The Fleet Street Murders by Charles Finch Read Free Book Online Page A

in response to my telegram sending them the numbers Crook had worked up of past votes. It’s the time, you see—because Stoke died we don’t have enough time.”
    Lenox felt at a conversational disadvantage, lying in bed, and his heart plummeted. “How does Roodle look strong?”
    “He’s spending as much money as you’ll be able to, which frankly we didn’t expect. He has a much higher name recognition—and, though it’s not your fault, and though people here feel respectful of old Stoke, they’re ready for a change.”
    “How poor do you think my chances are?”
    “If you fight hard, you might get within a few hundred votes of him. Then—who knows?”
    “But the chances aren’t good enough for you to stay?”
    “I’m afraid not,” said Hilary with a guilty look. “You know we’re friends, and in the SPQR club together, Lenox, but damn it—politics is a ruthless game, and we have to follow the momentum.”
    “I see.”
    Hilary looked pained. “If it were simply up to me, I would have stayed till the bitter end. You know the respect I entertain for you, Lenox.”
    “Well,” said Lenox, unsure of what to say.
    Hilary stood up. “I’ll be downstairs. Come,” he said encouragingly, “let’s give a fight. This morning will be a good start.”
    Lenox sat in his bed and listened to the footfalls as Hilary walked downstairs. Uncertainty, suddenly, where all had seemed promising. Lady Jane’s letter was still in his hand.

CHAPTER SEVEN

    I
    t was a long slog of a day, his first full one in Stirrington. Hilary took the latest train back that he could, with another string of apologies for Lenox before he went. More hopefully, Crook said, “Never mind him. These London types are weak willed, when it comes to politics. There’s fighting left to be done.” Strangely, because Crook was so gloomy these words meant much more than they would have coming from a more sanguine character.
    Walking around the town that evening, Lenox felt heartened. He had given four speeches that day; the first, before a handful of shopkeepers on the edge of town, had been a timorous, uncertain homily about the importance of lending one another a hand. The line he had concluded with, “Friends before treasure!” had earned him only a few disapproving stares, not the applause he had hoped for, and he only realized belatedly that the men in the crowd were primarily concerned with their treasure—of friends they had enough. He had gained confidence as he went, though, and having walked around Stirrington all day, he now recognized some of the faces and many of the shops he passed.
    He stopped into a chop house and had a supper of lamb and wine, talking the whole while with several men at the bar. At first they were taciturn, but Lenox did have one gift as a politician, even though he hadn’t had time to develop more than a raw way about him—he could listen. He liked to listen, in fact. When these men found that one of the quality was interested in what they said, they found their voices. Primarily they talked about Roodle.
    “Bleeding Robert Roodle,” said a thin and thin-voiced one, “I was workin’ in his brewery and lost my job.”
    “Did you get another one?”
    “Well—yes,” said the man, in that particular grudging way of the English, “but no thanks to ’im.”
    Here a jollier fellow, who had introduced himself to Lenox as the local blacksmith, chimed in. “What’s worse was ’is father, ’e was. A reg’lar tyrant.” Then he braced himself for a long soliloquy. “The facts about Stirrington, sir, is that we here like hard work, we like our ale, we like our Sunday service, and we like promises kept. That’s the secret, Mr. Lenox. Don’t make promises you can’t keep; we’ll find you out, sir, we will.”
    “We will,” agreed Roodle’s aggrieved former employee.
    “Beer tax—you’ve made a good start, sir.”
    “Aye, it’s true,” said several of the mute chorus who had been listening to