The Laws of Murder (Charles Lenox Series #8)

The Laws of Murder (Charles Lenox Series #8)

4.5 12
by Charles Finch

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It's 1876, and Charles Lenox, once London's leading private investigator, has just given up his seat in Parliament after six years, primed to return to his first love, detection. With high hopes he and three colleagues start a new detective agency, the first of its kind. But as the months pass, and he is the only detective who cannot find work, Lenox begins to


It's 1876, and Charles Lenox, once London's leading private investigator, has just given up his seat in Parliament after six years, primed to return to his first love, detection. With high hopes he and three colleagues start a new detective agency, the first of its kind. But as the months pass, and he is the only detective who cannot find work, Lenox begins to question whether he can still play the game as he once did.

Then comes a chance to redeem himself, though at a terrible price: a friend, a member of Scotland Yard, is shot near Regent's Park. As Lenox begins to parse the peculiar details of the death – an unlaced boot, a days-old wound, an untraceable luggage ticket – he realizes that the incident may lead him into grave personal danger, beyond which lies a terrible truth.

With all the humanity, glamor, and mystery that readers have come to love, the latest Lenox novel is a shining new confirmation of the enduring popularity of Charles Finch's Victorian series.

Editorial Reviews

Library Journal
In 1876, having served in Parliament for six years, Charles Lenox gives up his seat and returns to his true love, forming a detective agency in London. After a slow start, an important case comes his way, though, sadly, it's to investigate the murder of a Scotland Yard friend. Finch's mystery debut, A Beautiful Blue Death, was an LJ Best Mystery; The Last Enchantments, published in January 2014 and his first book outside the mystery arena, shows a distinct talent for scene setting and the creation of not always likable characters that can still get under your skin.
Publishers Weekly
At the end of 2013’s An Old Betrayal, former private investigator Charles Lenox abandoned a promising career in politics to set up a detective agency with three partners. Now, in Finch’s solid eighth Victorian era whodunit, the new agency is hampered by a series of hostile newspaper articles, which include negative quotes from a Scotland Yarder Lenox considered a friend, Insp. Thomas Jenkins. Lenox lags behind his colleagues in bringing in business, a deficiency that raises tensions. When someone fatally shoots Jenkins and leaves his body in front of the London home of the marquess of Wakefield—a suspected criminal Lenox has long sought to bring to book—the detective gets a chance to redeem himself. The Yard hires Lenox to help solve the shocking crime, and the investigation takes some surprising turns. Finch succeeds again in combining an intriguing story line with a lead that both newcomers and series regulars will find engaging. Agents: Kari Stuart and Jennifer Joel, ICM. (Nov.)
From the Publisher

“The upper-class amateur sleuth, an endangered species even in historical mysteries, is very much alive in Charles Finch's charming Victorian whodunits.” —The New York Times Book Review

“Superb . . . Boasting one of Finch's tightest and trickiest plots, this installment further establishes Lenox as a worthy heir to the aristocratic mantle of Lord Peter Wimsey.” —Publishers Weekly (starred) on A Death in the Small Hours

“The sixth in Finch's steadily improving series develops the congenial continuing characters further while providing quite a decent mystery.” —Kirkus Reviews on A Death in the Small Hours

Kirkus Reviews
A Victorian private investigator teams up with Scotland Yard to solve a case that involves one of their own. Charles Lenox has given up his seat in Parliament to return to his first love: solving crimes. He's entered into an agreement to run a new detective agency with his protégé, Lord John Dallington; well-born widow Polly Buchanan, who's already been associated with a successful agency; and the Frenchman LeMaire. Their new enterprise has been greeted by some surprising newspaper criticism they attribute to Lenox's friend Inspector Jenkins. Lenox in particular is getting no clients. Despite the cold shoulder from Scotland Yard, Lenox immediately agrees to help when Inspector Nicholson calls to tell him that Jenkins has been murdered. The inspector was found shot in front of a house just a few doors from the home of the Marquess of Wakefield, a man Lenox is sure is guilty of a number of crimes. Now Wakefield has vanished. The detectives think he's on the run until they find his body, poisoned with lead added to some expensive port and hidden in a salt-filled trunk in the hold of a ship about to sail for India. The label on the shipping crate carries the name of a man they cannot find despite every effort. Unhappy with the partnership, LeMaire leaves, and Polly's tempted by a lucrative offer to run her own agency. With the loyal Dallington at his side, Lenox continues to explore every avenue. And, once Wakefield is taken out of the running as the criminal mastermind, Lenox must discover who is running the show while trying to save his failing agency. Finch's clever hero (An Old Betrayal, 2013, etc.) overcomes despair and calumny to solve one of his author's thorniest puzzles.

