Chapter Twelve #2
“Yes,” Griz said. “She’s an explorer. I like her, though I haven’t seen her since the Great Exhibition. She knows lots of interesting people, too. You are bound to enjoy the evening.” She looked from one to the other. “Or are you working?”
“On the death of Terrence St. John,” Solomon said.
To Constance’s surprise, Griz’s expression changed to one of dismay. Or was it grief?
“You knew him?” Constance asked quickly.
“He was a very good musician,” Griz said. “He played the violin with our amateur orchestra when it first began. He left us not long afterward but came to most of our concerts still.”
“Why did he leave?” Solomon asked.
“Family commitments, I think. Which probably meant his wife didn’t like us.”
“She wasn’t musically inclined?” Solomon said lightly.
“No.”
“You don’t like her?” Constance guessed.
Griz shrugged. “I don’t think I ever met her. He just seemed…” She gave an apologetic little smile. “He seemed to need the music. Was there something untoward about his death? I only saw the announcement in the paper.”
“He was found on the doorstep of my establishment,” Constance said. “Along with a vagrant called Nevvy, or Gareth Neville.”
Griz’s eyebrows rose above the frame of her spectacles. “He was not a client of your establishment, though, was he?”
“Why do you say that?”
“No reason,” Griz said vaguely, and again the suspicion Constance hadn’t yet mentioned to anyone slid into her mind.
“What do you know of him?” she asked.
“A good man, a cultured man, devoted to his children.”
“And his wife?”
“I know nothing to the contrary.”
“Then you don’t know anything about his marriage?”
“Such as?” Griz asked.
“Was it a love match? A marriage of convenience?”
“I don’t know,” Griz said. “It must have happened twenty years ago, when I was in the schoolroom. How did he die?”
“Opium poisoning. Did you ever see or hear about his taking opium for any purpose?”
Griz shook her head. “Was he ill?”
“Apparently not. He was also stabbed, after death, with the vagrant’s knife.”
Griz frowned. “That is certainly a mystery. Especially when the vagrant is dead too.” She looked up suddenly. “Actually, I met St. John a few times at Zenobia’s. He was a friend of hers.”
“Just a friend?” Constance asked, then added apologetically, “Rumor has her as his mistress.”
“I should be surprised.”
“Because he was faithful to his wife?”
Griz nodded.
“What about his wife?” Solomon asked. “Was she faithful?”
“Oh dear, I have no idea. I never really moved in such circles. My sister might know. Or my mother. I could ask them.” Her lip twitched. “Subtly, of course.”
“Thank you. I don’t suppose you are acquainted with an elderly widow called Mrs. Willow? And her sister, Miss Morton? They live in Grosvenor Crescent, near Constance’s establishment.”
“I don’t think so,” Griz said cautiously. “I never really went out much in Society, you know. I’ll add it to my questions for my sister. I should see her tomorrow. Anyone else?”
“Gareth Neville,” Constance said, and Griz wrote that down, too. “Also…” She fished the purloined dressmaker’s account from her reticule and passed it to Griz. “Would you say this gown is reasonably priced?”
Grizelda’s mouth fell open. “No,” she said emphatically.
“Even at Veronique’s?”
“I’ll add it to my list for Azalea.” Griz paused, her pen still poised. “Neville. Nevvy… I used to volunteer at a soup kitchen in the East End. There was a Nevvy that came in there sometimes.”
“What was he like?” Constance asked eagerly. “How did he speak?”
“He didn’t much. Quiet fellow with a sweet smile, never any trouble.”
“He died of consumption,” Solomon said to Dragan. “I don’t suppose you ever treated him? He went to St. Peter’s Hospital, where apparently they gave him opium.”
“Not to my knowledge. I have no connections to St. Peter’s, I’m afraid. The opium would probably have eased his passing. Lung disease is tragically common in people living or working on the streets.”
“If he was about to die of it, could he have walked from St. Giles to Mayfair? Without help?”
Dragan lifted his shoulders. “Anything is possible. I have seen people achieve the supposedly impossible with wounds that should already have killed them. Some of it is down to spirit and sheer determination.”
*
“Spirit and sheer determination,” Solomon repeated in the carriage as they went on toward Bloomsbury. “Why was Nevvy so determined to reach your doorstep? Or wherever he went first?”
“Perhaps he is related to the Willows or the Mortons and they didn’t want to own him…” She threw up her hands in mock surrender. “I know, sheer speculation again.”
