“By his family, at dinner last night. He went out for the evening alone, and came home about eleven o’clock. His valet waited on him but was sent away. Mr. St. John said he was going to bed. The rest of the household had already retired. The doors were all locked this morning when the servants got up, the back doors bolted from the inside. None of the household reported Mr. St. John appearing upset or worried or behaving any differently over the previous few days. And he was, apparently, in perfect health.”
“Is there any connection between him and the vagrant?” Solomon asked.
“Not that we’ve discovered so far. Except that Mr. St. John was something of a philanthropist.”
“He is,” Solomon said. “He is on the committee of St. Peter’s Hospital in—”
“Couldn’t you have told us that before?” Napier exploded.
Solomon raised his brows. “No one asked. I came late to the proceedings, if you recall, and I never saw the bodies. But if you’re interested, I have not seen Mr. St. John in several months, and we were only ever on nodding terms.”
“I don’t suppose you moved in the same circles,” Napier said, his sneer returning.
“Never suppose without proof,” Harris said curtly. “So who is this St. John? What does he do? Is he well thought of?”
“Of landed family, I believe,” Solomon said, “though his fortune comes mainly from stocks and investments. He certainly gives generously to charities. Or did.”
“Charities for the homeless, perhaps?” Harris asked hopefully. “Could that be how he knew the vagrant?”
Flynn stirred. “Not many gentlemen—er…get their hands dirty in their charitable giving.”
“In this case, I could not say,” Solomon replied.
“Would anyone like breakfast?” Constance asked. “I’m starving.”
*
All the girlshad been interviewed, Flynn was escorting Mrs. St. John to the police mortuary, and Napier was dispatched back to Scotland Yard before Solomon and Constance had the chance to speak alone to Harris.
“How did they die?” Constance asked him bluntly.
“I imagine you know as much as I do by this stage. As far as the gentleman is concerned, the knife in his back would appear to be the cause.”
“But there was no blood,” Constance said.
Harris’s gaze rose swiftly to hers. “You noticed that, did you? I’m afraid we need the doctor to explain it.”
“And the vagrant?” Solomon asked.
Harris shrugged. “No obvious marks on him. It’s as if he just died. Not unusual with those who live on the streets. They get lung infections, or poison themselves with bad food, and die. However it happens, they tend not to live long and healthy lives.”
“No,” Constance agreed. Girls working on the streets had many of the same problems. She hesitated, then said, “The bodies were in odd positions when I saw them. Their legs faced front, but their upper bodies didn’t.”
“You think they were moved?” Solomon said.
“The gentleman certainly was. Either that or he moved himself after he was stabbed and put his back against the wall—while leaving his legs and feet pointing straight ahead. Like the tramp.”
“Either way, you have another problem,” Harris said.
Napier,Solomon thought wryly.
“If they died on your doorstep,” Harris said, “why were they there? And if they died somewhere else and were somewhat inexpertly posed on your doorstep, why? Whyyourdoor?”
Chapter Three
When they finallystepped into the carriage outside the Silver and Grey offices, it was the end of the day and they had barely had time to look at the new cases coming up next week. Constance fell back against the comfortable cushions beside Solomon and took his hand.
“I feel as if we’ve been home for two months and I haven’t slept for any of them. Do I really have to entertain my mother tonight?”
