She was staring at him. “Who stabbed him afterward just to make sure? It makes no sense.”
“Agreed. Another thing that makes no sense is that beside him on the doorstep was the equally dead—but unstabbed—body of a known vagrant by the name of Nevvy. Does that mean anything to you?”
She shook her head. “What else?”
“The doorstep was not far from Mr. St. John’s home but was the back door to a discreet establishment of ill repute.”
She blinked. “A brothel?”
“Of an exclusive kind. Run by a certain Constance Silver, of whom you might have heard.”
Until the woman’s shoulders relaxed, he hadn’t been properly aware of her tension. “No. But then, such scandals don’t interest me. To be honest, they don’t—didn’t—interest Terrence either.”
“Because he had you?”
Her eyes widened, though she looked more bewildered than insulted. Then she sighed. “I see you have made the same mistake as the police. I suppose you can’t really be blamed, since the gossip has been peddled for years. Terrence and I were not lovers. We were friends and always had been.”
“Does his wife know that?” Solomon asked.
“I should imagine she must.”
“Why, are you on visiting terms?” he asked.
Her smile was lopsided. “Oh no. I didn’t say shelikedme, Mr. Grey. I am much too eccentric for her world, and she did rather resent when Terrence helped to finance my expeditions.”
“Your expeditions?”
She waved her head to encompass the room full of exotic treasures. “To India, Africa, China. He would have come too if she had let him. Instead, he helped me raise money from learned societies and academics, to whom I reported back faithfully.”
“You are an intrepid lady,” he said with genuine admiration. Constance would like her, he knew.
“I have not had much time in my life for love affairs, you see.”
He nodded, then realized she was watching him with faint curiosity.
“You believe me,” she said, “that Terrence and I were merely old friends. The policeman did not, and made it perfectly plain that my answers to his questions were worth no more than those of any other proven liar.”
“Ah. That would have been Constable Napier.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “I believe that was the name.”
“Take heart. I suspect he was sent because you were considered of little importance. In a murder inquiry, that has to be good.”
She grimaced. “None of this feels good. Thank you for telling me the truth. What is it you think I can tell you?”
“First of all, I suppose, did you see Mr. St. John at all on the night he died?”
She shook her head. “No. I had not seen him for several days. Not since last Sunday afternoon.”
“Then tell me about his other friends. Who would he have been comfortable visiting after midnight?”
“Someone in your exclusive brothel? Not the ladies of the night but the servants?”
“Apparently not. No one knew him. Besides, there is a house rule that no one is admitted by the back door. For reasons of safety.”
“I can imagine,” she said.
“Apart from yourself, who were his friends?” Solomon asked.
