The Fleet Street Murders by Charles Finch

its own tale, the man’s choice of what to read.
    “Did the paper have any markings or writing on it?”
    “There will be a note on the reverse of the sheet if it does.”
    “Ah—thank you.”
    In fact, there was an addendum. In careful handwriting, a clerk’s probably, it read, “Note dated Dec. 20, no signature or address, beginning ‘The dogcarts pull away’ and ending ‘No green.’ Thirty-two words, nonsense or code.”
    Well, this was maddening.
    “Is there no way to get hold of the note?”
    “You might inquire about it with 122’s mother.”
    “Indeed I shall. You have her address, I hope?” Lenox said, trying to contain his ire.
    “Here it is, somewhere on my desk.” Natt shuffled through his things. “Ah, yes, here.” He copied the address down for Lenox. “Will that be all?”
    “Yes, thank you. I appreciate your help.”
    “We strive for transparency, and in particular as you’re now in—in the public eye, as it were . . .”
    So this was why it had been so easy to see the prison. “Yes?”
    “If you do make it into Parliament, Mr. Lenox, I can guess you won’t forget us?”
    “Of course not.”
    Natt fairly beamed. “Topping! Yes, well, I wish you all of the best luck in your campaign and your—your case alike.”
    “Thank you, Warden.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

    I
    t was nearing eight o’clock in the morning now, and as Lenox rode homeward his thoughts turned to Lady Jane, whom he pictured in the small pale blue study, across from the rose-colored sitting room, where she spent her mornings. She would be reading her letters and answering them with a cup of tea beside her, and Lenox wondered whether perhaps his own note lay on her mahogany desk. It was foolish, but he felt afraid of visiting her. Still, he believed in facing things that frightened him and decided that after speaking with McConnell and Dallington he would go to her house.
    He arrived at his own familiar door and found that the moment he touched the knob it flew open, with McConnell behind it. Mary, who was in charge of the house in Graham’s absence, stood a few feet behind him with a worried look on her face.
    “How do you do, Lenox? I’m a bit early.”
    “How do you do, Thomas? Shall we go to the library?”
    “Yes, yes. I have news.”
    About Toto or the case? It wouldn’t do to ask in front of Mary, however, who had taken Lenox’s coat and now trotted down the long front hallway behind the two men, whispering in Lenox’s ear that his suitcase had arrived, sir, and would he like breakfast, and that she had offered Dr. McConnell a seat, but he had insisted on waiting by the door. Lenox dismissed her with as much tolerance as he could muster, instructing her to admit Dallington whenever the young man arrived. Mary, who was always over-awed by her responsibility when Graham was gone and Lenox spoke to her directly, blushed and stammered and left.
    In Lenox’s library a fire had just been lit, and to his agitation the papers on his desk were now neatly stacked.
    “Will you come sit by the fire?” Lenox asked. “I’ve a bit of a chill. Winter weather.”
    “With pleasure,” said McConnell.
    The doctor’s face was flushed, and his eyes were slightly wild, darting a little too often to his left and right, never quite focusing. His hands trembled just slightly. His hair was combed back, but his clothes certainly hadn’t been changed in twenty-four hours, maybe more.
    Gently, Lenox said, “May I ask after Toto’s health?”
    “I haven’t seen her,” said McConnell. “I’m staying at Claridge’s. Even so, her doctor says she’s well.”
    “I’m so glad to hear it.”
    McConnell nodded. “Yes,” he said. Then, a little less certainly, he said it again. “Yes.”
    “How are you?”
    “I’ve found something out, I believe.”
    “What is that?” said Lenox, pouring two cups of coffee. McConnell looked as if he could use it.
    “I think Smalls was murdered.”
    “Not a suicide?” asked Lenox