Chapter Thirteen
In spite of her focus on the case, Constance found the two actresses quite refreshing.
She recognized one of their names, but they both seemed to have won considerable acclaim on the stage and were ambitious for more leading parts.
They were intelligent, independent, and somewhat bohemian, never selling their favors but granting them according to their own desires and whims. One lived openly with her lover, a wealthy gentleman.
The other was contemplating taking the same step with hers, a young writer of plays who was also present.
“Do you never think of marriage?” Constance asked curiously.
“Lord no,” said the writer’s lover. “Then I’d be stuck with him, and I might not wish to be in ten years.”
“Or ten months,” said the other cynically. “Live and love in the present, is my advice. Why did you marry, Mrs. Grey?”
“Love,” Constance said, and laughed.
“Not surprised,” came the reply as they both looked across the room at Solomon in a manner that was almost predatory. “There must always be exceptions…”
Zenobia reappeared before Constance’s rising indignation could spoil the budding friendship, and drew her away from the others. “I wanted to ask you how your investigation progresses.”
“I wanted to ask you about Gareth Neville.”
Zenobia’s prominent eyebrows flew up. “Gareth?”
“Then you know him?”
“An old friend I have not seen in fifteen years. What has he to do with this? Have you found him?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Constance said. “A man of that name was the other body on my doorstep.”
Zenobia’s hand jerked, almost spilling her wine. “Oh, no,” she whispered. “Oh, no, that is too much. Gareth too?” She sat abruptly on the hard chair behind her, staring up at Constance with swimming eyes.
Constance moved another chair close to her and sat down. “Then he is the same Neville?”
“It would seem too much coincidence if he wasn’t.”
“Who was he?”
“We all grew up together—Terrence, Gareth, Elton Granger”—she nodded across the room to the man seated beside Solomon—“and me. Terrence found him.” Her voice cracked. “I’m so glad he found him… But how can they both be dead? You said the other man was a vagrant!”
“He was. Known on the streets as Nevvy. I wish we had thought to tell you his name before this. I’m sorry for the shock.”
“Pride is a terrible thing,” Zenobia said shakily.
“How could he have fallen so low, living on the streets, begging, and never come to us? Dear God, we could have walked past him and never looked.” She took a steadying breath and a sip of her wine.
“Terrence was looking for him. We all were, of course, at one time, but we had given up. In the last year, Terrence took it up again, writing to everyone who had ever known him, traveling out of town to follow old clues and look at parish records. How could he have found him and never told us?”
“Perhaps he had only just found him.”
“On your doorstep? That in itself is bizarre.”
“Not as bizarre as I once thought, since my cook was not above giving tea and food to vagrants there. Miss Paul…”
“Zenobia,” the explorer said distractedly.
“Zenobia,” Constance agreed, inclining her head, “can you think of any reason Mr. Neville would not go to any of you in his trouble?”
Zenobia shook her head, her eyes unfocused. “Only pride.”
“Then there was no quarrel among you that might have made him wish to avoid you? Nothing that he had done that might make him ashamed?”
Zenobia blinked at her, a frown dragging down her brow. “Of course not!”
“Why would someone kill both of them?”
“Why would anyone kill either of them?” Zenobia said bleakly. “But wait—did Mr. Grey not tell me that the vagrant had died of consumption?”
“He was certainly about to,” Constance said. “No autopsy was conducted on him for that reason, and I believe he was buried immediately. But it’s my belief they both drank from a poisoned flask.”
“Then someone murdered Terrence, and Gareth was just unlucky…” Zenobia’s lips twisted. “It still makes no sense. Who would murder Terrence?”
“He does seem to have been the kindest and most liked of men,” Constance said.
She waited until a couple walked past them toward the wine bottles, deep in some literary conversation.
“But no one is perfect. Was there anything in his past that was less savory? Some slight, some foolishness of youth that someone might have borne a grudge about?”
“I cannot think what. He was never a rake or a gambler or a great drinker, never knowingly hurt people. I don’t recall anyone ever falling out with him.”
“Might Gareth Neville have? Could that be why he left you all?”
Zenobia’s jaw dropped. “And when he came back, he poisoned his old friend with opium?”
“It might have been accidental.”
“It is definitely far-fetched.”
“And yet Nevvy’s pocketknife was found in St. John’s back.”
