“There seems to have been no hint of that,” he said. “Unless he frequented some opium den. He was not ill or in pain that anyone knew of. Besides, if he felt ill, why go and sit on a stranger’s doorstep?”
“We don’t know that he did,” she reminded him. “He could have died anywhere in the City and some wag chose to deposit him on my doorstep, perhaps in an effort to have the house closed down. Did you see Mrs. St. John?”
“I did. Not that I learned much from her. Questioning a bereaved widow without being thrown out of the house is surprisingly difficult when one has no authority. But I did have quite an interesting talk with her future son-in-law, Hanibal Cordell. I didn’t take to him much at first—one of those arrogant, entitled men of the upper classes—but there is more going on beneath the surface. He liked St. John, seems devoted to the daughter, and he appears to be hiding from the family exactly whose doorstep St. John was found upon.”
As Solomon talked, she added to her notes, with separate pages for Cordell and Zenobia Paul.
“You believe her when she says she was not St. John’s mistress?” Constance asked.
“I do. I think she’s an unconventional woman who simply follows her own path. And those who don’t understand platonic friendships between men and women have simply labeled her and dismissed her. Including Cordell, incidentally. He thinks that if Mrs. St. John knows of the rumors, she simply pretendsshe doesn’t, like so many dutiful wives. Zenobia, on the other hand, thinks Mrs. St. John understands the relationship perfectly well and just doesn’t like her. They have met, though not by choice.”
“Then we are ruling out jealousy from either of them as a motive for murder?”
Solomon hesitated. “I don’t know. Ithinkso. But there’s something Zenobia is consciously not telling me.”
“About what?”
“I’m not sure. Something to do with events in St. John’s life in the last few months.”
“She’s keeping his confidences,” Constance suggested. “In which case, perhaps she thinks it is nothing to do with his murder.”
“Or just none of our business. Both she and Cordell seemed to find our business rather…quaint.”
“Ha,” said Constance. “Quaint or otherwise, we don’t appear to have found a motive for murder so far. Everyone liked him. He had no enemies. No woman had cause to be jealous. His daughter’s marriage was a matter for general rejoicing. He was not short of money or respect. Of course, if one really wants to know what’s going on, one should speak to the servants. Perhaps we should send Janey to make friends. If they’re not too haughty to speak to maids from my establishment.”
“It’s worth trying. We have no idea where he was going the last time he left the house. Presumably that was when he took the opium that killed him. No one ever noticed him being ill or strange, so I doubt he was a frequent user. I think perhaps I should investigate opium dens. Though my impression is that he was too respectable for such places.”
“Don’t take the stuff,” Constance warned. “Not even to blend in. I’ve seen people become hopelessly dependent on it veryquickly. Can that be what happened to our man? He just took too much accidentally?”
“Where would he have got it? Not from his doctor, or the police would know by now.”
“You can buy it anywhere,” Constance said. “It’s cheap. Like gin. Mothers give it to their teething babies. Street girls take it to for pain, sickness, or just to forget for an hour.”
Solomon was startled. “Anywhere?” he repeated. “In lethal doses?”
“Well, no, in little screws of paper. No doubt an apothecary would sell it with instructions. Tobacconists, news sellers, and corner-shop grocers often sell it too. But there’s nothing to stop you buying several doses at a time. The only thing is, it stinks and tastes foul, so I don’t see how anyone could have poisoned his food or drink without his noticing—unless they simply increased the amount he was used to.”
Solomon nodded, frowning in thought. “Along with our other inquiries, we had better discover who is so outraged by your establishment that they are planting bodies at your door.”
Chapter Six
Around Covent Gardenwas a thriving industry of prostitution. The streets beyond, especially toward Seven Dials, were riddled with crime of all kinds. Constance had grown up in these neighborhoods and was still familiar with them. But before she went looking for anyone who was acquainted with Nevvy, she called on the woman who was all too often the fount of all knowledge on disreputable matters: her mother.
Juliet, one-time whore and fence of stolen goods, was just opening her shop when Constance called in. Gerry, who had been her mother’s assistant since he was boy, in both the nefarious and the respectable, was putting out a tasteful little display of pretty knickknacks on a small table by the door. He paused to grin at her.
“Morning, Miss Connie! She’s inside, polishing her treasures.”
Juliet was sitting behind the main counter, and she was indeed polishing a rather fine set of engraved silver cutlery.
“Morning, love,” Juliet said, her accent surely exaggerated. “Come to buy? Or to pick my brains?”
“The latter. For now. Do you know the local vagrants?”
Juliet blinked. “I don’t invite them in here. In fact, I had to chase one out yesterday.”
“This one seems to have been known to the local peelers, though not a troublemaker. Probably begged in the streets. His name was Gareth Neville, but he was known as Nevvy.”
“Nevvy,” she repeated, frowning. “I have heard that name. What did he look like?”
