Chapter One
Constance strode throughthe gracious streets of Mayfair just as servants were beginning to open doors and shutters to greet the first, early sunshine. It was a glorious morning, alive with the promise of summer. Ecstatic birdsong mingled with the clatter of horses’ hooves and the lively chatter of carters and delivery boys, milkmaids and servants.
It all filled Constance with a happy sense of familiarity, and yet she appreciated it anew. So different somehow from the sounds and smells of Venice, which had been home for two whole, wonderful months. She missed it already, and yet her heart sang to be home, beating fast with anticipation to greet her old friends and catch up with their news. In the midst of her happiness, she had missed them.
She turned into Grosvenor Square and then on to the discreet, crescent-shaped cul-de-sac leading off it, and there was her establishment, her achievement, basking in its disreputable success, here among the supremely respectable houses of the wealthy, the aristocratic, and the equally successful.
No shutters were open yet on her house—its occupants kept late hours and only a few would be awake, most of them in the kitchen. Even the porter at the front door should have gone to bed now, since all visitors should have departed by dawn.
Extracting the keys from her reticule, she descended the area steps, where a milk churn already awaited collection. She was about to insert her key when she heard the voices at the backof the house, where another door led from the kitchen into the backyard and the little garden where herbs and flowers grew.
She let her hand fall to her side. She knew the voices, of course. Jeremy, who looked after the outside of the house and the grounds, and Bibby, recently promoted to assistant cook. But something about the pitch of those familiar voices was unnatural, wrong.
Constance turned and hurried along the narrow path that led around the side of the house to the garden, inexplicably worried by what was surely only a minor quarrel. She was used to sorting out dozens of those a day, often all at the same time.
But Bibby and Jeremy did not appear to be quarrelling. The tiny, skinny girl and the large, burly man were actually clinging to each other and staring at the kitchen door.
“Not here,” Bibby was saying, shaking her head furiously. “Oh, not here, not here…”
“Maybe they’re asleep,” Jeremy rumbled.
And then Constance saw them.
Just in front of the half-open door, sitting on the step, were two men, leaning against the stone wall on either side of the doorframe, almost like bookends. One wore the evening dress of a gentleman. A tall silk hat even sat on his knees. The other was in dirty, ragged raiment, his battered cloth hat squashed between the back of his head and the wall. Their eyes were open and staring sightlessly.
Not here, not here…Constance heartily concurred. It added a new horror to what was becoming an all-too-familiar situation.
Some sort of exclamation must have escaped her lips, for both Bibby and Jeremy whipped around to her, their mouths agape with fright and guilt.
“Oh, it’s you, ma’am!” Bibby ran to her, almost like a child seeking her mother’s protection. “Thank God you’re home! What on earth are we to do? It wasn’t us, honest, ma’am, it wasn’t!”
“Of course it was not,” Constance agreed, patting the girl’s shoulder and pushing her gently aside. “Are they both dead?”
“Never seen anyone look less alive,” Jeremy said. “We just found them, though…”
Constance stripped off her gloves and walked up to the still figures on her back doorstep, trying to give the impression of brisk confidence. But her fingers shook as she laid them on the well-dressed gentleman’s neck. It was cold to the touch and she could find no sign of a pulse, or any warmth at all, even when she felt inside his collar. When she tried to lift his hand from his hat, it was stiff as a board.
Rigor mortis had set in. The man must have been dead for hours. His companion appeared to be in the same state.
“Do you recognize either of them?” Constance asked. “Have you ever seen them before?”
They both shook their heads, though Bibby was frowning. “Not sure about the poor one. I might have seen him somewhere.”
“Begging, maybe,” Jeremy said.
“Maybe,” said Bibby doubtfully.
Constance straightened and drew in a breath. “Jeremy, run and find a constable and bring him here at once. Bibby, go inside and make some strong tea. Close and lock the door behind you. No one is to use this door again until the police have been here.”
Jeremy took off down the garden toward the mews like a bullet, clearly relieved to have a reason to leave. Bibby whimpered as she edged between the bodies, although she seemed to have swung blithely past them on the way out without noticing.
“They’re dead, Bibby,” Constance said. “They can’t hurt you.”
“Ain’t true, ma’am. They can hurt all of us now, but mostly me and Jeremy.”
“Finding a dead person is not a crime,” Constance said mildly. “In you go. I’ll come in the front in a moment.”
The door closed quietly and the lock clicked home.
