Chapter Nine
Leaving the carriage for Constance’s use, Solomon took a hackney to Scotland Yard, where he was lucky enough to catch Inspector Harris in his office. The man rose to shake hands over his desk, eyeing Solomon with his usual mixture of displeasure and interest.
“I was wondering when you would appear. Sit down.”
Solomon took the handkerchief-wrapped flask from his pocket and laid it on the desk before he sat. “We found that this morning, under the garden shed, where it might have been kicked by accident or by design. It reeks of opium.”
Harris’s eyebrows flew up. Silently, he unwrapped the flask, examined it, and sniffed it. He grimaced. “It does. The question is, was it always there and my fools missed it? Or did someone plant it there for you to find later?”
“I can’t see what their objective would be in that,” Solomon said. “On the other hand, someone is definitely trying to cause trouble for Constance.” He told Harris about the manure piled on the back doorstep.
The policeman looked only vaguely interested. “I don’t have the men to investigate quarrels between neighbors.”
“Even if your murdered bodies are an extension of that quarrel?”
“Murdered body,” Harris corrected him. “Singular.”
“Really? Was there an autopsy on Nevvy? If they weren’t put on that step from different places, isn’t it likely they were drinking together?”
“There’s no proof of that.”
“There’s no proof of anything very much,” Solomon retorted. “But Constance did say Nevvy’s fingers were curled as if he’d been holding something.”
“He can’t have been holding it and kicking it under the shed.”
Solomon sighed. “I know. And I see no reason for St. John to have been drinking with vagrants. He seems to have been a refined sort of fellow, and had no shortage of friends.”
“On the other hand,” Harris said thoughtfully, “the doctor at the hospital did give Neville some opium a couple of weeks ago. And a month before that. If he saved it up and put it all in the flask full of brandy, I suppose it could have killed both of them. But why would St. John have drunk anything so foul? Unless he was in the habit…”
“Was he?”
“Not according to his family or his servants. There was a bottle of laudanum in the house for emergencies, but the housekeeper swore it hadn’t been touched since the boy broke his arm falling off a horse in the park two years ago.”
“Did you speak to the family physician?”
“We did. He had no concerns over the health of any of the family. Hadn’t seen St. John since he came to treat the boy’s arm. His family, his friends, all thought he was in perfect health.”
“But worried…” Solomon drummed his fingers on the desk. “Still no witnesses?”
“Not to murder, and not to the loading or unloading of bodies.”
“The same with us,” Solomon said restlessly. “So far. Tell me, when they were interviewing neighboring households, did your men find any ill feeling toward Constance’s establishment? Outrage, I mean, rather than mere disapproval.”
Harris shook his head. “No. My instinct is the bodies died where they were. Though why they were there…”
“Constance’s cook occasionally gave vagrants a cup of tea to drink on the doorstep,” Solomon admitted.
“She may even have let them in, which is strictly against the rules, so she never admitted it. Her assistant remembered Nevvy’s face, though only after she’d calmed down enough to think.
Neither of them were lying. Mrs. Cate never saw the bodies. ”
Harris grunted. It changed nothing important in his eyes.
“What about his finances?” Solomon asked. “Did you get access to his bank?”
“Yes, through his solicitor. He was very well off, no troubles, although he was shelling out extraordinary amounts of money for his daughter’s wedding.
Gowns, champagne, an elaborate breakfast, new jewelry.
In all, more than the rest of us are likely to earn in our lifetimes. Present company excepted.”
“Could he afford it?”
“Apparently so.”
“Any payments that were odd? Unaccountable to you or the solicitor?”
“If you’re thinking blackmail,” Harris said, “I’d be surprised.
I found nothing to suggest it. In fact, the man appears to have been beyond reproach.
No one has had a bad word to say about him.
No affairs—unless you count the Paul woman, which seems to have been an open secret—and nothing to hold over his head.
His wife knows about it. So does Cordell, the girl’s prospective father-in-law. ”
“Have you met Cordell senior, then? What is he like?”
“Very upright and rigid. Not quite a caricature, but a decent man, well respected.”
“Does he approve of the marriage?”
“Heartily.”
Solomon smiled wryly. “You know, in most of our cases, we have so many suspects that we have trouble ruling them all out. In this case, we can find no one who wished the man ill, or would benefit from his death—I suppose that would only be his son?”
