Flynn sighed. “According to the doctor, he must have been dead a couple of hours before the knife went in—too little blood. But he stiffened in the position with his back against the wall.So he was probably stabbed by four o’clock at the latest, and was dead already by two, or shortly after.”
“And Nevvy?”
Flynn raised his shoulders. “Your guess is as good as mine. He could have died at any point during the night, most likely where he usually sheltered in the City. Napier’s looking into that now.” He rose to his feet. “I have to look into St. John’s clubs and friends. Apparently, he had no formal engagements that evening.”
“Did he have money troubles?” Solomon asked, thinking it might have made him vulnerable to the wrong kind of company. Or that the wrong kind of company might have played havoc with his finances.
“Not that we know of.” Flynn looked almost regretful. “Though since he was paying for his daughter’s elaborate wedding next month, I imagine his expenses were unusually high. I suspect you know more than I do. The inquest is this afternoon.”
*
Constance arrived aboutan hour later, sweeping into Solomon’s office with a book held to her chest and impetuous words on her lips. “I had a talk with Inspector Harris.”
“I had one with Sergeant Flynn.”
She threw herself onto the visitor’s chair on the other side of his desk. “Did you indeed? Did you get the impression they suspect us of knowing more than we’re telling?”
“Perhaps not you or I personally, but yes, the possibility has crossed their minds. Like us, they suspect the bodies were moved to where they were found, and they are looking for the reason.Wouldthe staff have allowed someone in through the back door?”
“Not a stranger, and not without protection. In the evenings, the footmen are all upstairs. They can’t watch the back door or the area door as well, so they are always kept locked. Besides, St. Johnwasn’tlet in, was he? He was on the doorstep, where he seems to have been put after death. He was certainly moved.” She frowned. “I suppose he might have beentryingto come in and, considering the closeness of home, thought the back entrance might be more discreet.”
“Perhaps he saw the vagrant there, obviously ill, and sat down to help?” Solomon suggested.
“It’s a possibility. But we don’t really know anything about St. John.Wouldhe have come to the establishment?”
Solomon shrugged. “He might have wished to make a donation.”
“And still not wanted to be seen there…? The trouble is, I’m not sure how known the establishment is to our more innocent neighbors.” She drew in a breath and smiled at him. Even after being so constantly in her company since their wedding, that smile still turned him inside out. “One of us needs to make a condolence call upon the St. Johns and try to discover the kind of man he was. In the circumstances, it cannot be me.”
“Then it had better be me. What will you do while I’m gone?”
She set the book she had been carrying on the desk and patted it. “Learn what I can about opium poisoning. I’ve no idea how long it takes to work, or what symptoms there would be. We should probably know, since we appear to be investigating these deaths.”
Solomon opened his mouth in instinctive objection, then closed it again. He didn’t want to think about poisons, largely because of what had happened to Constance in Italy. But she was right. And if she could face it, so could he.
“Come. I’ll take you for luncheon first, in case the reading matter puts you off.”
*
The St. Johns’house in Grosvenor Square appeared to be well maintained, outside and in. The family was not obviously short of money. A well-trained footman wearing a black armband showed Solomon into a fresh morning room with flowers on the table, while he took his card to Mrs. St. John.
The footman did not leave him kicking his heels for long and soon led him along the polished parquet floor to the staircase. His feet made virtually no noise. The silence of the house was oppressive.
“Mr. Grey,” the footman announced, and closed the door behind Solomon.
He faced four people, all dressed in mourning black. The oldest of them was, presumably, the widow, a slightly bony woman whose face looked understandably pinched, although it still bore the remnants of beauty. She rose to greet him, extending her hand with some curiosity. “Mr. Grey? I don’t believe we have previously met.”
“My misfortune, ma’am,” Solomon said, bowing over her hand. “I called to offer my condolences on your terrible loss.”
“You are very kind,” she replied. Was the faint spark in her bewildered eyes to do with mere curiosity or something altogether more calculating? “I wasn’t aware you were a friend of my husband’s.”
“We had a charity in common—we both sat on the board of St. Peter’s Hospital, which will also feel his loss dreadfully.”
“Indeed,” she said, and it struck him that she was not actually aware of her husband’s connection to the hospital. She turned to the others, who had also risen politely at Solomon’s entrance. “My son, Anthony, and my daughter, Bella.”
Anthony, a serious-looking youth of perhaps sixteen, bowed a little stiffly. He seemed afraid to speak or smile, as if he didn’tyet know what to do with his grief. Bella curtseyed, her eyes tragic and full, as though from recent weeping.
Mrs. St. John turned toward the final occupant of the room, a handsome man perhaps a couple of years younger than Solomon. “Bella’s betrothed, Mr. Hanibal Cordell, who is a great help and comfort to us at this terrible time.”
