Death on the Doorstep (Murder in Moonlight #7)

Chapter One

Constance strode through the gracious streets of Mayfair just as servants were beginning to open doors and shutters to greet the first, early sunshine.

It was a glorious morning, alive with the promise of summer.

Ecstatic birdsong mingled with the clatter of horses’ hooves and the lively chatter of carters and delivery boys, milkmaids and servants.

It all filled Constance with a happy sense of familiarity, and yet she appreciated it anew.

So different somehow from the sounds and smells of Venice, which had been home for two whole, wonderful months.

She missed it already, and yet her heart sang to be home, beating fast with anticipation to greet her old friends and catch up with their news.

In the midst of her happiness, she had missed them.

She turned into Grosvenor Square and then on to the discreet, crescent-shaped cul-de-sac leading off it, and there was her establishment, her achievement, basking in its disreputable success, here among the supremely respectable houses of the wealthy, the aristocratic, and the equally successful.

No shutters were open yet on her house—its occupants kept late hours and only a few would be awake, most of them in the kitchen. Even the porter at the front door should have gone to bed now, since all visitors should have departed by dawn.

Extracting the keys from her reticule, she descended the area steps, where a milk churn already awaited collection.

She was about to insert her key when she heard the voices at the back of the house, where another door led from the kitchen into the backyard and the little garden where herbs and flowers grew.

She let her hand fall to her side. She knew the voices, of course. Jeremy, who looked after the outside of the house and the grounds, and Bibby, recently promoted to assistant cook. But something about the pitch of those familiar voices was unnatural, wrong.

Constance turned and hurried along the narrow path that led around the side of the house to the garden, inexplicably worried by what was surely only a minor quarrel. She was used to sorting out dozens of those a day, often all at the same time.

But Bibby and Jeremy did not appear to be quarrelling. The tiny, skinny girl and the large, burly man were actually clinging to each other and staring at the kitchen door.

“Not here,” Bibby was saying, shaking her head furiously. “Oh, not here, not here…”

“Maybe they’re asleep,” Jeremy rumbled.

And then Constance saw them.

Just in front of the half-open door, sitting on the step, were two men, leaning against the stone wall on either side of the doorframe, almost like bookends.

One wore the evening dress of a gentleman.

A tall silk hat even sat on his knees. The other was in dirty, ragged raiment, his battered cloth hat squashed between the back of his head and the wall.

Their eyes were open and staring sightlessly.

Not here, not here… Constance heartily concurred. It added a new horror to what was becoming an all-too-familiar situation.

Some sort of exclamation must have escaped her lips, for both Bibby and Jeremy whipped around to her, their mouths agape with fright and guilt.

“Oh, it’s you, ma’am!” Bibby ran to her, almost like a child seeking her mother’s protection. “Thank God you’re home! What on earth are we to do? It wasn’t us, honest, ma’am, it wasn’t!”

“Of course it was not,” Constance agreed, patting the girl’s shoulder and pushing her gently aside. “Are they both dead?”

“Never seen anyone look less alive,” Jeremy said. “We just found them, though…”

Constance stripped off her gloves and walked up to the still figures on her back doorstep, trying to give the impression of brisk confidence.

But her fingers shook as she laid them on the well-dressed gentleman’s neck.

It was cold to the touch and she could find no sign of a pulse, or any warmth at all, even when she felt inside his collar.

When she tried to lift his hand from his hat, it was stiff as a board.

Rigor mortis had set in. The man must have been dead for hours. His companion appeared to be in the same state.

“Do you recognize either of them?” Constance asked. “Have you ever seen them before?”

They both shook their heads, though Bibby was frowning. “Not sure about the poor one. I might have seen him somewhere.”

“Begging, maybe,” Jeremy said.

“Maybe,” said Bibby doubtfully.

Constance straightened and drew in a breath. “Jeremy, run and find a constable and bring him here at once. Bibby, go inside and make some strong tea. Close and lock the door behind you. No one is to use this door again until the police have been here.”

Jeremy took off down the garden toward the mews like a bullet, clearly relieved to have a reason to leave. Bibby whimpered as she edged between the bodies, although she seemed to have swung blithely past them on the way out without noticing.

