Cordell half shook his head, then interrupted the action, frowning. “Actually, I did catch him looking intensely unhappy once. He didn’t hear me come into his study, and just for a moment, his expression shook me. Then he smiled at me andmade some joke, and I saw that I’d been mistaken. Some people do look overly serious in repose when in reality they are thinking of nothing at all.”
“So he did not confide in you?”
“My feeling was, he had nothing to confide. His life was an open book, you might say.”
“Apart from the mistress.”
Cordell’s glance was curious. “I expected you of all men to be more tolerant of such peccadillos.”
Solomon did not smile. “Facets, Mr. Cordell. My wife is a virtuous woman. A man of your interests could do worse than call at her establishment one evening. Your own virtue need be in no danger, and if you chose, it could certainly add to your understanding of the realities of poverty.”
Chapter Five
Miss Zenobia Paulhad rooms in a respectable street in Bloomsbury, and she surprised Solomon from the outset. Constance had taught him that women of ill repute came in as many shapes and characters as the rest of humanity, so he had never been crass enough to expect either the grasping whore or the empty-headed but amiable antidote to a nagging wife. But Zenobia Paul, he suspected, would always be a surprise.
Her landlady, a respectable widow by her appearance, consulted personally with Miss Paul before showing him up her neatly kept staircase to a suite of rooms on the first floor. He entered a pleasantly cluttered sitting room full of oddities and curios from across the globe, many of them extremely beautiful. Juliet Silver would have loved it. The walls were decorated with exotic landscapes and a few unusual portraits. Between them hung embroidered cloth and colorful beads. There were two jam-packed bookcases, each topped with beautifully carved and painted bookends from India. Small wool and silk rugs adorned the floor and furniture, turning shabby tables and old upholstered chairs into curiously charming pieces.
Miss Paul herself came to meet him from the midst of this treasure trove. She was tall and slender, almost wand-like, with a natural elegance that made one think immediately of beauty. And yet, from her untidily piled hair to her bright clothes festooned with unmatching jewelry, she gave the distinct impression of carelessness. She was older than he had expected,too, perhaps in her early forties, with shrewd, veiled eyes and a rather stubborn chin.
“Mr. Grey,” she said, holding out her hand. “You do not look like a policeman.”
Her voice was a surprise, too—low, educated, with the clipped vowels of the upper classes.
“I’m not.” Solomon bowed over her hand, which was slender and beringed.
He had sent up the Silver and Grey card, but she seemed only to have read his name and “Inquiries.” She glanced at it again—she held it still in her left hand—and cast him another rueful if appraising glance.
“Forgive me. I am not at my best. I have had a bit of a shock, you see. Actually, I probably would not have received you if I had read this correctly the first time, but since you are here, what might I do for you?”
“I apologize for the intrusion,” Solomon said. “I was hoping you could help me understand the recent death of Mr. Terrence St. John.”
The flashing change in her expression was so quick he could have missed it in a blink, and it had gone before he could properly recognize it.
She sat but did not invite him to do so. “What is that to do with you?”
“He was found on the back doorstep of my wife’s property.”
This time he recognized the flash. Simple and profound grief.
Only when he saw it, among all the gaiety of her dress, did he realize it had been missing from the purely shocked response of the St. Johns. He made little of that. Everyone grieved in their own way. But in this woman, it felt curiously poignant.
“Please, sit down,” she invited him. “I have a kettle here, if you would like a cup of tea? Or something stronger, perhaps? I believe I will have a sherry.”
“Thank you, I will join you if I may.” He watched her pour from a beautifully decorated glass bottle, several of which festooned the table beneath a large mirror. Her hands trembled.
He took the crystal glass from her with a murmur of thanks and sat when she did.
“The policeman who informed me of Terrence’s death was very vague about details,” she said abruptly. “He was more interested in asking questions—impudent questions, at that—than in answering mine. And there has been nothing in the newspapers. How did Terrence die?”
“Apparently by opium poisoning, although he was also stabbed after death—one of the many mysterious circumstances.”
“Opium?” A frown creased her brow.
“You find that odd? Did he not take it for any pain or ailments he was subject to?”
“Not that I ever heard, although it’s perfectly possible he had toothache or something equally unbearable without relief. But he was not an idiot. He would notpoisonhimself with it.”
“In view of the stabbing, the general belief is that he was poisoned by someone else.”
