“You like him?” Constance asked.
“I might. If he didn’t kill St. John.”
“Why would he?”
“I can’t think of a reason. Unless St. John was aware of some secret that made Cordell an ineligible son-in-law.”
“Or St. John had a secret that made him an ineligible father-in-law.” Constance wriggled. “What was he doing on our doorstep? If they weren’t brought there deliberately, why were they together? What were they doing?”
“Waiting for a cup of tea from your Mrs. Cate or Bibby,” Solomon said.
“The lights were out in the kitchen by midnight,” Constance objected. “They must have known there would be no tea that night. But then, Nevvy must have used the last of his strength to get there. Perhaps he just couldn’t leave.”
“And St. John was dying too, so they just died in company? Why was St. John dying? Where did the poison come from?”
Several memories flashed into Constance’s mind, scenes from her childhood right through to this afternoon. Ragged, homeless men huddled in doorways, drinking with friends, passing round a bottle. Arguing over a bottle. Fighting with a bottle.
“Drinking,” she said. “I’ll bet you all you have. Two men on a doorstep, both of amiable disposition though of entirely different worlds. Lonely men for some reason. They were drinking.”
This time it was Solomon who loomed up on his elbow. “Drinking from a bottle laced with opium! Of course they were. And Nevvy was so riddled with tuberculosis that I’ll bet they never looked inside his stomach. He could have been collecting opium from the hospital for months, saving it up for one last drink to end his suffering for good.”
It made horrible, tragic sense. Apart from a couple of important points. “But why would he give it to St. John? Why would St. John drink it? Unless he was completely wheelbarrowed, he would have noticed it tasted disgusting. He’d never have drunk enough to kill himself.”
“He was worried,” Solomon mused. “He could easily have got vilely drunk after he sent his valet away, and then, in the way of drunks, decided to go out again.”
“To my back garden,” Constance said discontentedly. “Perhaps it made sense when he was so well oiled.”
“And there is the fact that the police searched your garden as well as the bodies, and found no discarded bottles. Still, I think we might have something to investigate tomorrow.”
Constance considered that. “I’ll bet there are places in the garden they never thought of looking. We need to speak to Jeremy in the morning.”
“Very early in the morning,” Solomon said sleepily, “if we’re to meet Cordell at the office…”
Chapter Eight
Solomon and Constancealighted from the carriage in the mews, which were only just stirring with yawning grooms and the sounds of horses stamping for their breakfast, and entered the garden from the back gate. As they approached the house, Solomon could hear the distinctive sweeping of Jeremy’s broom at the front.
“There should be someone up and making tea,” Constance said cheerfully, marching toward the back door. The smell of horses seemed to be following them, which was odd. Until Constance halted so suddenly that Solomon walked into her and flung his arm around her to steady her.
“Give a man some warning,” he said lightly.
She ignored that, raising her hand to point at the back doorstep. “Look.”
A large pile of horse manure steamed gently on its plinth.
“What the…?”
“Horses don’t jump into gardens, reverse up to doors, and lift their tails,” Constance said in a small, hard voice. “This is deliberate nastiness. Jeremy!”
As the big lad came running to answer her call, Solomon looked for footprints on the path or the garden, anything to give a clue. As with the appearance of the bodies, there didn’t seem to be any. It was a pity it had not rained in days.
Uneasily, Solomon looked over at the houses on either side. There could be no doubt that this was malicious. Had someonegot the idea of leaving unpleasant gifts for an unwanted neighbor from Tuesday morning’s discovery? Or was it the same black-humored joker?
“I’ll get a bucket and shovel, ma’am,” Jeremy said, subdued. “Won’t take a moment.”
Tight-lipped, Constance watched him.
Solomon took her hand. She had never expected to be liked or welcomed here. She had never been naïve. But this deliberate nastiness with its implied accusation of “Filth!” delivered in secret after the shock of Tuesday’s discovery…
