Death on the Pearl River

Ben Canaan returns in this darkly gripping stand-alone adventure mystery set in Hong Kong, sequel to the acclaimed Murder in Constantinople!

Like its predecessor, Death on the Pearl River, this thrilling murder mystery promises to "deliver a multitude of pleasures!" (The New York Times).

Ben Canaan is riding high on the recent string of cases he has solved successfully on the payroll of Her Majesty’s Executive. Then a notorious crime boss is found murdered on the city streets, the latest in a series of brutal killings targeting the most powerful men in the opium trade.

The scale of the danger is global. To track down the culprits and prevent more blood from being shed, Ben is sent out to the newly-founded British colony of Hong Kong: a lawless frontier town on the southern shores of China's Great Qing Dynasty. All the victims have had ties to the prominent trading firms that use the Pearl River and the South China Sea as their base of operations – ranging from the firms’ heads, to high-ranking partners, supercargoes, merchants, even sailors.

Ben is plunged headlong into a labyrinthine conspiracy, set against the backdrop of an empire in collapse and a sweeping civil war. As his hunt brings him closer to the truth and the ruthless corporate interests that want him dead, Ben is forced to choose between what is necessary and what is just.

Alfred Hitchcock meets Indiana Jones, this immersive, globe-trotting historical mystery is the second installment in the acclaimed Ben Canaan Mysteries series. Thrillingly paced and filled with enchanting historical settings, this series provides all the nostalgic reading pleasure of classic Sherlock Holmes.Map viii
1 Uninvited Guests 1
2 Pandora’s Box 13
3 Suspect No. 3 31
4 You Are Already Dead 42
5 A New Mission 58
6 King Kyrië 69
7 The Floating Life 80
8 A Fine Mess 90
9 Emperors of the Sea 104
10 The Flower Girl 120
11 The End of the Seven Gentlemen 135
12 The Pleasure Boat 150
13 Saints and Sinners 163
14 Best Laid Schemes 178
15 The Fog of War 192
16 Out, Brief Candle 204
17 A British Hero 216
18 Heaven and Hell 226
19 Ghosts 241
20 Everything is Connected 254
21 A Useful Purpose 266
22 The Black Crow 277
23 Death Warrant 290
24 The End of the Line 302
25 Family Matters 319
Epilogue: 1861 336A.E. Goldin is a British writer and musician. He works as a screenwriter for television companies in London and Los Angeles. Murder in Constantinople, his debut novel and the first Ben Canaan Mystery, was published to acclaim in 2024. He lives in London.They found him sprawled face down on the dining table. The blood had long since dried, staining the tablecloth deep bur-gundy. His arms were spread wide, in a crucifix-like gesture, and his face was buried in a half-eaten lemon posset. The cutlery, fine sterling silver, lay scattered across the oak floor, in puddles of Laurent-Perrier and shards of shattered champagne flutes. The candles had almost burnt through their wax and shadows hung heavy around the corpse.
It was an oddly peaceful sight: constables drifting through the stillness as they formed a perimeter around the table, a gentle breeze nudging the windowpanes, the barely stifled sobs of Lady Louisa Ellison. She was huddled with the other witnesses at the far end of the dining room, wrapped in the arms of her husband the Earl of Mansfield, whose right hand was edging over her eyes to shield her from the horror.

Two men were standing over the body. On the right, vig-orously chewing tobacco, was Sergeant Will Hardy of the Metropolitan Police – his top hat crooked to the right as he fiddled with his specially issued revolver, which he had a habit of keeping in an open holster for easy access. On the left, in a smooth black overcoat and slim-fitting suit, with a neat bowtie nestled under his chin and a thin moustache traced over his top lip, was Detective Ben Canaan.

They stared at the gruesome sight with a detachment not unlike that which was writ large on the faces of the Mansfield ancestors whose portraits were affixed to the walls.

‘Did Commissioner Mayne sanction your presence?’ Hardy grumbled.

‘Not quite,’ Ben replied. ‘My own superiors sent for me. Don’t worry: there’s plenty of space on the dancefloor and I’ll be sure not to tread on the Met’s toes.’

‘You’re more than happy to cling to our coattails. You angling to join our ranks?’

‘I go where I’m told, Hardy. Besides, I wouldn’t join the Met for all the money and caviar in the world. Now, what say we turn this chap over and get a good look at him?’

Ben and Hardy flipped the body onto its back, and Ben slipped on his glove to wipe away the yellowish dessert that had congealed on the man’s face.

Lying dead before them was none other than Lennie Glass: notorious East End gangster – king of the Isle of Dogs. A man whose casual glance used to strike fear into Ben’s heart. Who played with people’s lives like a cat with fresh yarn. And now he too had met a sticky end.

Hardy narrowed his eyes. ‘You know our dear friend Mr Glass?’

Ben tut-tutted and flicked the cream from his glove. ‘I owed him a favour once.’

Ben inspected Lennie more closely. The man’s hair was brit-tle and tangled, as when it is caught in the rain and left to dry naturally. Ben parted his lips – Lennie’s pristine white teeth, one of his great prides, were still intact. On the face alone, the pallor of death aside, Lennie could easily have been mistaken for a man at the peak of his powers.

