“Rough. He’d been on the streets for years. In his forties or fifties, probably, receding hair. Unexpectedly gentle-looking face, though I’ve no idea if that was a reflection of his character. Apparently he owned a folding pocketknife with a mother-of-pearl handle. And he suffered from consumption.”
“Ah! Nevvy,” Juliet said with some satisfaction. “Yes, I’ve seen him around. Amiable cove. I slip him a sixpence every so often when I’m feeling flush. Or a cup of tea from Les’s stall.”
“You won’t anymore,” Constance said. “He died on my doorstep a couple of nights ago.”
Juliet blinked. “What the devil was he doing there?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
“Horrible disease, consumption,” Juliet said bleakly.
“It is. Do you know anything else about him?”
“Nah, he was polite enough but never chatty.”
“Do you know where he slept?”
“I know where I saw him most often, huddled under the nastiest blanket you ever saw.” She looked Constance up and down, noticing for the first time that her dress was old and dull and not remotely fashionable. She scowled. “I suppose you’re going there. Poking your nose in.”
“I am,” Constance said. “You could save my having to ask directions in the street.”
Juliet sighed and tore a sheet of paper from her account book. With her pencil, she drew a rough map from the corner nearest the shop, marking Les’s tea stall, and an alley opposite. “It ain’t pleasant.”
“Neither am I,” said Constance, “as you have so often pointed out.”
“Are the police not looking into this? I suppose they’re not bothered because he’s a tramp.”
“They’re more concerned about the body discovered with his. A Mayfair gentleman called Terrence St. John. Ever heard of him?”
“Course not. Unless he’s old enough to have been a former customer. Sounds more like one of yours.”
“But he never was. He seems to have been a virtuous family man.”
“They all seem like that, dear.”
“Old cynic.” Constance turned to go.
“Be careful,” Juliet called after her. “Take Gerry with you.”
Genuinely touched, Constance threw a smile over her shoulder. “Thanks. I won’t need him.”
Her mother was right that the area wasn’t pleasant, though. Through a maze of narrow, ever-filthier streets, she found a small courtyard at the back of a baker’s shop, and an alcove with a vent where a vile blanket lay abandoned and disconsolate. Glad of her gloves, she picked it up and shook it out. Nothing fell out of it.
“’Ere! What you doing with that? Spot’s taken, ain’t it? And that’s private property!”
A pile of hair and rags charged at her from a nearby doorway and snatched the blanket from her hold. The suddenness startled Constance, but although the man within the rags was clearly angry, she judged he wasn’t violent.
She held up both hands placatingly. “I wasn’t stealing. I’m just looking for Nevvy’s friends.”
“What for?” he demanded with natural suspicion.
“Do you know he died?”
The blanket fell to the ground. “No. I didn’t know. Did he go to the hospital? I told him to go.”
“No, he doesn’t seem to have quite got there. He died on a doorstep during the night.”
The man grunted, then bent slowly to pick up the blanket. “Suppose it’s mine now.”