“He could have been trying to get to St. John.” Solomon said, joining in. “Though, if they did know each other, it makes more sense that they were together. Perhaps the St. John family moved them both from their own doorstep.”
“Bella and Anthony?” Constance considered.
“It’s true Bella was somewhat ambivalent about our investigation, and she’s definitely angry with Cordell, though whether for employing us or coming anywhere near me is debatable.
Anthony is a bit of a dark horse. Clever by all accounts, and probably stronger than he looks.
He probably could have moved the bodies.
And he could easily have left the house in the middle of the night without the servants or anyone else knowing. Only…”
“Only they both seem genuinely grief-stricken,” Solomon said. “Which leaves their mother, and frankly, I can’t imagine her heaving bodies around. She could never have done it alone.”
Constance sighed. “Let us see what we can learn from Zenobia…”
*
In many ways, the gathering in Zenobia’s rooms reminded Solomon of evening parties at the establishment.
There was a similarly eclectic mix of people, from actresses, artists, and radical free thinkers to scientists, politicians, and academics.
However, they were squashed into a much smaller space than Constance’s gracious salons, and there appeared to be a mere scattering of the nobility present.
Solomon guessed they and the politicians were less powerful than those who flocked to the establishment, often for more nefarious purposes.
Zenobia welcomed them with genuine pleasure, poured them each a glass of wine, and indicated where little bowls of nuts and fruits could be found.
By then, one of Solomon’s acquaintances from the Royal Geographical Society had found them, and Constance was introduced.
After a few minutes, he felt Constance relax into her usual social manners, quickly finding her feet in a company she expected to shun her.
If anyone knew her as Constance Silver, they did not judge her for it.
He still found it rather touching that, as herself, she could still be hurt by such things. If she had been in her own establishment, or if she had been playing a part—as she was on their first case together—she would have sailed through this experience with panache.
When she felt confident enough, she drifted away from him to learn what she could. Solomon followed gentlemanly accents until he heard St. John’s name mentioned.
“…St. John! You could have knocked me down with a feather. I count him one of my oldest and best friends, you know. I’m devastated.”
The words came from a stout man in his forties, rather soberly dressed for this gathering, apart from his bright, flowered waistcoat.
“My condolences, sir,” Solomon said as the rest of the group made sympathetic noises. He held out his hand to the man who had spoken. “My name is Grey. I knew Mr. St. John slightly through the board of St. Peter’s Hospital. A sad loss.”
The man took his hand. “Elton Granger, one of the Berkshire members.”
It took Solomon a moment to realize he meant member of Parliament. “Honored to make your acquaintance,” he said.
The other men, perhaps embarrassed by death and grief, wandered off.
“I believe the funeral service is tomorrow,” Solomon said.
“I shall be there, of course.”
Solomon nodded. “I’ve been trying to locate another friend of his. One Gareth Neville? Perhaps you also knew him?”
“Oh, yes,” Granger said at once. “We’ve all tried to locate him, without any success at all.”
“Really? How long has he been missing?”
“Oh, he’s not missing, exactly,” Granger said with sudden awkwardness.
He grimaced. “Well, I suppose he is, but he did it himself. Had a spot of bad luck, ended up bankrupt, and wouldn’t accept help from any of us.
He told us all he was going away, and went, and nobody’s seen him since.
He’d like to attend the memorial service, though.
Maybe he’ll see it in the newspapers and come. That will be something.”
But increasingly unlikely, Solomon thought. “How long is it since Mr. Neville—er…went away?”
“Goodness, it must be fifteen years.”
“And you’ve heard nothing from him since?”
“Not a cheep,” Granger said sadly.
“Might I ask how you know him and Mr. St. John?”
“Oh, we were all friends and neighbors, growing up—Terrence, Gareth, Zenobia, and me.”
Gareth. Gareth Neville. Surely it had to be the same man?
“To my regret,” Granger was saying, “I drifted apart from them all a bit when I went into politics. But then I ran into St. John again by accident, and it was just like before. We were all at his wedding. And shortly after that, Neville’s bit of bad luck began.”
“Was he married?”
“Neville? Not when he left. Confirmed bachelor, old Neville. And I don’t suppose he had the means after he went away.
Unless his luck changed.” His voice turned wistful.
“It would mean a lot to Zenobia and to me if he came to the funeral. I may be sentimental, but I feel we all need to be together.”
Solomon drew in his breath. “Let’s sit down for a moment. I think I might have some bad news for you…”