Chapter Nineteen #2
He held out his hand. “Now hand over the jewels and fetch me my money.”
Stuffing the page up her sleeve, she went to the cabinet and took out the small bundle of banknotes she had put there deliberately, along with the fat velvet bag beneath, which was full of cut-up newspaper.
“If I give you all this, you will keep my secret?”
“And if you don’t, I’ll shout it via all the papers I know.”
She returned to him and handed over the bundle of notes. He snatched the bag and again held out his hand.
Now. Come now. Her heart was thudding. She unfastened her necklace and dropped it into his waiting palm. She took off her earrings and added them to the glittering heap. Something must have gone wrong. No one had heard. Were there enough of her own people in the hall to stop him?
Solomon!
Something had happened to Solomon. Madly had betrayed them after all, and was in league with Kenny…
In her urgent need to get to Solomon, she all but tore off her rings, shoving them into his hands before bolting for the door.
She was almost knocked over as it swung right open and Solomon threw himself inside, Madly, Jeremy, and Max at his heels.
Kenny seemed almost not to notice, for, mouth open, he was staring at the wall on his right, which, it must have seemed to him, had suddenly collapsed under the weight of several men—Inspector Harris, Sergeant Flynn, and a constable, all in plain clothes.
In fact, it was only a small part of the wall that had opened, a secret door disguised on both sides.
It was one of Constance’s safety features, with a tiny spy-hole built in.
From the place she had shown them in the main reception room, the policemen should have been able to see and hear everything.
The jewels fell from Kenny’s nerveless hands, scattering across the floor. The money and the bag landed at his feet, even before Flynn seized him.
Solomon grabbed Constance, his grip so unusually firm that she knew he had been as scared as she.
“Well,” Inspector Harris said genially, “I’ve never arrested you with so little trouble before. Horatio Kenny, you are under arrest for extortion, blackmail, and whatever else we can find to throw at you. Possibly murder.”
Now, with Solomon safe and unharmed, Constance could think again. She retrieved the crumped paper from her sleeve. Solomon read it over her shoulder.
Slowly, Constance lifted her gaze and met Solomon’s. “We were wrong. Veronique knew nothing to Mrs. St. John’s discredit.”
It had always been about Terrence St. John. All of it.
And in that instant, the whole puzzle fell snugly into place.
*
Constance had no idea if the whole family would accept their invitation, but they arranged enough chairs in Solomon’s office to cater for Cordell, Mrs. St. John, and both her children.
In the end, they arrived together in the St. John crested carriage, all of them dressed in mourning black. Hat showed them in, but it took Janey’s efforts as well to supply everyone with tea and offer biscuits.
Only when the pair had left did Solomon begin to speak of anything important.
“We appreciate you all coming at this difficult time,” he began.
“But we thought, in light of our own suspicions and those of the police, that you should know the results of all our inquiries. As I believe you know, Mrs. St. John, Mr. Cordell invited us to investigate matters surrounding your husband’s untimely death in such unlikely circumstance, and I believe we can set your minds to rest on that score.
The issue of blackmail has been dealt with by the police.
Without involving your family, the court will have enough evidence to convict.
There is nothing left that can sully the St. John name. ”
Mrs. St. John sat perfectly still. She might have been wearing a veil for all her face gave away. Cordell and Bella showed the most obvious relief.
Anthony was frowning and shaking his head. “I can’t imagine what secrets worthy of blackmail any of my family has ever harbored!”
“Oh, none, I should think,” Solomon said.
“Blackmailers tend to work through fear, not truth. A mere half-truth in there, mixed up with lies and threats, and victims tend to pay up rather than risk their reputations. Your family was particularly vulnerable, with Miss Bella about to make such an advantageous marriage. I imagine your father wanted nothing to interfere with that. It was certainly nothing to do with where he was found. We are satisfied that he was entirely unknown in that house, even for purposes of the house’s charities. ”
“Then why was he there?” Anthony demanded.
