The Fleet Street Murders by Charles Finch Page A

sharply.
    “No.”
    Now, McConnell was truly a world-class doctor. In his time he had been one of the most gifted surgeons on Harley Street, the epicenter of the empire’s medical community, and had treated the royal and the destitute side by side. Toto’s family had considered it beneath their dignity that their scion should marry a medical man, however, and though he had resisted for three years after his marriage, in the end they had persuaded him to sell the practice to an impoverished relation for a mere song.
    It had been the catastrophic mistake of his life. Work had given him purpose and identity; left to his own devices, to the endless hours of an unoccupied day, he had begun to collapse inward. Now he only practiced when he helped Lenox. Because of the doctor’s state, however, Lenox felt less confident in the man than usual.
    “How do you know?”
    McConnell breathed a deep, steadying sigh. “It comes down to his bootlaces.”
    “Yes?”
    “I saw them. I visited your friend Jenkins, at Scotland Yard.”
    “I’m seeing him this morning.”
    “He managed to show me the bootlaces. He had to risk getting caught when he pulled them out of evidence, but I impressed the urgency of it on him.”
    “What was so telling about the bootlaces?”
    “That they weren’t broken.”
    “Well, of course they weren’t—they—” Then Lenox saw it. “They couldn’t have borne Smalls’s weight.”
    “Precisely. I nosed around at the coroner’s a bit. I couldn’t manage to see the body, for which I’m sorry—”
    “Not at all.”
    “I did find out that Smalls weighed roughly eleven stone. I measured the bootlaces, looked at the report Exeter drew up to see how they had been arranged around his neck, went out and bought a dozen pair of identical laces, and then did some experiments at the butcher’s.”
    “And?”
    “I tried hanging every hog and cow in the place—even a few that were much lighter than eleven stone—and every time the laces snapped. They were thin ones.”
    “The butcher let you?”
    “I gave him a bottle of whisky.”
    “Brilliantly managed,” said Lenox.
    McConnell’s eyes steadied for a moment and shone with the happiness of a job well done. “Thank you, Lenox,” he said.
    “Yet how did Smalls stay up on the wall?”
    “I believe I figured that out, too. According to the Yard’s report, his belt was unusually worn—with the buckle in back.”
    “His back was to the wall, correct?” Suddenly Lenox thought of the colored square on the wall where a second hook had once been. “They turned his belt around, so it would hitch to the metal bit?”
    “Yes.”
    “I wonder if Exeter saw that.”
    “Perhaps,” said McConnell. “Perhaps.”
    “Then what killed the man?”
    “I’ve no doubt it was strangulation. I know the coroner who wrote the report. He’s very good.”
    “Strangulation that was then made to look as if it were suicide? There’s one problem remaining, of course.”
    “Do you mean—what his belt was hooked to?”
    “Exactly. Can Natt have been lying?”
    “Who?”
    “The warden.”
    “I don’t know,” said McConnell.
    “Well—it was awfully well done, anyway,” said Lenox. “We know what we’re facing now.”
    Just then there was a ring at the door. It would be Dallington. Glancing up at his clock, Lenox saw it was just past eight.
    But no.
    “Lady Jane Grey,” announced Mary and held the door for Lenox’s betrothed.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

    I
    t was very awkward, because Lenox had strode toward the door of the library when he heard the ring, and as Jane came in she saw only him at first.
    “Charles!” she said with high emotion after Mary had closed the door behind her. “I saw you come home.”
    “I was just on my way to see you,” he said, “after keeping two short appointments.”
    “Hello, Jane,” said McConnell just then, apparently without perceiving her fragile state.
    She started. “Why—hello, Thomas.”
    “How do you