“Pocketknife,” she repeated blankly. “Oh no, that is not Gareth. Poor Terrence was already dead!”
Constance sighed. “It is baffling. Let me ask you something else. Are you acquainted with a Mrs. Willow and her sister Miss Morton?”
Zenobia thought about that quite hard, as though grasping with relief at a question that finally did not hurt.
“Daughters of Sir Gregory Morton?” she suggested at last. “The eldest was married to a fellow called Willow—very rich but not top drawer. Non-conformist, not Church of England. She was widowed during my one disastrous London Season, I believe.”
“Why disastrous?” Constance asked.
“Because I infuriated my parents, who had spent a great deal of money on me. I was shy and awkward, too tall, and too blunt when I did speak. Frankly, I wasn’t interested, and neither were the young men lined up to court me.
We all agreed it was a wasted experiment, and I began to plan my first trip abroad…
That was when my parents cut me off. My brother still won’t speak to me. ”
“You seem remarkably cheerful about it.”
“I barely knew my brother. I don’t regret the decisions I made then. Do you know, I think I might plan another expedition? I have been thinking about South America—such vast lands, so little explored…”
With an effort, Constance returned to the case. “You knew the Morton family, then?”
“I may have met them,” Zenobia said without obvious interest. “I can’t remember them, though, or picture any faces.”
“The daughters might have been deeply religious.”
A light seemed to go on. “Willow was. A non-conformist with very fixed views. Charitable but stern. Why are you interested in them?”
“Do you think Mr. St. John knew them? The sisters live near Grosvenor Square.”
“I shouldn’t be surprised. He knew many people. And if he didn’t, his wife probably would.”
“Is she religiously inclined?”
“Not particularly, I don’t think. But she likes to do the correct thing. I suppose that includes church and charity… She’s not a non-conformist, though, strictly Church of England.”
Constance thought about that. She wasn’t sure it helped, but she stored it all away for later.
“You have a wide mix of friends,” she remarked at last. “I don’t suppose one of them is a dressmaker known as Madame Veronique?”
Zenobia looked blank, then shook her head.
“Neither socially nor professionally.” Her lips twitched and she gestured with her hands toward her person.
“I do not indulge in fashion. I can’t afford it and I don’t like it.
Not that you do not look perfectly charming. Is this Veronique your dressmaker?”
Constance replied, “I have ordered something from her.” And she would be interested to learn the cost.
*
“So they did know each other,” Constance said in the carriage going home.
She sat very close to Solomon, her head against his shoulder, his arm around her.
She wasn’t sure why she needed the comfort, but she did.
“Not only that, they were old friends. Close friends at one time. What does that mean?”
“That they did not meet by accident, and so very probably they did die on the establishment doorstep. And the grief of their friends is genuine, don’t you think?”
“I do… Such a waste. Gareth Neville walked away from friendship and affection, and wasted fifteen years in poverty and hardship…”
“A gentleman does not sponge off his friends,” Solomon said mildly.
Constance shook her head impatiently. “It wasn’t a simple choice between vagrancy or charity, was it?
Among such people there are always networks of favors and strings to be pulled.
If Neville’s business failed, other positions would have been found where he could flourish, or at least not have to live in the streets, or off friends’ handouts.
He chose to go. Some people do—the call of the open road and freedom.
And then he chose to come back from the country and live on the streets of London. Again, why?”
“His friends don’t appear to know.”
“I think…”
Solomon used his free hand to turn her face up to his, and her heart melted.
The moving light from the streets played over his beloved face and the thought of never seeing him again dried her mouth with fear.
Life could change in an instant, within and without one’s own control.
An accident, a bad decision, and suddenly…
“What do you think?” Solomon asked urgently.
She shivered, trying to throw off the sense of doom. “I think Zenobia knows.”
“Why Neville went away? Or why he came back?”
“Perhaps they’re connected.”
Solomon considered that. “Why wouldn’t she say? She was their friend and she feels their loss badly. She must want the killer brought to justice.”
“Perhaps her reasons have nothing to do with their deaths. Or she thinks they don’t.”
Solomon was silent, searching her eyes. “What is it you think you know?”
“That I don’t want ever to lose you,” she whispered, throwing both arms tight around him and reaching for his mouth.