“Luck,” Constance said. “Just luck. We think he had just discovered an old friend whom he had been seeking for many years. This friend, Neville, had fallen on hard—very hard—times, but word had finally reached him, by word of many mouths, that Mr. St. John wanted to see him. By this time, their paths were so diverged that there was nowhere appropriate for them to meet where one or the other would not be immediately noticed. I suspect they had arranged to meet in the gardens of Grosvenor Square, but they’re not terribly safe or salubrious at that time of night.
So they sought somewhere quieter to talk.
They probably looked for lights to be sure they would not disturb sleeping occupants.
So they chose that house where the lights were still lit.
Probably. At any rate, it is not significant. ”
“And his death?” Cordell said. “Which is what this is all about.”
Solomon spread his hands. “Pure accident. I suspect they were a little the worse for wear, as old friends often are at reunions. But Neville was dying of consumption and had opium for that purpose. We thought at first it could have been the laudanum found at Veronique’s home, but in fact there was no way that could have got into Mr. St. John’s flask.
It seems likely that Neville had brought his own bottle of spirits, laced with enough opium to get him through the night—all he had, in fact.
He may even have planned to die that night when he was not alone. ”
“The poor man,” Bella whispered.
“At some point, they probably refilled the flask from Neville’s bottle. St. John probably meant to stop drinking at that point. Either he forgot, or didn’t know, and drank from it later, perhaps even to toast the sad passing of his old friend. A tragic accident, but an accident nonetheless.”
“But the knife, the vagrant’s knife,” Cordell said, “that stabbed Mr. St. John after his death. How did that get there?”
“He had friends living on the street,” Constance said.
“I spoke to several. One in particular had known him for years and was fond of him. He, or some other acquaintance, must have followed Neville, worried for his health, no doubt. Finding him dead on the doorstep, they made the false assumption that St. John was responsible and stabbed him with Neville’s knife.
No doubt it seemed symbolic to them. It must have been this friend or friends who disturbed the bodies from their original position.
But whatever the reasoning, the stabbing did not kill Mr. St. John, for he, poor man, was already dead. ”
“A tragic accident,” Solomon repeated. “And accepted as such by both us and the police. We can’t prove most of it, of course, but it is the only solution that makes sense with such evidence as we do have, including the characters of all concerned. The investigation is at an end.”
There was silence as they all thought about it, and accepted it. Grief would fade more slowly, but at least now, they had peace.
“Thank you,” Mrs. St. John said stiffly. “I did not approve of Han’s actions in employing you, but you have been diligent, discreet, and efficient, and we are grateful.”
Solomon rose. “Let me show you out.”
“Might I have a brief, private word, Mrs. St. John?” Constance said as the widow began to rise.
A frown flickered on her brow, though she relaxed back into her chair.
“We’ll wait in the carriage, Mama,” Bella said.
The door clicked shut behind them, leaving Constance and Jacintha alone.
Jacintha’s gaze was haughty and just a little sardonic. “Woman to woman? If you mean to reassure me that my husband really was unknown in that house, there is no need. I never believed he was.”
“I know,” Constance said. “You never believed Zenobia Paul was his mistress either, did you?”
“No.”
“Because he was a good, loyal man and a faithful husband—at least in body.”
Jacintha’s eyes grew wintry. “Are you trying to imply something by that remark?”
“Yes,” Constance said frankly. “Look, the story we told stands up to scrutiny, satisfies the police and, more importantly, your family, but it isn’t the truth, is it? Not the whole truth.”
“My good woman—”
“I’m not a good woman,” Constance interrupted.
“Or, at least, you might not regard me as such. But I do know about love. I know we can’t always choose it, or Solomon Grey would not have married me, nor I him.
Nor did you choose, I suspect, to love Jason Madly, but I believe you did all the same.
Your elopement was foiled by your family, and you were hurried into marriage with the first willing and suitable man.
“I suspect he knew you did not love him, and imagined that was all to the good, for he too loved someone he could never marry. He probably thought you could comfort each other. Or something equally idealistic and impossible.”
A short, bitter laugh issued from between Mrs. St. John’s lips, quickly suppressed. “Stop, please.”