unknown assailant shot Pierce in the heart at Pierce’s South London home, waking his entire household and throwing his wife into fits of HYSTERIA, at approximately 1:07 A.M. this morning. No witnesses have contacted the Metropolitan Police: COME FORTH IF YOU SAW ANYTHING, readers.
Not FIVE MINUTES before, according to police reports, scarcely an hour into Boxing Day, Winston Carruthers was STABBED in his Oxford Street apartments. Police found Carruthers STILL WARM after a resident of Oxford Street reported seeing a tall, disguised man climbing down a rope ladder!
Exclusively, the NOTD has learned that Carruthers’s landlady and housekeeper, a Belgian woman, was on the scene and cooperated with the police officers — ONLY TO VANISH THIS MORNING, leaving her apartments and their contents behind save for several small bags. Her two children left with her. Word has been sent to the ports of England with a description of the housekeeper. She is fat, with a prominent nose and a shriveled left hand. IF YOU SEE HER, readers, contact the police, or the NOTD’S editorial offices.
According to INSPECTOR EXETER, reliable and much decorated officer of Scotland Yard, the housekeeper (name withheld at our discretion) is NOT a suspect: At the same brief moments of the murder and the murderer’s absconding, she was witnessed by a few dozen people along Oxford Street visiting a local alehouse. HOWEVER, READERS, SHE MAY STILL BE AN ACCOMPLICE TO MURDER! If you see her, contact the police.
CARRUTHERS, forty-nine, was a native of our fair city, a childless bachelor who leaves behind a sister in Surrey. PIERCE, fifty-four, leaves behind a wife, BESS, and a daughter, ELIZA, who is stationed with her husband in BOMBAY. The NEWS sends its sympathy to all of the bereaved.
ADDED FOR SECOND PRINTING: INSPECTOR EXETER has already cracked the case, according to a reliable source, and found a definite link between the two men BESIDES their profession. WATCH THIS SPACE for more.
Below this piece of sensationalism were two lengthier profiles of the men. Turning to the other papers, Lenox found much the same stories, with minor variances of biography. A shooting and a stabbing, five minutes apart. He wondered what the “definite link” between Carruthers and Pierce might be. Straightaway he thought it must be some story they had both covered. Perhaps he would try through covert means to discover what it was. A fascinating case, certainly — but did he have time to try to help solve it?
It was a busy period in Lenox’s life. Recently he had solved one of his most difficult cases, a murder in Oxford, and been shot for his efforts. Only grazed, but still. After a long life of solitude, too, he was engaged to be married. Most pressing of all, soon he was to participate in a by-election for Parliament in Stirrington, near the city of Durham. His brother and several other Members of the Liberal Party had approached him to ask him to run. Though he loved his work as a detective and bravely embraced the low esteem in which the members of his class held his profession, to be in Parliament was the dream of his lifetime.
Still — these murders would be the great story of the day, and Lenox felt a longing to be involved in their solution. One of his few friends at Scotland Yard was a bright young inspector named Jenkins, and to him Lenox wrote a short query, entrusting it to Mary’s care when the maid came to fetch the remains of his breakfast. He felt better for having eaten. A third cup of coffee sat on his bedside table, and he reached for it.
Just then Edmund knocked on the door and came in. He looked green around the gills.
“Hullo, brother,” said Charles. “Feeling badly?”
“Awful.”
“Did eating help?”
“Don’t even mention food, I beg of you,” said Edmund. “I would rather face Attila the Hun than a plate of toast.”
Charles laughed. “I’m sorry to hear it.”
“Molly had the heart to take the boys out earlier. Not even a word of reproach. What a treasure she is.” A sentimental look came into Edmund’s eyes.
“Do you have meetings today?”
“Not until five o’clock or so. The Prime Minister has remained in town.”
“You said last night.”
“I need to sharpen up before then, to be sure. Perhaps I’ll go back to sleep.”
“The wisest course,” Charles assured him.
“Then I’ll have a bath and try to put myself into some decent shape. At the moment I feel like the offspring of a human being and a puddle on the floor.”
“Have you seen the papers, by the way?”
“What happened?”
“Two journalists were murdered last night — opposite sides of town within just a few minutes of each other.”
“Oh yes? Well, you’ve other things to concentrate on at the moment.”
“I do, I know,” said Charles rather glumly. “I wrote Jenkins, though.”
Edmund stopped pacing, and his face took on a stern aspect. “Many people are counting on you, Charles,” he said. “Not to mention your country.”
“Yes.”
“You should spend this month before you go up to Stirrington meeting with politicians, granting interviews, strategizing with James Hilary.” Hilary was a bright young star in the firmament of Liberal politics and a friend of Charles’s, one of those who had entreated him to stand for Parliament. “This time can be quite as productive as any you spend in Durham.”
“I thought you were sick.”
“This is crucial, Charles.”
“You never did any of that,” the younger brother answered.
“Father had my seat. And his father. And his father. World without end.”
“I know, I know. I simply feel irresponsible if I stay out of things, I suppose. My meddling ways.”
“Just think of all the good we’ll do when you’re in the House,” said Edmund.
“Especially if we don’t stay up late drinking.”
Edmund sighed. “Yes. Especially then, I grant you.”
“See you downstairs.”
“Don’t let them wake me up before I’m ready.”
“I won’t. Unless it’s nearing five.”
“Cheers,” said Edmund and left the room.
CHAPTER TWO
That afternoon Inspector Jenkins answered Lenox’s note by visiting in person. Lenox was sitting in the long, book-filled room he used as library and study. Just down the front hall of the house, it had comfortable sofas and armchairs and a long desk, as well as a broad, high row of windows that looked out over Hampden Lane. The rain of the evening before had gone but left in its place a low, rolling fog that thickened over the streets of London. Lamplighters were out early, trying to provide the city with visibility.
Jenkins was young and clever. He wore glasses on his earnest face and had an unruly crop of light brown hair.
“How do you do, Lenox?” he asked and accepted a cup of tea. “Exeter’s not letting me near the case, so I thought I’d come by.”
“I know how he can be.”
“Oh, of course, of course.”
Inspector Exeter, a powerful man in the police force whose blunt tactics and lack of perception had both alienated him from the amateur detective and pushed him up through the ranks, was famously territorial about his cases and particularly disliked Lenox’s occasional interference. Despite that, Exeter had had occasion to call on Lenox’s skills and might not entirely reject his help if the case of the two journalists reached an impasse.
