Even Lancelot spent an afternoon there. They played cards, he said.
“Who won?”
“She did,” he said darkly. “I lost a shilling.”
“She made you pay?”
“Yes. I said I didn’t have it.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
“And she got it out of you?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” said Lenox with satisfaction, and then reached into his pocket and gave the boy half a shilling. He was at an age when a great deal can swing upon tuppence, after all, and he was returning to the solitudes of school the next day.
Every afternoon, when he had finished his work, Lenox took a slow walk up and down Hampden Lane. His hope was that one of these days Lady Jane would send somebody to call him in. She didn’t. He told himself, however, that in a way he was there; in a painless way, through Graham, and Mrs. Huggins, and Lancelot, and his brother. He hoped it was true.
In a way the most unfair thing about Deere, Lenox reflected, was that their memories of him would now be defined mostly by his death. It would become the most important thing about him, that he had died so young.
When in fact it was the least important thing about him, Lenox saw. What had been important was himself: his kindness, his lack of pretension, his curiosity about others.
On an early morning in late April, Edmund stopped by to pick Charles up. They were going to see their mother—to Paddington, to catch the 106 to Markethouse, departing at 9:19.
Edmund watched Lenox dash around his study, packing up a few last papers, letters, notes. “By the way,” he said, “did you see they renamed the prize for the chess tournament at the Army and Navy Club after Deere? Rather nice.”
“The chess prize?” said Charles, stopping. “Whatever for?”
“He was regimental champion three years running. One of the best in London, they said.”
“Deere? No he wasn’t. He was … I—”
Only at that instant did Lenox realize that Deere had been playing him close for all those dozens and dozens of games—never letting him win, which would have been a condescension, but playing for the friendship of it. So that they might be better friends.
He felt a lump in his throat. He turned away quickly, disguising his sadness in urgency, a stinging in his eyes.
“Shall I wait in the carriage?” Edmund said. “The boys are probably stabbing each other by now. Good thing you’re a detective, eh? Ha!”
“Ed, don’t make any jokes for the rest of the trip.”
Edmund frowned. “My jokes are very popular in Parliament.”
“Notably the greatest collection of dullards in England.”
“Ah, but not with quite so many murderers now that you’ve done your bit!”
“Go away.”
“Fine. I can see that even the best joke wouldn’t make you laugh in this mood. I’ll be in the carriage.”
Lenox had nearly finished packing his valise. He had clothes at his brother’s house—his own childhood house—but there was a diagram of a bank robbery from Cobb that he particularly wanted to study at his leisure. Ah, well, he would have to—no, there it was!
He went outside. His instinct was to go straight into the carriage, but instead he stopped.
Edmund saw him do it. From time to time we are permitted to see the people we love as if they were strangers, and in that April morning Edmund saw Charles, handsome, young, and good, valise in hand, filled with an earnest desire to do what was right. He felt suddenly proud of his younger brother, who was so unlike other men, and yet still perhaps didn’t quite sense just how different.
A detective! Well.
He watched as Charles pulled his watch from his pocket. Edmund glanced at his own pocket watch and saw that it was 8:51. They had a good deal of time, and Edmund watched Charles wander over and stand in front of Lady Jane’s house, for a long minute, then two, then three.
He pretended that he was organizing his papers. It was all Edmund could do not to lean out of the carriage and shout for him to hurry. But he didn’t, and Charles went on waiting, waiting. At last, at the final possible moment when they could go and safely be on time, Charles ran over to the carriage, waving his hand, climbing in even as the horses started off. Edmund helped pull him inside, as did the boys, giggling at the adventure of it.
He hoped that Lady Jane had seen Charles waiting there, faithfully, ready when she was. On the other hand, he knew it didn’t matter whether she had or not—that simply the being there, when it was all said and done, an unfailing friend, was enough.
Also by Charles Finch
The Last Enchantments
The Charles Lenox Series
A Beautiful Blue Death
The September Society
The Fleet Street Murders
A Stranger in Mayfair
A Burial at Sea
A Death in the Small Hours
An Old Betrayal
The Laws of Murder
Home by Nightfall
The Inheritance
The Woman in the Water
The Vanishing Man
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Charles Finch is the USA Today bestselling author of the Charles Lenox historical mysteries, which begin with A Beautiful Blue Death. His contemporary novel The Last Enchantments, is also available from St. Martin's Press. Finch received the 2017 Nona Balakian Citation for Excellence in Reviewing, from the National Book Critics Circle. His essays and criticism have appeared in the New York Times, Slate, Washington Post, and elsewhere. He lives in Los Angeles. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Also by Charles Finch
About The Author
Copyright
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.
First published in the United States by Minotaur Books, an imprint of St. Martin’s Publishing Group
THE LAST PASSENGER. Copyright © 2020 by Hampden Lane LLC. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Publishing Group, 120 Broadway, New York, NY 10271.
www.minotaurbooks.com
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-31220-4 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-250-31222-8 (ebook)
Our e-books may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by e-mail at [email protected].
First Edition: February 2020
eISBN 9781250312228
The Last Passenger - A Prequel Page 26