A Beautiful Blue Death by Charles Finch Read Free Book Online Page A

edges of the case, going to the club where it had happened (and where he was a member), asking around a bit about Hawkins. The deeper he went the more perplexing it got. Hawkins appeared to be innocent. For one thing, Hawkins had been facing young John Marbury across the card table, but the wound indicated that the bullet had come from the roof across the street.
    He solved the case by looking through the card room at the club, where he found, tucked beneath a curtain, three half-used candles and an only slightly used fourth one. One detail that policemen had found puzzling was that Hawkins had had three candles. He had explained he needed them to read his cards by, but it was a well-lighted room. Then he had added a fourth candle, and almost immediately Marbury had been shot. The fourth candle was the signal. A single candle wouldn’t have done, because the brightness wouldn’t have shown across the street. There had turned out to be gambling debts. If the game had gone the right way, the fourth candle would have stayed underneath the table.
    Lenox had anonymously given his findings in a sheath of papers to the police at Scotland Yard. The case had been instantly settled, and since then Lenox had been fascinated by detective work. People reached him only by word of mouth. He was an amateur—and because he worked for free, not needing to do otherwise, he attracted many poor clients. On the other hand, because he was from one of the oldest and most respected families in England, he also attracted the rich and the noble, who expected him to have the discretion of a friend.
    What had made him think of all this? The candle.…
    At ten minutes before eight, he stepped into his carriage. Graham ran out to catch him and handed him a note that had just arrived. It was from McConnell:
    Only one apothecary in London sells bella indigo . Nos. 4 and 9. Penny Farthing Place. Fellow named Jeremiah Jones.
    Lenox thought this over and put the note in his pocket, then asked the driver to go.
    It was a bright sunny morning, but cold, and the snow still crunched underfoot. He arrived at Barnard’s house a few minutes after the hour and greeted the housekeeper amiably, though he received little reward for it.
    In the hallway was a young man, perhaps recently down from university or still there. He had on glasses and wore his hair slightly longer than most men of his age. But he was dressed well, in a blue morning suit with a carnation in the buttonhole, and clearly felt at home in the house.
    “How do you do?” said the young man.
    “Very well, thank you.”
    “I’m Claude. I’m staying here with my uncle, you know.”
    “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Claude. I’m Charles Lenox.”
    They shook hands.
    “It seems impossibly early to me,” said Claude.
    “It’s already past eight,” said Lenox.
    “I like how you say already, as if eight were a particularly late hour.”
    “It’s not early for me, I must say.”
    “It damn well is for me.”
    “You’re younger.”
    “And may it stay forever so. Still, I must see a man about a thing. Good to have met you,” he said, and bounded down the steps to the street.
    “You too,” said Lenox, and followed the impatient housekeeper into the breakfast room, adjacent to the formal dining salon. It was a small octagonal room looking out over the back garden, with a circular table at its center, where George Barnard sat with a nearly empty cup of tea at his elbow, studying a pale blue orchid.
    “Charles, sit down,” he said, without looking up.
    “Thank you,” said Lenox.
    “This is a beautiful flower, don’t you think?”
    “Indeed I do.”
    “I mean to give it to Lord Russell’s wife this evening.”
    “Are you dining with the Prime Minister?”
    “I am,” Barnard said. He looked up and smiled. “But breaking my fast with no less a friend.”
    It was an odd thing to say. Barnard went back to his flower. There was a pot of tea, and Lenox, in the absence of an offer, poured