The Fleet Street Murders by Charles Finch Read Free Book Online Page B

the conversation as they ate.
    “One other thing, Mr. Lenox—there’s nothing to be gained by attacking Roodle. Everyone here knows his faults, we know his virtues—for he does ’ave ’em, Sam, and pipe down—and before anyone votes for you the people of this town will need to know yours.”
    “Thank you, gentlemen,” said Lenox. “I hope I may count on your votes, at least?”
    Not so fast , their looks said, though they all nodded agreeably enough
    Finally, after supper, Lenox had time to return to his room and write back to Lady Jane. He sat for some time at the small table at the window of his room; it overlooked a large vegetable garden, but all was dark now, and he felt wracked with doubt. Doubt about Jane herself—never. Doubt in himself. He finally wrote:

My Dearest Jane,
Even your doubtful letter was the sweetest part of my day because it came from you, but I cannot lie: These have been difficult hours in my life. Hilary returned almost instantly to London, expressing grave concerns about my chances here before he left. I have constant visions of Thomas and Toto in their sorrow and feel I have shirked my duty in leaving, whatever the purpose. I can’t help but think that the two deaths that I take it still dominate the papers there might have been cleared away under my eye. Yet of all this I feel most sorrowful that you should doubt our marriage in June.
Which is not to say that I do not understand, dearest Jane; for I have analyzed at greater length than you will have had leisure to my own faults, the defects in my character that would preclude me from making a happy marriage. In fact, I stated them to you before that (indeed happy!) moment when you accepted my offer.
Nonetheless, I have more confidence in my love for you than in all the rest of this doubtful world put together. My dearest hope, to which all my dreams and aspirations have been bent, is our joint happiness, which will begin in earnest when we marry. I hope that is in June, but I will wait as patiently as you like, unto the end of my days.
I cannot help but wish I were in London to speak with you in person and to gaze at your wise and serene face; all would be well then, I somehow believe. Until that blessed moment, believe me to be your most faithful and loving,
Charles
 

    It was a sentimental letter, perhaps, but an honest one. After he had finally started writing it the words had come easily. He blotted the letter and didn’t read it over but simply sealed it in an envelope and left it on the small table in the hallway where residents of the inn could leave their letters to be sent.
    Going back to his room, feeling somewhat restless, he happened to notice a slip of paper he must have missed coming in. Stooping to fetch it, he saw it was a note from Crook’s niece, Nettie, inviting him to have breakfast with them the next morning. Whether this missive came from Crook or the girl herself, he was grateful for it, alone as he was in this strange town.
    The next morning he presented himself at the door of the small house adjoining the Queen’s Arms, a charming and tidily kept place. A very young maid, not past fourteen, answered the door and took Lenox into a sitting room that was perhaps over-furnished with examples of needlework, with small and amateurish watercolors—in other words, the sitting room of a young woman who spent much time alone and whose diversions were all, or nearly all, of her own making.
    Nettie Crook came in at the same moment Lenox sat down. She was a plain girl but with a healthy look about her, and he was surprised she remained unmarried. She could not be below twenty-five years of age. It was entirely proper for them to be alone together—she was evidently the woman of the house—but Lenox rather wished her uncle had been there to introduce them.
    “How do you do, Mr. Lenox? I’m so pleased you could come.”
    “Thank you, thank you, Miss Crook. I was pleased to receive your invitation.”
    “How do you