It was below the head where things got messy. His suit, courtesy of H. Huntsman & Sons, was made from the highest quality cotton twill, as Ben could tell from a cursory brush. But it was streaked with mud and punctured with ragged holes, and his bloodstained dress shirt was torn down to the sternum. The front of his right trouser leg was in tatters, exposing his bright-purple silk socks. His shoes, custom-made black leather loafers from Tricker’s, were caked in dirt. Ben gave them a sniff. Horse manure.

‘How unlike Lennie,’ Ben said. ‘He wouldn’t be caught dead looking like this.’

‘He has now,’ Hardy chuckled.

With his mother-of-pearl penknife, Ben carefully slit the edges of the opening in Lennie’s dress shirt to expose his belly. It was drenched in blood and riddled with stab-wounds. Ben wiped away the blood to tally them up, but what he saw made him freeze.

A phrase had been carved into Lennie’s belly: Black Blood. ‘Not just dead,’ he murmured, ‘Gutted. I take it none of the guests did this?’ ‘They claim not.’

‘So he staggered through the rain in this state for who knows how far.’

‘Is that even possible?’ Hardy said as he topped up his chew-ing tobacco.

Ben nodded. Lennie was strong as a bull – he always had been. Obviously the person responsible for this, unlike Ben once upon a time, had not had the dubious honour of working for the man.
But this was speculation. Ben needed something more con-crete. He approached the witnesses, who had formed a semi-circle by the bay windows. Behind them was a bleak view of the Kenwood Estate – its pastures sloping down to Wood Pond, the banks of birches and sycamores giving way to a pitch-black thicket that swayed back and forth in the breeze.

‘Good evening, Detective,’ Earl Mansfield said in a low voice, as he shook hands with Ben. ‘You must forgive my wife: she cannot brook the sight of blood.’

‘That is quite alright.’ Ben bowed his head and held out a hand to Lady Louisa. ‘All will be well, my lady. Fear not.’

There were eight witnesses in all: Earl Mansfield and Lady Louisa, the hosts; Earl Mansfield’s imperious mother Frederica Markham; Lord Brougham and Vaux, lately arrived from the spa town of Cannes; Sir Alexander Cockburn, the current Attorney General; Westbury, the septuagenarian head steward, and two pages who served as Westbury’s under-stewards.
‘I daresay,’ Ben exclaimed, ‘an illustrious crowd, in an equally illustrious venue! Kenwood House is a fine piece of land, my lord. Which begs the question: how on earth does a dead man end up on your dinner table, with his face submerged in what I’m sure was a delicious lemon posset?’

‘My lemon posset,’ Frederica Markham said with venom – and, with a sharp nod in Lennie’s direction, ‘ruined by this frightful boor.’

Everyone provided much the same account. They had been having dinner at Earl Mansfield and Lady Louisa’s invitation. It was a quieter affair than the lavish soirées that Earl Mansfield typically hosted, though by any other metric a seven-course meal including oysters, soupe à l’oignon gratinée, and pheasant with spiced okra and russet potatoes was far from standard. They were just about to tuck into the famous lemon posset when they heard a commotion outside, followed by shouts of alarm, and the sound of a scuffle.

Then, without warning, the double doors to the dining room burst open and in staggered Lennie Glass. He was wild-eyed and bleeding profusely from his belly, which he clutched tight with one hand. The stewards trailed behind him, Westbury grabbing his arm to yank him back. The guests leapt from their seats as Lennie tore himself free of Westbury’s grasp, approached the head of the table, and with his last ounce of strength uttered just one word: ‘Seven!’ And with that, he collapsed onto the table, letting out a final choke, quite dead.

‘Seven?’ Ben frowned. ‘Seven what?’

‘Just seven, Detective,’ Earl Mansfield said. ‘You didn’t hear him say anything else?’

‘I’m quite sure it was simply the number “Seven”,’ the Attorney General interjected.

Westbury and his pages filled in the events leading up to this dramatic entrance. There had been a knock at the door – highly unusual at this hour, with all the guests having arrived and the gates to the Kenwood Estate being locked. Westbury answered, expecting perhaps that Earl Mansfield had made an impromptu invitation. But he was greeted instead by this uninvited guest, doubled over in pain and sopping wet from the rain shower that had just passed.

‘So, by the time he arrived, he was already in a rather sorry state?’ Ben asked.

‘I was not compelled to stab the man myself, Detective, if that is what you are implying,’ Westbury said sharply. ‘He was begging for help and saying that he had to come inside before it was too late.’
But Westbury was not minded to let Lennie in, not knowing who he was at the time and wondering whether this was all an elaborate con. That said, he was also keen to spare his master the scandal of a man expiring on their doorstep, so he turned to the pages and instructed them to send for a surgeon.

As Westbury’s back was turned, Lennie shoved past him and lumbered into Kenwood House. The three stewards pursued Lennie, trying with all their might to hold him back. But Lennie, despite his mortal wounds, had an almost preternatural drive and made it as far as the double doors of the dining room. Hence the fracas heard by the dinner guests.

Ben mulled this information for a moment. He had the ending. But what was the beginning? This was a case where he would have to work backwards to go forward.

He turned to Earl Mansfield. ‘I assume, my lord, that you own stables?’

Earl Mansfield nodded and snapped his fingers at Westbury. ‘Take Detective Canaan to the stables and fetch Higgins.’