and said their goodbyes. Yes, there was a ship, the man at the ticket counter informed them, bound for Egypt, and then on to Asia, and yes, there were still berths available.

They ran to the dock, and Lenox scanned the deck of the ship while McConnell looked at the passengers still on dry land.

“Nothing,” said the doctor as the crowd thinned out, and Lenox, too, saw nothing.

“Last call!” the captain shouted out, and at the same moment McConnell yelled and pointed. “There he is!”

It was Eustace Bramwell, standing on the foredeck of the ship, unmistakable, dark-haired and wearing a gray suit. He hadn’t even thought to hide in his room until they had gone, so sure had he been that Lenox wouldn’t decipher his plans. There was a yelp behind them, but their eyes remained fixed on Eustace.

Lenox ran over to the captain. “We need to get on,” said Lenox. “There’s a criminal on board!”

“Are you the police?” the captain asked.

“No, but we’re surrogates,” said Lenox.

“Sorry. Ship’s off limits.” He prepared to walk up the gangway himself, but a last passenger streaked toward it, while McConnell reasoned without avail to the captain.

The last passenger anxiously handed his ticket over. He had absolutely no luggage.

“Third class,” the captain said, tore the ticket, and pointed up the gangway. He managed to resist the implorings of Lenox and McConnell, even forcibly repelling them once, and after five minutes of waiting for more passengers, he himself went up to the deck of the ship and cut her loose.

Lenox stood there, then, feeling hopeless, while McConnell walked off to make futile contact with the police, but then he saw something. It was the last passenger, who had rushed onto the ship without luggage. The man’s eyes were firmly focused on Eustace, and he only looked back at Lenox once. When he did, he pointed at Eustace and made an inquisitive face. Lenox nodded; yes, that was the murderer. He knew he was sealing Bramwell’s fate but he nodded anyway.

The man was dressed in a pitch-black suit. After Lenox’s nod, he walked slowly toward Eustace, stopping a few feet away and gazing intensely, hatefully, at him. It was James, the footman, Prue’s fiance. And Lenox saw with clarity the inevitable course of events. He waved McConnell back to him as the ship slowly began to move and told him not to make any further effort. He pointed out James and Eustace, feet apart, and told the doctor what he knew would happen.

He sent word to Egypt to look for Eustace but expected no results. And six days later, when the ship docked in Cairo, he was no more surprised—when the captain remitted the following message to the English authorities, which was then repeated in the papers—than he was surprised that the sun rose in the morning.

Very little is known of the death of two men who were sailing with the HMS Britannia on a course for the Far East. On the first night of the voyage, they washed overboard very late at night, according to the captain. One was a first-class passenger, the other in third class. Authorities believe the man from first class to be Eustace Bramwell, one of the two murderers in the Jack Soames case, which was so ably cleared up by Inspector Exeter before more life was lost. The incident is believed to be an accident.…

Chapter 47

Afew days later, Lenox turned his thoughts to his Christmas visit with his brother, due to begin soon. He still wanted to take Edmund to task after Newton Duff’s revelatory comments, perhaps that evening over supper and a bottle of their father’s wine. And of course Lady Jane would be there, just a few miles off with her brother, in the house where she had grown up.

For now, though, Lenox was in a place that offered even greater measures of bliss than Lenox House, the home of his childhood. He was in Linehan’s, Bootmakers, Crown Street, in a respectable middle-class neighborhood by Leicester Square. Not the type of place he would have found on his own, he thought. Thank God for Skaggs.

“Yes, three pairs, cork-soled, two black, one brown, all lined with flannel,” he said, repeating his order. He had come in two days earlier, and now his boots were ready.

“Packed up?” asked Mr. Linehan, a jolly, rotund, white-haired man.

“No, I shall wear the brown pair, please.” “Would you like us to wrap your old boots?” Lenox shuddered. “I hope never to see them again.”

Mr. Linehan laughed. “Well, I guarantee these, Mr. Lenox. You’re at the right place. I admit I don’t think much of the boots you’re wearing.”

“Nor do I, Mr. Linehan. I can’t abide them for another moment.”

Mr. Linehan laughed again, took the offending boots, which Lenox had slipped off, and offered the brown pair, designed specifically for his feet from the measurements that Lenox had found much pleasure in seeing Mr. Linehan take.

Lenox put on a fresh pair of socks, which he had brought especially, and then the boots, and wasn’t disappointed. Instantly warm, but soft—yes, this was all he truly needed. He gave his profuse thanks to the cobbler, received a bag with the other two pairs, blessed Skaggs for his practicality, and walked onto the street, where, despite the new snow, his feet remained warm and dry. It was a heavenly feeling.

He had two more errands before the evening trip to Lenox House. The less pleasant first. He directed his coachman to Bow Street and Scotland Yard. Today was the day of Exeter’s promotion. In combination with the diminishing crime rates in the West End, his bailiwick, there were the Marlborough forgery and the Jack Soames case to his credit.

Though it was cold, Lenox saw that Exeter and William Melville, the head of Scotland Yard, were standing on the sidewalk by the gates before headquarters, addressing a crowd of maybe fifteen journalists and a few citizens. There were a few moments of remarks from each of them, a large grin on Exeter’s face the whole time. Lenox didn’t mind especially, though he felt slightly duped.

After the remarks were over, the journalists milled about, taking pictures of the principals and of Exeter’s young family. Lenox shook Exeter’s hand without receiving much attention. But after the majority of the pictures were taken, Exeter brought a young boy of perhaps eight to see Lenox. They moved off a bit to the side.

“This is my son, Mr. Lenox. John.”

“How do you do, John?”

“What do you say?” Exeter said, addressing the boy.

“Thank you, sir,” the boy said.

Lenox’s and Exeter’s eyes met. Lenox offered his hand, Exeter shook it, and the detective and his son walked away. Climbing back into his carriage, Lenox thought, Ridiculous, in a way. But as they drove, he couldn’t help feeling a little moved.

Their second stop was at the Clark Lane storefront of Mr. Kerr, travel agent.

“Mr. Kerr!” Lenox said, walking in. It was a dusty room but well lit and cluttered with papers, itineraries, and maps.

“Ah. Mr. Lenox.”

“Yes indeed, Mr. Kerr.”

“Come to plan a trip?”

“Just so, Mr. Kerr.”

The elderly man laughed sourly. “Don’t see the use. You never go anywhere; I never make any money!”

“Why, Mr. Kerr, I did in fact go to Moscow, only a few years ago.”

“Nine.”

“Well, work will come up, Mr. Kerr.”

“Not for me, with such clients!”

“Ah! Now there you’re incorrect, if you’ll excuse me saying so. One word, Mr. Kerr: Persia. What have you got?”

“What’ve I got? Empty promises! What about France?”

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