“Went to a ragged school, didn’t I? So did you, when I took you there myself, only you wouldn’t stay put.”
“I could already read and write because you taught me. You were a lady’s companion.”
Her lip curled. “Seb Kellar tell you that? He was always a fantasist. What’s he doing in Italy, anyway?”
“He’s a diplomat of some kind.”
Juliet sniffed. “What ails the twin?”
Constance thought about pursuing the matter—there was a lot more she wanted to know. But it was Juliet’s life and she owed her acceptance. So she allowed the change of subject. “Nothing. He just isn’t used to family. You know they were separated for twenty years.”
“And here they are.”
Whatever had been discussed in the dining room, David seemed to have mellowed, and became much more part of the conversation. It turned out to be a surprisingly pleasant evening, and for Constance, it was followed by a particularly delicious night and morning with Solomon.
*
It was onlywhen she rose to dress for the day that Constance again remembered the bodies on her doorstep.
“Harris is right,” she said abruptly. “Whymydoorstep?”
“Bad luck, probably,” Solomon said, kissing the back of her neck in passing.
“Not someone playing a cruel trick on the immoral women of my establishment?”
“It’s possible, of course, but murdering someone, let alone murderingtwopeople, is going rather beyond a trick on an unwanted neighbor.”
“Whoever put them there needn’t have murdered them,” Constance argued. “Just found the bodies and moved them to my property.”
“And stuck a knife in one of them,” Solomon reminded her. “Then it’s hard work moving bodies. Besides, if there’s one thing more likely than a discreet brothel to lower the tone of the neighborhood, it’s murder, dead bodies, and the swarming of police with awkward questions.”
“Fair points,” Constance allowed. “I shall call in at the establishment first, in the hope of finding Inspector Harris there, and hope nothing else has happened. I’ll join you at Silver and Grey afterward.”
Much to her relief, she discovered the much more usual good-natured organized chaos reigning in the establishment. Janey had already left for work and the domestic staff were clearing up after last night’s soiree. Apparently it had been a pleasant and successful night and Sarah was counting the takings.
“Peeler in the kitchen, though,” Max told her from his precarious perch on the ladder from where he was cleaning the hall chandelier. “Hoping to speak to you, I believe.”
“Which peeler?” Constance asked warily.
“Peeler-in-chief—Harris?”
“Well, that’s fine.” Constance decided to go down to the kitchen instead of summoning him, and discovered the inspector on the point of departure.
“I’d given up on you,” he said mildly.
“Let’s talk in the garden,” Constance suggested. “Bibby will bring us a cup of tea.”
“So I will, ma’am!” Bibby said cheerfully, and Constance led the policeman outside to the bench where she occasionally sat to take the air and appreciate what she had.
“So what have you learned?” she asked him, sitting down on the bench by the small lawn and gesturing for him to sit beside her.
Harris sat, turning his face up to the sunshine. “Our corpses have names. Terrence St. John, as we suspected—his wife identified him yesterday afternoon—and a vagrant known as Nevvy, real name apparently Gareth Neville, according to St. Peter’s Hospital.”
“St. Peter’s?” Constance pounced. “Isn’t that one of St. John’s charities? Did they meet there, then?”
“We don’t know that, though Nevvy was, apparently, a patient there. He was in the final stages of consumption. No one is surprised he expired.”
“And St. John?” Constance asked.
