The Fleet Street Murders

The third book in the Charles Lenox series finds the gentleman detective trying to balance a heated race for Parliament with the investigation of the mysterious simultaneous deaths of two veteran reporters.It's Christmas, 1866, and amateur sleuth Charles Lenox, recently engaged to his best friend, Lady Jane Grey, is happily celebrating the holiday in his Mayfair townhouse. Across London, however, two journalists have just met with violent deaths--one shot, one throttled. Lenox soon involves himself in the strange case, which proves only more complicated as he digs deeper. However, he must leave it behind to go north to Stirrington, where he is fulfilling a lifelong dream: running for a Parliamentary seat. Once there, he gets a further shock when Lady Jane sends him a letter whose contents might threaten their nuptials.In London, the police apprehend two unlikely and unrelated murder suspects. From the start, Lenox has his doubts; the crimes, he is sure, are tied, but how? Racing back and forth between London and Stirrington, Lenox must negotiate the complexities of crime and politics, not to mention his imperiled engagement. As the case mounts, Lenox learns that the person behind the murders might be closer to him--and his beloved--than he knows.

Charles Finch is a graduate of Yale and Oxford.  His debut in the Charles Lenox series, A Beautiful Blue Death, was nominated for an Agatha Award and named one of Library Journal's Best Books of 2007.  He lives in New York

chapter one
Lenox woke up with a morning head, and as soon as he could bear to open his eyes, he gulped half the cup of coffee that his valet, butler, and trusted friend, Graham, had produced at Lenox’s fi rst stirring. “What are Edmund and Molly doing?” he asked Graham. “Lady Lenox and her sons have gone to the park, sir. It’s a fi ne morning.”
“Depends what you mean by fine,” said Lenox. He looked at his window and winced from the sun. “It seems awfully bright. My brother’s in as much pain as I am, I hope?”
“I fear so, sir.”
“Well, there is justice in the world, then,” Lenox reflected.
“Would you like me to close your curtains, sir?”
“Thanks, yes. And can you bring me some food, for the love of all that’s good?” “It should arrive momentarily, sir. Mary will be bringing it.” “Cheers, Graham. Happy Boxing Day.” “Thank you, sir. Happy Boxing Day, Mr. Lenox.” “The staff got their presents?”
“Yes, sir. They were most gratified. Ellie in particu lar expressed her thanks for the set of—”
“Well, there’s a present for you in the wardrobe if you care to fetch it,” said Lenox.
“Sir?”
“I would do it myself, but I doubt I could lift a fork in my pres­ent state.”
Graham went to the wardrobe and found the broad, thin par­cel, wrapped in plain brown paper and tied with brown rope.
“Thank you, sir,” he said.
“By all means.”
Graham carefully untied the rope and set about unwrapping the paper.
“Oh, just tear it,” said Lenox irritably.
Nevertheless, Graham stubbornly and methodically contin­ued at the same pace. At last he uncovered the present. It was a broad charcoal drawing of Moscow, which he and Lenox had once visited. Both of them looked back on it as the adventure of their lives.
“I hardly know how to thank you,” said Graham, tilting it to­ward the light. He was a man with sandy hair and an earnest, honest mien, but now a rare smile dawned on his face.
“I had it commissioned—from one of those sketches you drew us, you know.”
“But far surpassing it in size and skill, sir.”
“Well—size anyway.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Graham.
“Well, go on, find out about breakfast, won’t you? If I waste away and die you’ll be out of a job,” said Lenox. “The papers, too.”
“Of course, sir.”
“And Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas, Mr. Lenox.”
Soon breakfast came, and with it a stack of several newspapers. These Lenox ignored until he had eaten a few bites of egg and bacon and finished a second cup of coffee. Feeling more human, he glanced at the Times and then, seeing its subdued but intrigu­ing headline, flipped through the rest of the stack. The more populist papers positively screamed the news. Two of the giants of Fleet Street were dead, their last breaths exhaled within minutes of each other, according to household members and confirmed by doctors. Both the victims of murder.
Lenox picked up one of the papers at random. It happened to be the cheapest of the weekly Sunday papers, the threepenny News of the Day, a purveyor of shocking crime news and scurri­lous society rumor, which had come into existence a few de­cades before and instantly vaulted to popularity among the London multitudes. Most men of Lenox’s class would have con­sidered it a degradation to even touch the cheap newsprint the News came on, but it was the detective’s bread and butter. He had often found stories in the News of the Day that no other pa­per printed, about domestic skirmishes in Cheapside, anonymous dark-skinned corpses down among the docks, strange maladies that spread through the slums. The paper had recently played a crucial role in reporting the case of James Barry. A famous sur­geon who had performed the first successful cesarean section in all of Africa, he had died—and after his death was discovered to have in fact been, of all things, a woman. Margaret Ann, by birth. It had been for a time the story on every pair of lips in Lon­don and was still often spoken of.
shock christmas murder of fleet street duo, the headline on the front page shouted. Eagerly, Lenox read the article.
The shock murder of two of London journalism’s finest practitioners has shocked London this morning. “Winsome” Winston Carruthers, London editor of the Daily Telegraph, and the catholic Simon Pierce of the Daily News died within minutes of each other on christmas night. An un­known assailant shot Pierce in the heart at Pierce’s South London home, waking his entire house hold and throwing his wife into fits of hysteria, at approximately 1:07 a.m. this morning. No witnesses have contacted the Metropolitan Police: come forth if you saw anything, readers.
Not five minutes before, according to police reports, scarcely an hour into Boxing Day, Winston Carruthers was stabbed in his Oxford Street apartments. Police found Car­ruthers still warm after a resident of Oxford Street re­ported seeing a tall, disguised man climbing down a rope ladder!
Exclusively, the notd has learned that Carruthers’s land­lady and  housekeeper, a Belgian woman, was on the scene and cooperated with the police officers—only to vanish this morning, leaving her apartments and their contents behind save for several small bags. Her two children left with her. Word has been sent to the ports of England with a de­scription of the  housekeeper. She is fat, with a prominent nose and a shriveled left hand. if you see her, readers, con­tact the police, or the notd’s editorial offi ces.
According to inspector exeter, reliable and much dec­orated officer of Scotland Yard, the  housekeeper (name withheld at our discretion) is not a suspect: At the same brief moments of the murder and the murderer’s abscond­ing, she was witnessed by a few dozen people along Oxford Street visiting a local alehouse. however, readers, she may still be an accomplice to murder! If you see her, contact the police.
carruthers, forty-nine, was a native of our fair city, a childless bachelor who leaves behind a sister in Surrey. pierce, fifty-four, leaves behind a wife, bess, and a daughter, eliza, who is stationed with her husband in bombay. The news sends its sympathy to all of the bereaved.
added for second printing: inspector exeter has al­ready cracked the case, according to a reliable source, and found a definite link between the two men besides their
profession. watch this space for more.
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 fi ve 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 fl oor.”
“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 fi ve.” “Cheers,” said Edmund and left the room.  Excerpted from the Fleet Street Murders by Charles Finch.
Copyright © 2009 by Charles Finch.
Published in November 2009 by St. Martin's Press.
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