Charles Finch - Fleet Street murders

Below this piece of sensationalism were two lengthier profiles of the men. Turning to the other papers, Lenox found much the same stories, with minor variances of biography. A shooting and a stabbing, five minutes apart. He wondered what the “definite link” between Carruthers and Pierce might be. Straightaway he thought it must be some story they had both covered. Perhaps he would try through covert means to discover what it was. A fascinating case, certainly-but did he have time to try to help solve it?

It was a busy period in Lenox’s life. Recently he had solved one of his most difficult cases, a murder in Oxford, and been shot for his efforts. Only grazed, but still. After a long life of solitude, too, he was engaged to be married. Most pressing of all, soon he was to participate in a by-election for Parliament in Stirrington, near the city of Durham. His brother and several other Members of the Liberal Party had approached him to ask him to run. Though he loved his work as a detective and bravely embraced the low esteem in which the members of his class held his profession, to be in Parliament was the dream of his lifetime.

Still-these murders would be the great story of the day, and Lenox felt a longing to be involved in their solution. One of his few friends at Scotland Yard was a bright young inspector named Jenkins, and to him Lenox wrote a short query, entrusting it to Mary’s care when the maid came to fetch the remains of his breakfast. He felt better for having eaten. A third cup of coffee sat on his bedside table, and he reached for it.

Just then Edmund knocked on the door and came in. He looked green around the gills.

“Hullo, brother,” said Charles. “Feeling badly?”

“Awful.”

“Did eating help?”

“Don’t even mention food, I beg of you,” said Edmund. “I would rather face Attila the Hun than a plate of toast.”

Charles laughed. “I’m sorry to hear it.”

“Molly had the heart to take the boys out earlier. Not even a word of reproach. What a treasure she is.” A sentimental look came into Edmund’s eyes.

“Do you have meetings today?”

“Not until five o’clock or so. The Prime Minister has remained in town.”

“You said last night.”

“I need to sharpen up before then, to be sure. Perhaps I’ll go back to sleep.”

“The wisest course,” Charles assured him.

“Then I’ll have a bath and try to put myself into some decent shape. At the moment I feel like the offspring of a human being and a puddle on the floor.”

“Have you seen the papers, by the way?”

“What happened?”

“Two journalists were murdered last night-opposite sides of town within just a few minutes of each other.”

“Oh yes? Well, you’ve other things to concentrate on at the moment.”

“I do, I know,” said Charles rather glumly. “I wrote Jenkins, though.”

Edmund stopped pacing, and his face took on a stern aspect. “Many people are counting on you, Charles,” he said. “Not to mention your country.”

“Yes.”

“You should spend this month before you go up to Stirrington meeting with politicians, granting interviews, strategizing with James Hilary.” Hilary was a bright young star in the firmament of Liberal politics and a friend of Charles’s, one of those who had entreated him to stand for Parliament. “This time can be quite as productive as any you spend in Durham.”

“I thought you were sick.”

“This is crucial, Charles.”

“You never did any of that,” the younger brother answered.

“Father had my seat. And his father. And his father. World without end.”

“I know, I know. I simply feel irresponsible if I stay out of things, I suppose. My meddling ways.”

“Just think of all the good we’ll do when you’re in the House,” said Edmund.

“Especially if we don’t stay up late drinking.”

Edmund sighed. “Yes. Especially then, I grant you.”

“See you downstairs.”

“Don’t let them wake me up before I’m ready.”

“I won’t. Unless it’s nearing five.”

“Cheers,” said Edmund and left the room.

That afternoon Inspector Jenkins answered Lenox’s note by visiting in person. Lenox was sitting in the long, book-filled room he used as library and study. Just down the front hall of the house, it had comfortable sofas and armchairs and a long desk, as well as a broad, high row of windows that looked out over Hampden Lane. The rain of the evening before had gone but left in its place a low, rolling fog that thickened over the streets of London. Lamplighters were out early, trying to provide the city with visibility.

Jenkins was young and clever. He wore glasses on his earnest face and had an unruly crop of light brown hair.

“How do you do, Lenox?” he asked and accepted a cup of tea. “Exeter’s not letting me near the case, so I thought I’d come by.”

“I know how he can be.”

“Oh, of course, of course.”

Inspector Exeter, a powerful man in the police force whose blunt tactics and lack of perception had both alienated him from the amateur detective and pushed him up through the ranks, was famously territorial about his cases and particularly disliked Lenox’s occasional interference. Despite that, Exeter had had occasion to call on Lenox’s skills and might not entirely reject his help if the case of the two journalists reached an impasse.

“What details did you keep out of the papers?”

“The Belgian housekeeper?”

“Yes?”

“Martha Claes, she’s called. Apparently she had bragged to one or two of her friends that she was coming into a bit of money. We think the murderer paid her enough that she could leave.”

“That tells us something about the criminal, then.”

“What?”

“Well-that he would rather use money than violence. Not many criminals are that way, in my experience. Not many criminals have enough money to send three marginally genteel people out of London, leaving all their possessions behind. No robbery from Carruthers’s rooms, I presume?”

“That’s correct, actually, yes.”

“Probably he knew the household well enough to approach Mrs. Claes as an acquaintance.”

“You think the criminal had visited Carruthers?”

“Wouldn’t he have had to? Simply approaching the man’s housekeeper on the street would have been extremely foolhardy.”

“Yes, of course.”

“It seems more likely that he was visiting upstairs than downstairs, given that he offered Mrs. Claes money.”

“Of course assuming she didn’t actually inherit it.”

“A lone foreigner in this country, without a husband? Then, too, if she had come by the money honestly, why run?”

“Fear?”

Lenox shook his head. “I doubt it. The murderer is either very rich or willing to spend his last farthing to murder these two men. More likely the first than the second, I would wager.”

Jenkins took a note of this. “Yes,” he said. “We hadn’t thought that through.”

“How is Exeter handling the matter?” asked Lenox.

“As he usually does,” said Jenkins without inflection, his loyalty in this instance to the Yard rather than his superior.

“With all the tact of an angry bull, then?”

Jenkins laughed. “If you choose to say so, Mr. Lenox. He’s roused every able-bodied stable boy and driver on the street to accuse them of the crime.”

Lenox snorted. “A clever stable boy, to use a rope ladder rather than risk getting caught by servants who walk between houses every day.”

“Indeed,” said Jenkins. “Though it backfired in the end, that cleverness-we found the ladder, after all.”

“What else?”

“One other thing about Carruthers.”