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St. Martin's Press
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Charles Lenox Series , #8
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Read an Excerpt

The Laws of Murder

A Charles Lenox Mystery

By Charles Finch

St. Martin's Press

Copyright © 2014 Charles Finch
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4668-5788-9


A late winter's night in London: the city hushed; the last revelers half an hour in their beds; a new snow softening every dull shade of gray and brown into angelic whiteness. For a quarter of an hour nobody passed down the narrow street. Such emptiness in this great capital seemed impossible, uncanny, and after a few moments of deep stillness the regular row of houses, covered so evenly by the snowfall, began to lose their shape and identity, to look as if they had nothing at all to do with mankind, but instead belonged to the outer edge of some low, lightless canyon upon a plain, in a distant and lonely and less civilized time.

Watching from the window of his unlit second-story perch across the way, Charles Lenox began to feel like an intruder upon the scene. In his experience there was a ten-minute period like this lying beyond every London midnight, though its actual time was unpredictable—after the last day had ended, before the next day had begun.

Just as his pocket watch softly chimed for five o'clock, however, the human stir returned to Chiltern Street. Abruptly a hunched figure in a dark coat strode past, heading south, and not long afterward the first fire of the day appeared in a low window, a small stubborn orange glow in the darkness. Soon another followed it, three houses down. Lenox wondered who the man had been, whether he was out especially late or especially early, whether his errand was one of mischief or mercy. He had been dressed respectably. A doctor, perhaps. Then again, perhaps not, for he hadn't been carrying the handled leather bag of that breed. A priest? A burglar? Few other professions called for a man to be awake at such an hour.

Of course, Lenox's was one of them. He was a private detective—lying in wait, at this moment, for a murderer.

Across the street, the light of another fire in its hearth. Now the day was very near beginning. Lenox thought of all the maids of London—his own included—who woke during the brutal chill of this hour to begin their chores, to light the fires. Then he thought of his wife, Lady Jane Lenox, and their young daughter, Sophia, asleep six streets away, and with a shiver pulled his coat tighter around him. The room where he had waited all night didn't have a fire, since of course he didn't want the light of one to draw attention to his presence here. What a queer way to make a living it was, detection. He smiled. It did make him happy. Even in moments of discomfort.

Not long before, his life had been very different. It was early January of the year 1876 now; only in October had he finally, after seven years of toil, given up his seat in Parliament. During the last ten months of that period he had been a Junior Lord of the Treasury, drawing a salary of nearly two thousand pounds a year (to some men a very great fortune indeed, in a city where one could live opulently on a tenth of that sum), and it had even been dangled before him that he might, with continued industry and luck, hope one day to compete for a very high office—indeed so high an office that one could scarcely utter its name without a feeling of awe. Even on a humbler level he might have remained useful in Parliament indefinitely, he knew. He had both an interest in and a talent for politics, and the discipline that success in that House required.

But during every hour of those seven years he had missed—well, had missed this, the previous work of his life, his vocation, detection, and while the evenings in Parliament had been comfortable, with their beer and chops and amicable companions, they had given him nothing like the thrill of this cold, wearying night. He was where he belonged again: doing what he was most suited to do. It might puzzle the members of his caste (for Lenox was a gentleman, and nearing the age of fifty more rapidly than he would have preferred), but this disreputable line of work gave him greater pleasure than all the authorities and appanages of Parliament ever could. He did not regret going into politics, having long wished to try his hand at the game of it; still less though did he regret leaving the game behind.

The first carriage of the morning passed down Chiltern Street. Nearly every house had a fire lit below stairs now, in the servants' quarters, and in one there was a second bright flicker of heat a story up, where Lenox could see that the head of the family had risen and was taking his early breakfast. A stockbroker, perhaps. They often had to be in the City by seven.

Another fire, and another.

Only one house remained dark. It was directly across the street from Lenox's window, and his gaze was focused steadily upon it. Surely the time was coming, he thought. When another carriage rolled down the street he followed its progress intently, before observing that there was a coat of arms on its door. That lost the vehicle his interest. He doubted that his quarry would arrive in such a conspicuous conveyance.