“They’re dead, Bibby,” Constance said. “They can’t hurt you.”

“Ain’t true, ma’am. They can hurt all of us now, but mostly me and Jeremy.”

“Finding a dead person is not a crime,” Constance said mildly. “In you go. I’ll come in the front in a moment.”

The door closed quietly and the lock clicked home.

Dead bodies outdoors were not common in Mayfair, particularly not in the warmer months.

Discovering two at a time was, Constance thought, unprecedented.

She could see no blood, no obvious signs of attack.

But the likelihood of two people dying of natural causes side by side on the same night was not high.

There was something…grotesque about these two. Standing back, she examined them.

The door that formed the background to their rest was somewhat ornate, for before the rest of the crescent had been built, this house had faced the other way.

Only later had it been altered to match the newer homes on either side.

The well-dressed man looked almost at home there, like some gentleman out on the tiles all night and waiting to be let in to his own home.

The poor man, however, was decidedly out of place.

There was a clear space between them on the step, and at first sight, they appeared to be resting comfortably. But to Constance, they looked curiously…twisted. Their hips and legs faced straight ahead, their upper torsos leaning to the side in positions that could not have been comfortable.

Almost as if they had not died here but had been placed.

Glancing around, she found no obvious scuff marks on the paths, and the earth and plants of the garden appeared undisturbed. She would look more closely later, but for now…

She should not touch anything until the police had been, though she would have no opportunity once they had removed the bodies.

With inevitable pity, she wondered who the devil these men were, the gentleman and the vagrant.

Or at least that was what the second man looked—and smelled—like, his face and hands weathered and lined, his person thin to the point of scrawny beneath his worn, ragged clothes.

The fingers of one hand were curled, speckled with ingrained dirt, his matted hair receding, his cheeks thin and pale and deeply lined.

She moved nearer the bodies again and crouched down. Another smell that she could not immediately place hit her. Warily, she inserted her hand into the tramp’s coat pocket. It felt greasy, full of crumbs and fluff, until her fingers closed around something clean and distinctive. She drew it out.

A fine, soft leather notecase. Inside were a few banknotes and several visiting cards in the name of Terrence St. John, with an address in Grosvenor Square.

I don’t think so. She returned the notecase to the disgusting pocket and regarded the other man.

The notecase could well be his and the vagrant had stolen it.

Or the vagrant could have stolen it from someone else, at any time in the past. She felt inside the gentleman’s pockets, finding a few coins and a monogramed handkerchief—TSJ.

So the wallet and the vising cards were likely his.

Certainly, he carried no other notecase, because there was only a pair of gloves in his other pocket.

What on earth had happened here? A robbery? After which the pair had sat down together to die? And why had it all taken place in her garden, right on her doorstep?

She replaced the gloves, coins, and handkerchief where she had found them and sat back on her heels.

If the gentleman was a neighbor, she did not know him.

He was not a client of her establishment.

Sarah, her capable lieutenant, had been under instructions to admit no new members while Constance was away, unless she was very, very sure and had written guarantees in triplicate.

He was not a young man, perhaps in his forties, but was handsome and fit, without much middle-aged thickening around his middle. From his dress, his hands, and the quality of the silk hat, he was rich.

The gate at the foot of the garden crashed open and a breathless Jeremy dashed in with a middle-aged constable panting behind him.

Constance rose to her feet. “Constable.”

“Madam. Dear me. Are you sure they’re—”

“Quite sure,” she said, making way for him. “But by all means look.”

“And you are…?”

“Mrs. Grey,” she said, before she remembered that she had intended to continue calling herself Mrs. Silver at the establishment. Oh well, a little respectability worked better with the police. “This is my house. My people found these men just a few minutes ago, just as you see them now.”

“Any idea who are they are?” the constable asked, moving closer.

“None at all,” Constance said, keeping to herself the name on the visiting cards. The police would discover those soon enough.

“He’s not a neighbor, then?” he asked, bending down to the gentleman.

“He could be, but he is not known to me.”