was an awkward moment. “I have full faith in you, of course,” said Lenox, “but I simply want to be sure.”
“What can I do to help?”
Lenox looked at the clock on the wall. “Shall we go see him together? There are one or two questions I might ask him.”
“If you wish,” answered Dallington, looking miserable at the prospect.
“Or I could go alone,” Lenox said.
“No, I’ll come.”
“Then let’s have a spot of tea while they rub down the horses. Graham, are you out there?” he called into the hall. The valet came in. “Will you bell for the carriage and bring in some tea, please?”
“Sandwiches, too,” said Dallington, in a voice so disconsolate that it was almost humorous to hear him ask for a sandwich with it.
Lenox laughed. “Come, the world will turn again, you know.”
“Wait until you see him,” said Dallington.
It was true. They had their tea and sandwiches and soon enough were on their way again to Newgate Prison. It was a bitterly cold January day, of the kind that seems never quite to warm into afternoon before it falls again into night. A few flurries fell, vanishing as they hit the cobblestones, coating the stone buildings of London in a white stubble.
Poole, when he came into the visitors’ room, was a different man. It was as though he had kept the facade up as long as he could and then collapsed under its weight.
“How do you do?” asked Lenox gently. “Are you comfortable?”
“Yes, thanks.”
“Plenty of food? Warm enough?”
“Yes.”
“I thought we might have a word, since your confession took me by such surprise.”
“Every word of it is true,” said Poole sadly.
Yet Lenox had his doubts, even after seeing the lad. “Will you describe it to me?”
“The maid, Martha, helped me slip into the building,” said Poole dully. “Win-that man was sitting at a round table, writing. I stabbed him in the back, like a damned coward. I left as quickly as I came, sobbing the entire way. It was a despicable act, and I deserve to swing for it.”
“What was your motive?”
“Revenge.”
“On your father’s behalf.”
“Yes.”
“Pray tell me-how did you learn of Carruthers’s involvement in your father’s trial?”
Poole shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “It’s-it’s common knowledge.”
“On the contrary, I’ve lived here since before your birth, and I never heard of it. You only returned a few months ago.”
“Naturally I would take a greater interest in the matter than you, Mr. Lenox.”
“I concede that. Still, I insist that it wasn’t common knowledge.”
“As you please.”
“Another thing, Mr. Poole. What about the paper Carruthers was writing on? Did you dispose of it? Burn it? Take it.”
Poole looked genuinely baffled at this. “I didn’t think twice about it, of course.”
“Yet it was missing from the table and hasn’t been discovered anywhere among his personal effects.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Did you truly kill Winston Carruthers, Mr. Poole?”
“Yes, I did.”
There was such conviction in the lad’s voice that Lenox believed-
Suddenly a possibility occurred to him.
“Your father was in Parliament, I believe?” said Lenox. “Before the Crimean War began?”
“Yes,” said Poole cautiously. “Why?”
There was a long pause. “Did he ever know-or did you ever know-a man named George Barnard?”
Poole’s face crumpled, but he managed to choke out the word “Who?”
“George Barnard?” said Dallington with a disbelieving laugh. “That codger.”
Lenox continued to stare at the prisoner, however. “Barnard? You knew him?”
At length Poole nodded very slightly.
“Then you really did kill Winston Carruthers?”
“I told you, yes.” Poole began to cry softly.
“My God,” Lenox whispered.