Another fire. Another carriage. The sky was growing faintly lighter, the absolute darkness of the sky lessening into a black lavender. Soon enough it would be daytime. Perhaps he had been wrong, he felt with a first hint of unease. He was out of practice, after all.

But then it came: an anonymous gig, a pair of thick-glassed oil lamps swinging from its hood, pulled steadily through the snow by a youthful gray horse.

It stopped a few houses shy of the one Lenox was observing, and a man stepped down from it, passing a few coins to its driver, who received them with a hand to the brim of his cap and then whipped the horse hard, in haste to be on his way to another fare. Or home, perhaps, who knew. Lenox's eyes were fixed on the person who had dismounted. Certainly it was he. Hughes: Hughes the blackmailer, Hughes the thief, above all Hughes the murderer.

He was a very small fellow, not more than an inch or two higher than five foot. He was well made, however, with a handsome face and brilliantly shining dark hair. He carried a cloth case with a hard handle.

Lenox reached up above his right shoulder and gave the taut white string there one hard, decisive pull. He let it quiver for a moment and then stilled it with his hand. His heart was in his throat as he watched the criminal, to see if the man would fly—but Hughes continued without any hesitation toward the last dim house in Chiltern Street, the one Lenox had been watching. When he was at the door he peered at the handle for a moment, then opened his case and chose two or three items from it. He set to work on the lock. In what seemed a breathtakingly short time, not more than four or five seconds, he had the door open. It was the skill of a great criminal. He put his tools away quickly and walked inside with quiet steps, closing the door behind him. The house remained dark.

Lenox stood and smiled. He counted fifteen seconds and then walked toward the door of the room in which he had been sitting most of the night, careful to avoid moving past the windows, where his silhouette might be seen. His joints ached. His eyes felt at once tired and alive with alertness. It wouldn't be more than a moment now.

It was frigidly cold down on the street, and he was thankful, as he stepped into the snow on the pavement, for his rather odd-looking brown cork-soled boots, which he had ordered specially because they kept out the damp. The rest of his dress was more formal, his daytime attire: a dark suit, pale shirt, dark tie, dark hat, the only gleam of brightness on his person coming from the silver of the watch chain that extended across his slender midsection. He lit a small cigar, put a hand in his pocket, and stood to watch, his curious hazel eyes trained across the street.

"Come along, quickly," he said to himself under his breath. Chiltern Street was growing busier. Two carriages passed in quick succession.

Then suddenly the brick house opposite—the one into which Hughes had slipped so quietly—burst from stillness into commotion. A dozen lamps blazed to life, and a dozen voices to match them. When Lenox heard an aggrieved shout, he smiled. It was done. Hughes was captured. He dropped his cigar into the snow, stamped it out with his foot, and then, looking up and down the street to make sure no more carriages were coming, stepped briskly across to witness his victory at firsthand.

Thirty minutes later Hughes was secured in the back of one of the two wagons from Scotland Yard that stood on Chiltern Street. Enough people were awake and about that a small crowd had gathered nearby, their curiosity triumphing over the cold. Lenox was outside the house with Inspector Nicholson, a tall, bony, hook-nosed young man with a winning grin, which he wore now.

"He took the money in addition to the letters. Couldn't resist it, I suppose. Greedy chap." The dozen pound notes sitting alongside the letters in the desk had been Lenox's idea—their theft would make Hughes's crime easier to prosecute. "We'll need them for evidence, but you'll have them back in a month or two. Along with the rope and the bell."

Lenox looked up at the thin string toward which Nicholson gestured as he said this, hard to discern unless you were looking for it. It ran tightly overhead from one side of the street to the other; Lenox had used its bell to warn the constables waiting in the Dwyer house, the one that Hughes had entered, in case the thief was armed. Certainly he had shown time and again that he was not above violence. "There's no rush at all about the money," said Lenox, returning Nicholson's smile. "Though I'm afraid I must be off now."

"Of course. The agency?"

"Yes. Our official opening."

When Lenox had left Parliament, he had agreed to a proposal from his protégé, Lord John Dallington, to begin a detective agency—a venture that he had contemplated at first with reservations, but that filled him increasingly now with excitement. It would be the best in London. The founders were determined of that.

The young inspector extended a hand. He was one of the few men at the Yard who didn't look upon the new agency with territorial suspicion, or indeed outright disdain. "I wish you only the very best of luck. Though we'll miss the help you've given us over the last months, of course. Six of the seven names."

"Some scores to settle."

"And not bad publicity, I imagine."

