Charles Finch
Home by Nightfall
This book is dedicated to Dennis Popp and Linda Bock, with love, gratitude, and affection.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
What do you say when a line in the acknowledgments isn’t enough? I owe so much more than a simple thanks to my editor, Charlie Spicer, and my agent, Elisabeth Weed — two people who love and understand books, who work beautifully in concert, and who have supported me and this novel in innumerable crucial ways. Consider this a placeholder until I can buy each of them a private island.
Charlie’s colleagues at St. Martin’s have been typically sterling in their efforts on behalf of Home by Nightfall, inventive and perceptive: my deepest thanks to Sally Richardson, Andy Martin, Hector DeJean, Sarah Melnyk, April Osborn, Paul Hochman, and Melissa Hastings. The same goes for all of Elisabeth’s colleagues at The Book Group, particularly Dana Murphy.
Friendship has never seemed more important to me, and I’ve been grateful for that of so many different people in the last year, including Rachel Brodhead, Matt McCarthy, John Phillips, and Ben Reiter; Hendrik and Alya Woods; Alexander Uihlein; June Kim and Daniel Hwang; my newest pals, Amelia, Madeleine, Henry, Nathan, and Jane; and so many others, who were probably thanked in the last book or will be in the next.
To Mom, Dad, Rosie, Julia, Henry, Isabelle, and Jamie, my unending affection and my ongoing feeling of wonder that I am lucky enough to be related to you.
Emily, Annabel, Lucy, thank you for being the sweetness of my life, in times that might otherwise have been hard. With you beside me even tempests are kind, and salt waves fresh in love.
CHAPTER ONE
It was a blustery London morning in the autumn of 1876, wind and rain heavy in the trees lining Chancery Lane, and here, damn it all, stood before Charles Lenox something that nobody should have to tolerate before breakfast: a beaming Frenchman.
“What is it, Pointilleux?” he asked.
“I have solve the case.”
“Oh?”
“I believe he has never enter the room at all.”
Lenox sighed. “Are those the papers you’re holding? Could I see them?”
“Do you not observe the elegance of it, though! He has never enter the room at all.”
Pointilleux handed over the neat pile of newspapers, face expectant, and Lenox, tired and moody, felt an unbecoming glee at being allowed to dash his enthusiasm. “Three people saw him go into his dressing room. And the glass of wine that he always had waiting for him after a concert was drunk up, all but a few drops.”
Pointilleux’s face fell. He was a tall, straight-backed, handsome young person of nineteen, very earnest, with large dark eyes and jet black hair. A late-summer attempt to grow side-whiskers had ended in ignominious defeat; his face was clean-shaven again.
“You are certain?”
“Yes. I had it from the detective inspector himself.”
“This information does not present itself in the newspapers.”
“They’re holding back as much as they can to distinguish false tips from real ones. So you’d better keep mum.”
“Mum.” Pointilleux looked dissatisfied. “I was very sure.”
“Better luck next time,” said Lenox, tiredly. He was past forty-five now, and it took more of the day for him to overcome a late night. “And now you’d better get to your desk — I have a great deal to do, and not much time before my first appointment of is due.”
This was true. His professional life had rarely been better, more gratifying, more full of excitement; nor had it often been more exhausting, more burdened with care, more tedious.
Newby, his appointment, was a country fellow, a prosperous brewer of apple cider in Somerset. He arrived precisely at eight o’clock — but looking much battered, red in the face, with mud spattered three-quarters of the way up his trousers.
“You found your way easily enough?” asked Lenox.
Newby gave him a look of outrage. “I call it a pretty kettle of fish,” he said, settling his great bulk into the chair across Lenox’s desk, “when a fellow in the prime of his life cannot walk down the streets of England’s greatest city without getting trod on by a horse, or knocked about by a woman selling oysters, or pushed over by an omnibus!”
Lenox frowned. “Oh dear.”
“I am accustomed to a pretty hearty traffic in Bristol on market day, too, sir!” he said. “Pretty hearty traffic!”
“That’s very bad,” said Lenox.
“These young women selling oysters ought to be in jail.”
“I can have a word with someone.”
“Would you? I think someone should, honestly.”
It was the usual story — London was a hellish place to walk if you weren’t accustomed to it. There was a famous story about Charlotte and Anne Brontë coming from the country to visit their publisher; they’d stayed at a hotel not two hundred yards from his offices, but their morning walk to reach it had taken them more than an hour, including long periods for which they stood completely still, in something near blind despair, as foot traffic moved around them.
Lenox, used to it all, the children ducking under the heads of horses, the city men whose strides gulped great stretches of pavement, hadn’t had such troubles in many years, but he was happy to spend five further minutes listening to Newby bemoan the impossibility of walking down Holborn Street in broad daylight without being knocked over like a spring flower every thirty seconds, what did they have an empire for at all, and in older days people hadn’t been quite so busy and they had managed very well if you asked him, thank you, and really things had come to a fine pass — and all that kind of thing, the statement of which gradually lulled Newby into a better mood than Lenox had ever seen him in before. It occurred to Lenox that if he instituted the practice of spending the first ten minutes of every meeting listening to their thoughts on the state of the modern world, his clientele would be the most contented in London.
At last, Newby came to his business. “I’m convinced that our distributor in Bath, Jonathan Fotheringham, is skimming money from us.”
“Can you change distributors?”
“He’s our best and only option there, unfortunately.”
Lenox frowned. “What makes you think he’s stealing?”
Newby was provincial, but he was no fool. From his valise he pulled a sheaf of papers, which showed that in each of the last five quarters there had been an incremental decline in the revenue of Fotheringham’s district, while everywhere else there had been a rise in revenue. Lenox asked a variety of questions — Was it possible there was a new competitor? How long had Fotheringham been a reliable partner? — before at last nodding, thoughtfully, and promising to send Atkinson to Bath.
“Is he good?”
“Our top man,” said Lenox, nodding. “He was at Scotland Yard until last year. First person we hired.”
“What about you, or Strickland, or Dallington? The fellows on the nameplate?”
“They’re both on cases, and I’m working primarily in a supervisory capacity nowadays. Believe me, Atkinson is excellent. If I didn’t take this seriously, I would send our new chap, Davidson. He’s promising, but greener than one of your apples.”
Newby seemed satisfied by the answer. He accepted a fortifying glass of sherry, then rose and braced himself to wade back into the midden of London, with a grave final word before he left about the city’s general decline, and what it portended for them all.
These were Lenox’s days now. About ten months before, at the start of the year, he and three other people had started the first detective agency in England. After a difficult beginning, particularly for Lenox, who had spent the better part of the previous decade sitting in Parliament, falling hopelessly out of practice as a criminal investigator, they had made a success of it.