“In trust until he is twenty-one. But yes. The family is all taken care of, and the servants have small legacies according to how long they have been with the family. Charities benefit too to some degree.”
“What did you think of the marriage?”
“Cordial. No complaints on either side.”
“You see?” Solomon said. “No damned suspects. Dare I ask what lines of inquiry you are pursuing?”
“Looking at Nevvy the vagrant, but there’s no obvious connection, except for the hospital. It may be that it was just a horrible accident. One sick man and another in his cups, finding some kind of solace in each other’s company.”
“Do you believe that?” asked Solomon.
“I’m beginning to,” Harris said morosely.
*
From Scotland Yard, Solomon delved into the darker regions along the Thames, heading eastward toward Limehouse.
In his convoluted voyage from Jamaica, which ended in London, he had visited Hong Kong and mainland China.
He had seen opium dens and knew roughly where to look in London.
But even the most opulent he had seen in the East had depressed him.
The hot, airless, stinking dens of East London were almost unbearable.
And quite useless, since the owners were close-lipped to the point of pretending not to understand him, and the patrons mostly too addled to be reliable.
After his third visit to a den, he found a hackney to take him back to the office.
He was convinced he had wasted his time.
He could not imagine the fastidious St. John in such a place, even to buy opium to smoke somewhere else later.
Besides, wasn’t the preparation of the drug for smoking different from that used in laudanum, and the powdered variety bought from apothecaries?
Perhaps St. John and Nevvy simply swapped, and St. John bought the opium with his entire wallet.
But why?
Increasingly discontented, Solomon returned to the office to think.
He read through the notes that Constance had begun, and then added the minor snippets he had learned from Harris.
He felt frustrated by how little they were learning.
What they needed was Constance’s view of the family. And that was impossible.
On top of which, the malicious manure incident bothered him far too much.
Since Constance’s poisoning in Venice, he had grown vastly overprotective of her and had to force himself to bite his tongue and stay his hand, especially if he allowed the possibility that it was something to do with the murder of St. John.
A knock at his office door heralded the unfamiliar face of the new girl, Hat. He was so used to Janey that it took him a moment to realize who she was.
“A lady to see you, sir.” She darted over to give him a visiting card. “Miss Paul.”
Surprised, he said, “Show her in, if you please.”
“Should I make tea?” Hat asked nervously.
“Yes, please.”
She vanished, only to announce, “Miss Paul, sir,” a moment later.
Zenobia Paul’s outdoor dress was as eccentric as he could have imagined, all bright, flowing shawls and something remarkably like an orange turban on her head. He was struck once again by the contrast between her fantastical appearance and her civil but down-to-earth manners.
“Mr. Grey,” she greeted him, holding out her hand. “Thank you for seeing me.”
He took her hand and bowed over it. “Please sit down. Hat will bring tea.”
“Oh, there is no need. I merely brought you the list of Terrence’s good friends that we spoke of previously.
” She rummaged inside a large cloth bag that had blended with her shawls, and emerged with a slightly crumpled piece of paper, which she handed to him before she sat in the comfortable chair by the low table.
“I have added addresses where I know them, and occupations to give you a clue. They are rather a motley collection of artists, writers, naturalists, even radical thinkers. Some of them are very old friends, from childhood, like me. I’ve marked those too.
The people I’ve spoken to didn’t see him the night before he died, though. ”
“Thank you,” Solomon said, accepting the list. “This could be just what we need. To be honest, we are struggling for direction in this case.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean…Mr. St. John remains elusive to us. Everyone seemed to like him. Or, at least, no one disliked him enough to murder him. We are beginning to think it was an accident, although the circumstances remain obscure.”
He cast his gaze over the list, while Hat brought in a tray and seemed unsure where to put it. He indicated the space in front of him without looking at her. “Here is fine.”
“Shall I pour, sir?”
Her anxiety finally penetrated his thoughts, and he glanced up at her with a quick smile. “No, we’ll manage. Thank you, Hat.”
The girl smiled with relief and hurried away.
“New staff?” Zenobia asked.
“Her first day with us.”
“You are a kind man,” she said with the odd abruptness he recalled from their previous meeting. “One can generally judge people quite accurately by how they treat their servants.”
“How did St. John treat his?”