Free The Fleet Street Murders by Charles Finch

really don’t look down on Stirrington, you have my absolute word. Whatever Mr. Roodle says.”
    “No, no, of course,” said the lawyer, red faced. “At any rate—to Mrs. Reeve’s?”
    However, Mrs. Reeve was—and Mr. Smith called it an aberration—away from home. According to her housekeeper, who looked flustered, Mrs. Reeve was at her doctor’s.
    “And if people would stop visiting until she returned I wouldn’t complain,” she added. Then rushed to say, “Not meaning you, Mr. Smith.”
    It was just past four o’clock by then. “I hate to waste any daylight,” said Smith, “but perhaps we should visit Mrs. Reeve after supper?”
    “Will she be up that late?”
    “She keeps very late hours—requires next to no sleep, apparently.”
    “She does sound a peculiar woman,” Lenox said.
    “Well—quite.”
    Back at the Queen’s Arms, Lenox found Crook serving pints of ale to the first men who were getting off work. He had already heard all about the speech and congratulated Lenox on the success of his conversation with Roodle.
    “Dirty trick,” the bartender added, “but we’ll see him done for.”
    “I hope so, anyway.”
    “If he wants a fight, he’ll have a fight.”
    “I’ve never asked you, Mr. Crook: Why do you involve yourself in politics? Is it of special interest to you?”
    “I’ve always thought a man ought to believe in something, Mr. Lenox, and if he believes in something he ought to support it. Good evening, Mr. Pyle. A pint of mild, I expect?”
    With that Crook was at the other end of the bar.
    “Perhaps we could see Mrs. Reeve tomorrow, Mr. Smith? I don’t feel my most vigorous.”
    “Of course,” said Sandy, although he looked chagrined.
    Lenox didn’t care a fig at the moment, however, and bade farewell to his companion even as he began to walk tiredly up the stairs to his room.
    “Wait, sir!” said the voice of Lucy, the waitress, behind him. “Here’s your telegram!”
    With some excitement Lenox took it from her, enfolding a few pennies’ tip in her hand.
    It was from Dallington, sent in at Claridge’s Hotel. Lenox knew this was one of Dallington’s watering holes and hoped the young man wasn’t reverting, as he occasionally had even under Lenox’s tutelage, to his old, dissipated ways. Still, the telegram was coherent.

GLAD YOU ARE INTERESTED IN THE CASE STOP LONDON TEDIOUS AT THE MOMENT STOP SMALLS FOUND HANGING BY BOOTLACES FROM WALL HOOK IN HIS CELL STOP APPARENT SUICIDE STOP EXETER CONVINCED MURDER STOP VERY FEW DETAILS RELEASED BUT SPOKE TO WARDEN TODAY STOP SMALLS LEFT BEHIND SEVERAL TORN BITS OF PAPER AND ON TOP OF THEM THE FAMOUS ORANGES STOP GOOD LUCK THERE STOP DALLINGTON

    As Lenox was reading, McConnell knocked at the door and came in, looking fresher after his day’s rest but troubled nevertheless.
    “Read this,” said the detective.
    “Interesting,” said McConnell when he was finished. He handed it back. “What do you make of it?”
    “Well—I wonder whether it was murder. If Exeter believes something, I always examine the opposite possibility.”
    “Suicide?”
    “Doesn’t it seem more likely than murder? Why murder Smalls if you were his partner? Wouldn’t it draw attention to you?”
    “Of course,” said McConnell. “Hence the appearance of suicide.”
    Lenox sighed. “You’re right, of course, and it’s easy enough to enter a prison if you wish to—those guards will look away for a price, no matter what you do. Only it seems so transparent. Still, there was always the risk of Smalls ratting out whomever he worked with.”
    “Yes.”
    “I wish I knew what ‘several torn bits of paper’ meant, exactly.” Lenox paused. “McConnell, how are you feeling?”
    The doctor shrugged. “Well enough physically, I suppose. Full of regret as well.”
    “I know you came all this way, but how about some work?”
    To Lenox’s surprise, McConnell fairly leapt at the idea. “I would like that beyond anything.”
    “It would be