Home by Nightfall (34 page)
Authors: Charles Finch
Lenox thought that his brother did seem better. Exceptâthere were still moments when he didn't think anyone was looking, and Charles caught a glimpse of his face and saw that it was desolate, haggard, old. If he could just make it through the winter, Lenox thought, he would be all right. It was a shame Teddy wasn't back, but at least James had made it home in time for Christmas.
In the front hallway they stamped their boots, and Edmund, who was just around the corner in the long drawing room, a newspaper under his arm, came out to say hello. “Edmund, do you remember where we were when King William died?”
“I'm sure I have an alibi.”
Lenox smiled. “No, I meanâdo you remember Fat Sam breaking the news to Milton, and taking a pint? He never took a pint, either.”
“Vaguely. I remember Fat Sam proposing to Mrs. Appleby.”
“What!” said Lady Jane.
“She declined. I don't think he was much bothered, though, because he was married within a month. Wanted any old wife, I suppose. He'd just turned forty.”
“I would have guessed he was six thousand years old,” said Lenox. “Is he still alive?”
“Oh, yes. His son drives the mails now. In fact, I was going to go down and pick Atherton up from it in half an hour.”
“Atherton takes the mails?” said Lady Jane, who was removing her final wrapper. “I thought he was so prosperous.”
“He is, too,” said Edmund. “The train makes him ill. It's very bad luck, because it takes three times as long and sometimes you have no choice but to sit outside. Still.”
“I'll ride down with you,” said Lenox. “I want to meet Fat Sam's son. We could have a chat with him.”
“Well, I would moderate your expectations of his conversation. I've never gotten him to say more than âgood morning' to me, and if I ask after his father he looks as if I might be trying to dun the old fellow for a debt.”
Charles and Edmund left the house just when it was in a whirl of preparation, the servants crossing every room ten times a minute, polishing, cooking, carting. They rode down to the turnoff in the carriage. It was less than a mile, but Edmund thought Atherton might be tired, especially as he was coming directly to the party. They drove themselves, trading off the reins, and when they arrived they tied the horses to a hitching post and stepped down, and Edmund lit his pipe, Charles his small cigar, and they stood and waited.
Lenox asked about Stevens, Clavering, Hadley, Adelaide Snow. He had already heard the former mayor's name several times at the marketâalways in a tone that made him sound like the murderer, not the murdered, and in every instance it was accompanied by a broad wink that implied that the speaker knew Calloway had done it, but that he couldn't possibly be blamed, either. Indeed, Lenox had asked several people if Calloway was at the market, but he hadn't beenânot for a month. On the other hand, he had seen Clavering and Bunce, who were giving a stern word of reprimand to Elizabeth Watson's younger son for playing with a rasp, a small rolling ball on a stick that sounded exactly like the sound of tearing cloth. The boy had nodded very contritely, and then Lenox had watched him rasp Bunce about fifteen minutes later. So Markethouse was much the same.
According to Lenox, Calloway's low profileâamong men who knewâwas reckoned a good thing, saving the village the embarrassment of arresting him.
“Do you think he's with his daughter?” said Lenox.
Edmund shrugged. “I hope he is.”
As for Adelaide Snow, she had taken charge of the local library now; her father had just put in a new well; Hadley had offered Edmund life insurance more and more aggressively each time he had seen him; the Adams sisters nodded to him very civilly when he saw them, though, he admitted, without smiling, exactly.
“There's the coach,” Lenox said.
“Thank goodness it's on time. It's getting colder.”
It trotted up, and Lenox called out his hello to the driver, who ignored him completely. Atherton stepped down heavily, but smiling, a small leather bag in hand. “Edmund, you're a prince to meet me. And Charles! Pleasant surpriseâI don't know how you stand London, either. I couldn't wait to be gone.”
Atherton's tone was pleasant and his words customarily lighthearted, but there was something peculiar in his face.
It took a moment, but then Lenox saw why.
Stepping down behind Atherton from the coach was a young man, much taller, much slenderer than he had been when he first went aboard the
Lucy.
Instinctively Charles looked over at his brother, and saw in his expression first a graveness, and then behind it a barely contained delight, a full burst of love. It was his son, Teddy, thank God, and that meant that Edmund's family, what family he had left, would all be home for Christmas.
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CHARLES FINCH
is the author of the Charles Lenox mysteries, including
The Fleet Street Murders
,
The September Society, A Stranger in Mayfair, A Burial at Sea, A Death in the Small Hours, An Old Betrayal,
and
The Laws of Murder
. His first contemporary novel,
The Last Enchantments
, is also available from St. Martin's Press.
Find him online at
www.facebook.com/charlesfinchauthor
and on Twitter @CharlesFinch. You can sign up for email updates
here
.
    
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Also by
Charles Finch
The Charles Lenox Series
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Contents
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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
HOME BY NIGHTFALL.
Copyright © 2015 by Charles Lenox. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
Cover design by David Baldeosingh Rotstein
Cover photograph © Pamela D. Furstenfeld
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-07041-8 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4668-8019-1 (e-book)
e-ISBN 9781466880191
Our e-books may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at (800) 221-7945, extension 5442, or by e-mail at
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First Edition: November 2015
