Chapter Five
Miss Zenobia Paul had rooms in a respectable street in Bloomsbury, and she surprised Solomon from the outset.
Constance had taught him that women of ill repute came in as many shapes and characters as the rest of humanity, so he had never been crass enough to expect either the grasping whore or the empty-headed but amiable antidote to a nagging wife.
But Zenobia Paul, he suspected, would always be a surprise.
Her landlady, a respectable widow by her appearance, consulted personally with Miss Paul before showing him up her neatly kept staircase to a suite of rooms on the first floor.
He entered a pleasantly cluttered sitting room full of oddities and curios from across the globe, many of them extremely beautiful.
Juliet Silver would have loved it. The walls were decorated with exotic landscapes and a few unusual portraits.
Between them hung embroidered cloth and colorful beads.
There were two jam-packed bookcases, each topped with beautifully carved and painted bookends from India.
Small wool and silk rugs adorned the floor and furniture, turning shabby tables and old upholstered chairs into curiously charming pieces.
Miss Paul herself came to meet him from the midst of this treasure trove.
She was tall and slender, almost wand-like, with a natural elegance that made one think immediately of beauty.
And yet, from her untidily piled hair to her bright clothes festooned with unmatching jewelry, she gave the distinct impression of carelessness.
She was older than he had expected, too, perhaps in her early forties, with shrewd, veiled eyes and a rather stubborn chin.
“Mr. Grey,” she said, holding out her hand. “You do not look like a policeman.”
Her voice was a surprise, too—low, educated, with the clipped vowels of the upper classes.
“I’m not.” Solomon bowed over her hand, which was slender and beringed.
He had sent up the Silver and Grey card, but she seemed only to have read his name and “Inquiries.” She glanced at it again—she held it still in her left hand—and cast him another rueful if appraising glance.
“Forgive me. I am not at my best. I have had a bit of a shock, you see. Actually, I probably would not have received you if I had read this correctly the first time, but since you are here, what might I do for you?”
“I apologize for the intrusion,” Solomon said. “I was hoping you could help me understand the recent death of Mr. Terrence St. John.”
The flashing change in her expression was so quick he could have missed it in a blink, and it had gone before he could properly recognize it.
She sat but did not invite him to do so. “What is that to do with you?”
“He was found on the back doorstep of my wife’s property.”
This time he recognized the flash. Simple and profound grief.
Only when he saw it, among all the gaiety of her dress, did he realize it had been missing from the purely shocked response of the St. Johns. He made little of that. Everyone grieved in their own way. But in this woman, it felt curiously poignant.
“Please, sit down,” she invited him. “I have a kettle here, if you would like a cup of tea? Or something stronger, perhaps? I believe I will have a sherry.”
“Thank you, I will join you if I may.” He watched her pour from a beautifully decorated glass bottle, several of which festooned the table beneath a large mirror. Her hands trembled.
He took the crystal glass from her with a murmur of thanks and sat when she did.
“The policeman who informed me of Terrence’s death was very vague about details,” she said abruptly. “He was more interested in asking questions—impudent questions, at that—than in answering mine. And there has been nothing in the newspapers. How did Terrence die?”
“Apparently by opium poisoning, although he was also stabbed after death—one of the many mysterious circumstances.”
“Opium?” A frown creased her brow.
“You find that odd? Did he not take it for any pain or ailments he was subject to?”
“Not that I ever heard, although it’s perfectly possible he had toothache or something equally unbearable without relief. But he was not an idiot. He would not poison himself with it.”
“In view of the stabbing, the general belief is that he was poisoned by someone else.”
She was staring at him. “Who stabbed him afterward just to make sure? It makes no sense.”
“Agreed. Another thing that makes no sense is that beside him on the doorstep was the equally dead—but unstabbed—body of a known vagrant by the name of Nevvy. Does that mean anything to you?”
She shook her head. “What else?”
“The doorstep was not far from Mr. St. John’s home but was the back door to a discreet establishment of ill repute.”
She blinked. “A brothel?”
“Of an exclusive kind. Run by a certain Constance Silver, of whom you might have heard.”
Until the woman’s shoulders relaxed, he hadn’t been properly aware of her tension. “No. But then, such scandals don’t interest me. To be honest, they don’t—didn’t—interest Terrence either.”
