Solomon drew in his breath. “Let’s sit down for a moment. I think I might have some bad news for you…”
Chapter Thirteen
In spite ofher focus on the case, Constance found the two actresses quite refreshing. She recognized one of their names, but they both seemed to have won considerable acclaim on the stage and were ambitious for more leading parts. They were intelligent, independent, and somewhat bohemian, never selling their favors but granting them according to their own desires and whims. One lived openly with her lover, a wealthy gentleman. The other was contemplating taking the same step with hers, a young writer of plays who was also present.
“Do you never think of marriage?” Constance asked curiously.
“Lord no,” said the writer’s lover. “Then I’d be stuck with him, and I might not wish to be in ten years.”
“Or ten months,” said the other cynically. “Live and love in the present, is my advice. Why did you marry, Mrs. Grey?”
“Love,” Constance said, and laughed.
“Not surprised,” came the reply as they both looked across the room at Solomon in a manner that was almost predatory. “There must always be exceptions…”
Zenobia reappeared before Constance’s rising indignation could spoil the budding friendship, and drew her away from the others. “I wanted to ask you how your investigation progresses.”
“I wanted to ask you about Gareth Neville.”
Zenobia’s prominent eyebrows flew up. “Gareth?”
“Then you know him?”
“An old friend I have not seen in fifteen years. What has he to do with this? Have you found him?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Constance said. “A man of that name was the other body on my doorstep.”
Zenobia’s hand jerked, almost spilling her wine. “Oh, no,” she whispered. “Oh, no, that is too much. Gareth too?” She sat abruptly on the hard chair behind her, staring up at Constance with swimming eyes.
Constance moved another chair close to her and sat down. “Then he is the same Neville?”
“It would seem too much coincidence if he wasn’t.”
“Who was he?”
“We all grew up together—Terrence, Gareth, Elton Granger”—she nodded across the room to the man seated beside Solomon—“and me. Terrence found him.” Her voice cracked. “I’m so glad he found him… But how can they both be dead? You said the other man was a vagrant!”
“He was. Known on the streets as Nevvy. I wish we had thought to tell you his name before this. I’m sorry for the shock.”
“Pride is a terrible thing,” Zenobia said shakily. “How could he have fallen so low, living on the streets, begging, and never come to us? Dear God, we could have walked past him and neverlooked.” She took a steadying breath and a sip of her wine. “Terrence was looking for him. We all were, of course, at one time, but we had given up. In the last year, Terrence took it up again, writing to everyone who had ever known him, traveling out of town to follow old clues and look at parish records. How could he have found him and never told us?”
“Perhaps he had only just found him.”
“On your doorstep? That in itself is bizarre.”
“Not as bizarre as I once thought, since my cook was not above giving tea and food to vagrants there. Miss Paul…”
“Zenobia,” the explorer said distractedly.
“Zenobia,” Constance agreed, inclining her head, “can you think of any reason Mr. Neville would not go to any of you in his trouble?”
Zenobia shook her head, her eyes unfocused. “Only pride.”
“Then there was no quarrel among you that might have made him wish to avoid you? Nothing that he had done that might make him ashamed?”
Zenobia blinked at her, a frown dragging down her brow. “Of course not!”
“Why would someone kill both of them?”