Lenox smiled. "No."

It was true. Lenox had devoted the months of November and December to tracking down some of the old criminals whose freedom had rankled in his bosom, when Parliament had deprived him of the time to try to take it from them. Now the press that would gather in Chancery Lane an hour hence to take photographs and write articles about the agency's opening would have a ready-made angle: Lenox's return to detection prosecuted with single-minded determination over the past months, and resulting already in a safer London. It would bring in business, they hoped.

What a day of promise! Hughes in a cell, his partners waiting for him, the brass plate upon their door—which read LENOX, DALLINGTON, STRICKLAND, AND LEMAIRE—ready to be uncovered. Hopefully the broken window of yesterday had been mended; hopefully the office was tidied, ready for the eyes of the press. How right it had been to leave Parliament, he saw now! A new year. The energy one drew from embarking upon a new challenge, a new adventure. He walked briskly down the street, too happy with life to worry about the cold.

Had he known how miserable he would be in three months' time, he would have shaken his head bitterly at that misplaced enthusiasm.


"Hughes is taken, then? I won't miss seeing him swan about at parties, as if butter wouldn't melt on his toast."

"In his mouth, you mean."

"In his mouth, then," repeated Lord John Dallington irritably. They were in the agency's office at Chancery Lane. It was a well-lit and well-appointed set of rooms, with a large, bright, central chamber full of clerks, and branching out in four directions from this a quartet of private offices in which each of the four detectives would work independently. "Neither way makes any sense. He took the letters?"

"And the money."

Now Dallington smiled. "Well done, Charles."

The house in Chiltern Street in which Hughes had been arrested belonged to Alfred Dwyer, patriarch of a cadet branch of a very grand ducal family. His beautiful eldest daughter, Eleanor, was betrothed to her cousin the Earl of Campdown, who would one day inherit the dukedom—a surpassingly eligible match, from the perspective of the Dwyers, and an acceptable one as far as the present duke was concerned.

It was known in certain circles, however, that as a sixteen-year-old Eleanor Dwyer had been desperately in love with her dancing instructor, a German named Stytze, and that there existed, in some dark corner of the world, letters between them of a compromising nature. These letters were the grail of every blackmailer in London. In fact they did not exist—Alfred Dwyer had bought and destroyed them years before—but Lenox had employed the rumor of their survival, with Dwyer's permission and the use of his house while the family were away for Christmas, to ensnare Hughes.

As Nicholson had said, Lenox had devoted much of November and December to a list of seven names. Each of them had, at some maddening moment, eluded Lenox's grasp. There was Anson the burglar, who had almost certainly slit the throat of a baker named Alcott in 1869; Lenox ran him to ground in Bath, where he was in the midst of planning a spectacular assault upon the Earl of Isham's row house. (Bath was known for having a police force so loose and disorganized, compared to London's, that many of the age's most intelligent criminals had now shifted their sights to its prizes.) There was Walton the housebreaker, who stole only rare wine. Chepham, the ugliest character of the lot, a rapist. The half-French Jacques Wilchere, who still played cricket quite admirably for Hambledon and for his home nation. Parson Williams, an impostor, owned a variety of clerical uniforms. Hughes was the only highborn member of this offensive coterie, which explained why Dallington had had the opportunity to grow weary of seeing his face in London society. All six were now in the care of Scotland Yard.

The seventh name—that, Lenox knew, would be more difficult. He couldn't think about it without brooding; anger; he saw no way to get at the fellow, but no way either that he could permit him to carry on in his designs. Anyhow, anyhow ...

Aside from the satisfaction of seeing these men go to prison, Lenox had pursued them as a test to himself. He was out of practice, no doubt of that. There had been a time when he could have identified every significant criminal in London by the back of a neck, the motion of an arm, the cut of a frock coat, but time and inattention had rendered much of his knowledge obsolete, and certainly in that period his skills had dulled, too. The three stray cases he had solved as a Member of the House had demonstrated as much, even if each had ended in success.

In fact, Dallington was now probably the sharper of the two men. Certainly he was the better connected—to Scotland Yard, where he had the trust of several important men, as Lenox once had, and to the criminal underworld, where he had the contacts to, for instance, put into Hughes's ear the false word of the availability and location of the famous Dwyer letters.

