The Fleet Street Murders by Charles Finch Page A

troubled sleep.
    Lenox spent the morning giving speeches. In his spare moments he read the previous day’s London papers. They were still full of the two “Fleet Street murders,” and amid long encomiums to Simon Pierce and Winston Carruthers ( journalists, after all, love to eulogize their own; a way of pushing off their own obscurity a little further) were all the details and speculations that papers, high and low alike, could muster about Hiram Smalls, the mysterious man who had been arrested in connection with the murders.
    The details were certain, if few. He lived in Bethnal Green with his mother. This picturesque detail the papers dwelt on at great length, and they inquired endlessly about Mrs. Smalls’s feelings. In person Hiram was a short, solid, muscular figure, with (purportedly) cunning eyes and without discernible scars, birth-marks, etc. He had never been in legal trouble, and while he liked the life of rough pubs and gin mills, he had never (at least that anybody would willingly say) associated with any of London’s numerous gangs or thief-taking operations.
    For supper one day he had ordered out from prison to a local pub, asking for a pork chop, two large glasses of ale, and a bag of oranges. Ordering food into prison was a common enough activity— for those with money , said the papers with dark suggestion—but these oranges! Such an extravagant fruit! Local markets condescended to quote their price for a single orange to the various papers, and all agreed one could not be had for less than a shilling, the price of several meals. As was customary for prisoners, the pub extended no credit. Where, then, did Hiram Smalls get his coin—not to mention his nerve?
    There were a few quotes from Inspector Exeter about the case. When the press urged him to explain how Hiram Smalls might have killed two men on opposite sides of town at once, Exeter said that the Yard wasn’t ruling out the possibility of a conspiracy between Smalls and several of his local associates. A gang, then, the press very naturally inquired? Possibly a gang, Exeter allowed, though we cannot say more. Did gangs not sometimes have rich or even aristocratic chieftains? Yes, said Exeter. However, it was evident that Smalls was either the sole mover or the leader of a conspiracy—such was clear from interrogation of the prisoner, canvassing of the eyewitnesses, and one particular piece of shocking evidence.
    This piece of evidence was that Smalls and Carruthers’s maid, Martha, had unquestionably met and conversed within the last month. There were a dozen eyewitnesses who could place them at the Gun pub off of Liverpool Street, including one who happened to know both of them—Hiram from nearby Bethnal Green and Martha because the gentleman made deliveries to Winston Carruthers.
    All this Lenox learned from yesterday’s papers.
    Morning speeches given, he returned at two o’clock in the afternoon to find McConnell at a front table in the pub, gazing with a melancholy air through the small window he sat by. A glass of Scotch whisky sat before him, untouched. He stood up when he saw the detective.
    “Lenox,” he said. “How can I apologize?”
    “You’ve had a difficult week,” said Lenox.
    “I had some wild idea of helping you with the campaign, being of some—of some goddamn use in this world.”
    Lenox noticed McConnell’s hand trembling slightly, whether from nerves or drink. “Thomas, you must allow yourself to grieve,” he said. “You’re not at fault.”
    Dismissively, the doctor responded, “Lenox, you—”
    “Thomas—you’re not at fault.”
    Lenox held McConnell’s gaze until the latter looked away. “At any rate,” he said.
    “How is Toto’s health?” inquired Lenox in a neutral tone.
    “She’s recuperating. Jane is with her.”
    “How long will she require rest?”
    “She can move already, but her doctor told me that she must first calm her nerves.”
    “Of course.”
    “It was a fluke, he also