Read Online An Old Betrayal: A Charles Lenox Mystery (Charles Lenox Mysteries) by Charles Finch - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Charles Finch
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lasted until August, this first burst of activity was the brightest.
Lenox didn’t know what would be on his own docket, aside from their supper for Disraeli, but it would be crowded, with several parties starting at each hour of the evening, mothers imploring Jane, a great arbiter in these matters, for her presence. They had gone to just as many last year as ever, despite Sophia. It was tiring to contemplate. Still, he enjoyed a glass of punch, and it was pleasant to be one of the older men in the corner. There was not all that much joy in aging—his back creaked quite often now—but he felt glad that at any rate he was beyond the age of wife picking. He thought of Jane as he walked and smiled to himself.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
He went to LeMaire’s first. Halfway down Brook Street was a gray house, much like all of its neighbors save for a discreetly gleaming brass placard near the bell, which read J-C.LM , letters that stood for Jean-Claude LeMaire’s name.
Lenox rang the bell. A handsome lad, very tall and with jet black hair, answered the door. “Have you an appointment?” he asked in a strong French accent.
Lenox sent in his card, perching himself patiently upon a small chair in the front hall to wait after the assistant disappeared. There were cards in the silver card stand of very grand personages, or at least one was intended to surmise as much—the names themselves were blacked out, in a flawed bid for confidentiality, leaving only the titles, Monsieur Le Duc de ___ , Lord ___ of ___ , The Honourable ___ , Member for ___ . Lenox wondered with some dismay if his own card would be superadded to this heap of distinction. Without even examining the stand’s contents closely he had already spotted the card of that fool Lord Sharpley, whose crest was unconcealed. No doubt Sharpley had hired LeMaire to investigate the disappearance of his two prized hunting dogs, though everyone this side of Northumberland knew his own ne’er-do-well brother had stolen them from him and sold them to a Scottish baronet.
The fellow who had greeted Lenox at the door reappeared and with a bow requested that Lenox follow him. LeMaire’s office was at the end of a small, dark corridor. The detective himself met Lenox at the door.
“Mr. Lenox! A remarkable pleasure, this!”
The old Vidocq touch, Dallington had called it, and he was precisely correct. LeMaire was a distinguished-looking fifty-year-old man, dark hair shagged down below his collar, a gallant small pointed beard descending from his chin, a twinkle in his eye. He was the Englishman’s idea of a canny Frenchman—and no doubt he was very intelligent; one could gather as much from his face. Of course, one could be intelligent in different directions. No doubt there would be a small surcharge at the foot of each bill for that twinkle.
It would be gratefully paid, for it was Vidocq who still held the most powerful hold on the British imagination of any police officer, at least this side of Sir Robert Peel. Vidocq had been first head of the French Sûreté, work he had described at length in his bestselling memoirs. Lenox was skeptical of the humility of anyone who felt the need to discourse about himself for fully four volumes, but they were rattling reads, enlivened considerably by the fact that before joining with the forces of justice, Vidocq had been one of the leading forgers and jailbreakers in France.
After he had reformed, he had also been the country’s first private detective—indeed, might have been the first in the world. His innovations had been legion: indelible ink, plaster molds for footprints, an index of the unalterable physical traits of known criminals, all the equipage that Lenox and Dallington and their kind now regularly employed. Lenox had narrowly missed meeting him many years before, when Vidocq was in his eighties and near death. It would have given him pleasure to look the shrewd old chap in the eye. Even after his celebrated reform Vidocq had
Lenox didn’t know what would be on his own docket, aside from their supper for Disraeli, but it would be crowded, with several parties starting at each hour of the evening, mothers imploring Jane, a great arbiter in these matters, for her presence. They had gone to just as many last year as ever, despite Sophia. It was tiring to contemplate. Still, he enjoyed a glass of punch, and it was pleasant to be one of the older men in the corner. There was not all that much joy in aging—his back creaked quite often now—but he felt glad that at any rate he was beyond the age of wife picking. He thought of Jane as he walked and smiled to himself.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
He went to LeMaire’s first. Halfway down Brook Street was a gray house, much like all of its neighbors save for a discreetly gleaming brass placard near the bell, which read J-C.LM , letters that stood for Jean-Claude LeMaire’s name.
Lenox rang the bell. A handsome lad, very tall and with jet black hair, answered the door. “Have you an appointment?” he asked in a strong French accent.
Lenox sent in his card, perching himself patiently upon a small chair in the front hall to wait after the assistant disappeared. There were cards in the silver card stand of very grand personages, or at least one was intended to surmise as much—the names themselves were blacked out, in a flawed bid for confidentiality, leaving only the titles, Monsieur Le Duc de ___ , Lord ___ of ___ , The Honourable ___ , Member for ___ . Lenox wondered with some dismay if his own card would be superadded to this heap of distinction. Without even examining the stand’s contents closely he had already spotted the card of that fool Lord Sharpley, whose crest was unconcealed. No doubt Sharpley had hired LeMaire to investigate the disappearance of his two prized hunting dogs, though everyone this side of Northumberland knew his own ne’er-do-well brother had stolen them from him and sold them to a Scottish baronet.
The fellow who had greeted Lenox at the door reappeared and with a bow requested that Lenox follow him. LeMaire’s office was at the end of a small, dark corridor. The detective himself met Lenox at the door.
“Mr. Lenox! A remarkable pleasure, this!”
The old Vidocq touch, Dallington had called it, and he was precisely correct. LeMaire was a distinguished-looking fifty-year-old man, dark hair shagged down below his collar, a gallant small pointed beard descending from his chin, a twinkle in his eye. He was the Englishman’s idea of a canny Frenchman—and no doubt he was very intelligent; one could gather as much from his face. Of course, one could be intelligent in different directions. No doubt there would be a small surcharge at the foot of each bill for that twinkle.
It would be gratefully paid, for it was Vidocq who still held the most powerful hold on the British imagination of any police officer, at least this side of Sir Robert Peel. Vidocq had been first head of the French Sûreté, work he had described at length in his bestselling memoirs. Lenox was skeptical of the humility of anyone who felt the need to discourse about himself for fully four volumes, but they were rattling reads, enlivened considerably by the fact that before joining with the forces of justice, Vidocq had been one of the leading forgers and jailbreakers in France.
After he had reformed, he had also been the country’s first private detective—indeed, might have been the first in the world. His innovations had been legion: indelible ink, plaster molds for footprints, an index of the unalterable physical traits of known criminals, all the equipage that Lenox and Dallington and their kind now regularly employed. Lenox had narrowly missed meeting him many years before, when Vidocq was in his eighties and near death. It would have given him pleasure to look the shrewd old chap in the eye. Even after his celebrated reform Vidocq had
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