It was a surprising reversal. Dallington was a young person just past thirty and for many years had had, in London, a very terrible reputation indeed—as a reprobate; a cad; a blackguard; a devil. Much of this reputation originated from his time at Cambridge, from which he was expelled, and in the two years following that expulsion in London, when he had seemed to inhabit every wine bar and gambling house in the city simultaneously. His parents, the Duke and Duchess of Marchmain—the latter was a very dear friend of Lenox's wife, Lady Jane—had nearly despaired of their youngest son, even contemplated cutting him from the family on a formal and permanent basis.


Excerpted from The Laws of Murder by Charles Finch. Copyright © 2014 Charles Finch. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Meet the Author

Charles Finch is a graduate of Yale and Oxford. He is the author of the Charles Lenox mysteries. His first novel, A Beautiful Blue Death, was nominated for an Agatha Award and was named one of Library Journal's Best Books of 2007, one of only five mystery novels on the list. He lives in Chicago.

Charles Finch is a graduate of Yale and Oxford. He is the author of the Charles Lenox mysteries. His first novel, A Beautiful Blue Death, was nominated for an Agatha Award and was named one of Library Journal's Best Books of 2007, one of only five mystery novels on the list. His first contemporary novel, The Last Enchantments, was published in 2015. He lives in Chicago.

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The Laws of Murder (Charles Lenox Series #8) 4.5 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 12 reviews.
EnoMary More than 1 year ago
I've read the entire series and this is the best, by far. The writing is better than the other books and the mystery if great. Love the introduction of new characters. Very much looking forward to the next installment.
Elishka More than 1 year ago
I admit that I was enthralled with this book after reading the first few paragraphs. Charles Finch writes beautifully, which is not something that can be said for every fiction writer. He evokes a sense of time and place that draws me into the story immediately. In addition, he crafts an excellent mystery. The intricacies of this plot were pleasing; the denouement was satisfying. More! More! I want more! ;)
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Have all of his books. Great use of language and interesting story lines for mystery lovers.
BuriedUnderBooks More than 1 year ago
I’ve been a fan of this series since the very first book, A Beautiful Blue Death, came out in 2007. Somehow, I always know that I can count on Charles Finch to make the newest adventure just as fresh and entertaining as the one before and The Laws of Murder did not disappoint me in any way. Scotland Yard hires Charles Lenox to aid in the investigation into the murder of one of its own, Inspector Thomas Jenkins. This is much more personal than some of his earlier cases since he had counted the inspector as a friend despite the unkind comments Jenkins had made in the newspapers about the agency and its unlikelihood of success. The inner workings of the detective agency Charles formed with his partners—Lenox, Dallington, Strickland and DeMaire—are a real treat as we get to see more of how crime fighters did things back in the 1870’s with none of the fancy tools we have today like DNA testing, ballistics and technological gadgets such as cellphones and computers. Not everyone wishes the agency well, as seen in the territorial distrust and contempt coming from most of the Yard and the antipathy of the press, and Lenox seems to be having a bit of trouble getting back into the business of investigation after his seven years in Parliament. As the investigation proceeds, Lenox and his partners find themselves drawn into a very shady mix of the criminal world and the highest levels of society. What could Jenkins have had to with the Slavonian Club and its dirty secrets and who is trying so hard to destroy Lenox, Dallington, Strickland and DeMaire? Along with the principles, especially Charles, John and Polly, I enjoyed spending time with old favorites Graham and Lady Jane in The Laws of Murder. Mr. Finch has a particular talent in both plot development and in building vibrant characters, including the city of London itself. This entry in the series is one of my favorites because it brings Charles Lenox out of the worthy but stultifying halls of the House of Lords and back into the vocation he loves, detecting. It’s nice to have him back in the thick of things.
DLbooklover More than 1 year ago
Let me begin by saying that I love Lenox, and I love this series. I thoroughly enjoy Charles Finch's work. He never fails to bring us a beautifully written story. I especially like the adept way he has developed his characters throughout this series, and giving us people we like and care about. And if you like your fiction to be historically accurate, Finch is your kind of author. Additionally, he brings a freshness to each book. They seem effortless, never redundant or artificial, and yet new. And though I won’t be writing a synopsis of the story (you can find that elsewhere), let me just say, this newest in the series is a great read. You won’t be disappointed.
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Anonymous More than 1 year ago
But I am having one heck of a time giving this book the full five stars it deserves!
dragonfly1935 More than 1 year ago
Just finished reading, writing smooth and dwell written, author weaves a good story. I have rad all Charles Finch's book and have enjoyed them Good mystery and if you are careful you will find clues to the outcome.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago