Chapter Five #2
“Funnily enough, I have encountered that kind of attitude all too often. What else happened in St. John’s life in the last month? Anything unusual or new to him?”
“Not that he told me.”
For the first time, her answer was too quick. She might have been bored with the questioning, or not quite truthful.
“Did you quarrel with him?” he asked.
She smiled, an odd, sad little smile. “Rarely. We could shout at each other when we were young. Recently, not so much, and we were quieter about it. Maturity does bring some good sense. We didn’t argue much at all in the last month, no.”
“Whom did he quarrel with?”
“No one, I suspect. He was a hard man to rile because he generally saw all sides of an argument and was very tolerant by nature.” She swallowed and lifted her glass very slightly as though in a silent toast. “I shall miss him.”
Solomon drank with her and allowed a respectful silence. “I met Mr. John on the board of St. Peter’s Hospital. Do you know much about his charitable interests?”
“A little. The poverty of his fellow men concerned him.”
“What about the homeless? Vagrants living on the streets?”
She thought about it. “I think he gave money for the building of a men’s hostel. But he was not particularly involved, except on the matter of health, as in St. Peter’s. Are you thinking of the vagrant who shared his doorstep?”
Solomon nodded. “If there is a connection between them, I would like to find it.”
“It was probably made that night,” she said. “If he saw someone in need, he would not pass him by.” She frowned. “On the other hand, what was he doing in a stranger’s back garden?”
“Precisely,” Solomon said. He hesitated. “I think you were aware of the nature of that particular doorstep before I mentioned it.”
She looked amused by his delicacy. “I was. The police constable told me with some relish. But I am not foolish enough to imagine Terrence was visiting the house. It was not in his nature.”
“Perhaps not. And it’s perfectly possible there is no connection at all between St. John and the tramp. The men could have been brought from entirely different places to be found there.”
“Why?” she asked blankly.
He sighed. “I have no idea. Perhaps to impugn my wife, who owns the house.” He set down his glass. “Thank you for your help, Miss Paul. If you should think of anything else at all that might help, you can always reach me or my wife through the address on the card. We would be very grateful.”
“I would certainly rather tell you than the vulgarly offensive constable. But am I not obliged to tell the police?”
“We would be happy to do that for you,” Solomon assured her. “They may come to you for a statement, but I shall suggest Inspector Harris calls himself. He is in charge of the case.”
“You are very considerate.” She eyed him curiously, rising with him as he stood to depart. “You are a well-travelled man, are you not?”
“All the way from Jamaica, by a somewhat circuitous route.”
Her eyes sparkled. “Indeed? I would like to hear your story some time. I hope you will call again.”
“Thank you. I would like to,” he said truthfully.
“Bring your wife. She must be a very interesting woman.”
*
Constance spent most of the afternoon making notes on the uses and abuses of opium, and then on the entire sum of their knowledge of the two dead men. There was depressingly little of the latter.
When Janey and Lenny returned to the office, crowing with delight because they had solved their theft case, she cheered up and celebrated with them, joining them in a cup of tea with cakes bought from the baker’s shop round the corner.
Recklessly, she gave them each a bonus payment and sent them off for the rest of the day to enjoy themselves. She hoped Lenny would not simply go home and work on his carpentry.
She smiled as she watched them out of the window striding along the street arm in arm, talking and laughing. When they had first met Lenny, he had never even smiled, so lost was he in his personal tragedy. Janey had been good for him. Perhaps Silver and Grey was, too.
A hackney pulled up and Solomon alighted. Immediately, the world brightened further. She had to stop herself from rushing to the door and dragging him inside. After all, this was a respectable and professional office.
“Constance?” he called, closing the front door behind him.
“In here.”
He strode down the hall to her office, filling it at once with his presence.
Because she wanted to, she walked straight into his arms. She had grown too used to being there during the weeks of their honeymoon.
It seemed to make even short separations more difficult.
Though she was more than happy with their reunion kisses.
It was some time before they sat very close together on her sofa, his arm around her waist, ready to discuss the case.
“What have you learned about opium poisoning?” he asked.
It made her smile. They had always had odd conversations for lovers.
“That a massive dose could not be easily disguised. The most likely situation I can come up with is that he was taking laudanum or some other form of opium anyway, and simply took, or was given, a larger dose on one or more occasions.” She reached for the notes at her feet and passed him the relevant page.
“There seems to have been no hint of that,” he said. “Unless he frequented some opium den. He was not ill or in pain that anyone knew of. Besides, if he felt ill, why go and sit on a stranger’s doorstep?”
“We don’t know that he did,” she reminded him. “He could have died anywhere in the City and some wag chose to deposit him on my doorstep, perhaps in an effort to have the house closed down. Did you see Mrs. St. John?”
“I did. Not that I learned much from her. Questioning a bereaved widow without being thrown out of the house is surprisingly difficult when one has no authority. But I did have quite an interesting talk with her future son-in-law, Hanibal Cordell. I didn’t take to him much at first—one of those arrogant, entitled men of the upper classes—but there is more going on beneath the surface.
He liked St. John, seems devoted to the daughter, and he appears to be hiding from the family exactly whose doorstep St. John was found upon. ”
As Solomon talked, she added to her notes, with separate pages for Cordell and Zenobia Paul.
“You believe her when she says she was not St. John’s mistress?” Constance asked.
“I do. I think she’s an unconventional woman who simply follows her own path.
And those who don’t understand platonic friendships between men and women have simply labeled her and dismissed her.
Including Cordell, incidentally. He thinks that if Mrs. St. John knows of the rumors, she simply pretends she doesn’t, like so many dutiful wives.
Zenobia, on the other hand, thinks Mrs. St. John understands the relationship perfectly well and just doesn’t like her. They have met, though not by choice.”
“Then we are ruling out jealousy from either of them as a motive for murder?”
Solomon hesitated. “I don’t know. I think so. But there’s something Zenobia is consciously not telling me.”
“About what?”
“I’m not sure. Something to do with events in St. John’s life in the last few months.”
“She’s keeping his confidences,” Constance suggested. “In which case, perhaps she thinks it is nothing to do with his murder.”
“Or just none of our business. Both she and Cordell seemed to find our business rather…quaint.”
“Ha,” said Constance. “Quaint or otherwise, we don’t appear to have found a motive for murder so far.
Everyone liked him. He had no enemies. No woman had cause to be jealous.
His daughter’s marriage was a matter for general rejoicing.
He was not short of money or respect. Of course, if one really wants to know what’s going on, one should speak to the servants.
Perhaps we should send Janey to make friends.
If they’re not too haughty to speak to maids from my establishment. ”
“It’s worth trying. We have no idea where he was going the last time he left the house.
Presumably that was when he took the opium that killed him.
No one ever noticed him being ill or strange, so I doubt he was a frequent user.
I think perhaps I should investigate opium dens.
Though my impression is that he was too respectable for such places. ”
“Don’t take the stuff,” Constance warned. “Not even to blend in. I’ve seen people become hopelessly dependent on it very quickly. Can that be what happened to our man? He just took too much accidentally?”
“Where would he have got it? Not from his doctor, or the police would know by now.”
“You can buy it anywhere,” Constance said. “It’s cheap. Like gin. Mothers give it to their teething babies. Street girls take it to for pain, sickness, or just to forget for an hour.”
Solomon was startled. “Anywhere?” he repeated. “In lethal doses?”
“Well, no, in little screws of paper. No doubt an apothecary would sell it with instructions. Tobacconists, news sellers, and corner-shop grocers often sell it too. But there’s nothing to stop you buying several doses at a time.
The only thing is, it stinks and tastes foul, so I don’t see how anyone could have poisoned his food or drink without his noticing—unless they simply increased the amount he was used to. ”
Solomon nodded, frowning in thought. “Along with our other inquiries, we had better discover who is so outraged by your establishment that they are planting bodies at your door.”