“Because he had you?”
Her eyes widened, though she looked more bewildered than insulted. Then she sighed. “I see you have made the same mistake as the police. I suppose you can’t really be blamed, since the gossip has been peddled for years. Terrence and I were not lovers. We were friends and always had been.”
“Does his wife know that?” Solomon asked.
“I should imagine she must.”
“Why, are you on visiting terms?” he asked.
Her smile was lopsided. “Oh no. I didn’t say she liked me, Mr. Grey. I am much too eccentric for her world, and she did rather resent when Terrence helped to finance my expeditions.”
“Your expeditions?”
She waved her head to encompass the room full of exotic treasures. “To India, Africa, China. He would have come too if she had let him. Instead, he helped me raise money from learned societies and academics, to whom I reported back faithfully.”
“You are an intrepid lady,” he said with genuine admiration. Constance would like her, he knew.
“I have not had much time in my life for love affairs, you see.”
He nodded, then realized she was watching him with faint curiosity.
“You believe me,” she said, “that Terrence and I were merely old friends. The policeman did not, and made it perfectly plain that my answers to his questions were worth no more than those of any other proven liar.”
“Ah. That would have been Constable Napier.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “I believe that was the name.”
“Take heart. I suspect he was sent because you were considered of little importance. In a murder inquiry, that has to be good.”
She grimaced. “None of this feels good. Thank you for telling me the truth. What is it you think I can tell you?”
“First of all, I suppose, did you see Mr. St. John at all on the night he died?”
She shook her head. “No. I had not seen him for several days. Not since last Sunday afternoon.”
“Then tell me about his other friends. Who would he have been comfortable visiting after midnight?”
“Someone in your exclusive brothel? Not the ladies of the night but the servants?”
“Apparently not. No one knew him. Besides, there is a house rule that no one is admitted by the back door. For reasons of safety.”
“I can imagine,” she said.
“Apart from yourself, who were his friends?” Solomon asked.
“I know only of a few academics, artists, writers.”
“Could you write down their names and addresses for me?” Solomon asked.
“I could,” she said. “But you know, his wife will have a completely different set of friends to give you.”
“Then he led something of a double life?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far,” she said quickly. “Merely, he had a wide circle of friends who did not all mix.”
“But he might, perhaps, have been more likely to visit the bohemian set after midnight?”
“I don’t think he ever did. Apart from me.”
“Why you?”
“Because we have been friends since childhood. Almost brother and sister. And I have no spouse to disturb.”
“Miss Paul, was something troubling him in the last week or so of his life?”
She met his gaze, though hers shifted a little out of focus.
“Do you know, I think perhaps something was? He didn’t tell me what, and I never asked.
I presumed he would tell in his own time if I could help.
” Again that flash of grief washed over her face and vanished. “One isn’t always given that time.”
“One isn’t,” he agreed. “Do you have idea what it was? Or when it began to bother him?”
“I don’t know what the problem was,” she said slowly, “but I suppose it began about a month ago.”
“When was his daughter’s engagement announced?” he asked on impulse.
Her lips parted in shock. “A little more than a month ago. But no, I’m sure you’re wrong. He was delighted when he told me of it. He liked young Cordell, and in truth, it is a most suitable match. Bella was deliriously happy, and that made him happy.”
“And troubled,” Solomon pointed out.
She flapped one impatient hand. “That was after.”
“How much after?”
“Oh, I don’t know. A week or so, maybe, before I noticed he was a little tense and uneasy. But he still spoke happily about the wedding and the preparations that were keeping his wife contented, too, so I can’t think it was anything to do with Cordell.”
“With Cordell’s family, perhaps? Do you know them?”
“Oh, we don’t move in the same circles at all. They are very conventional, I believe, and would thoroughly disapprove of me. Not just because they think I am Terrence’s mistress, but because I do unsuitable things for a woman.”
“Do you suppose they disliked Mr. St. John because of his perceived connection with you?”
Her expression was tolerantly scornful. “You haven’t quite grasped the hypocrisy of Polite Society, have you? Trust me, that is in your favor. No, they might disapprove of me, but Terrence indulging himself in discreet adultery would not raise an eyebrow. It would almost be expected.”