“Why would anyone killeitherof them?” Zenobia said bleakly. “But wait—did Mr. Grey not tell me that the vagrant had died of consumption?”
“He was certainly about to,” Constance said. “No autopsy was conducted on him for that reason, and I believe he was buried immediately. But it’s my belief they both drank from a poisoned flask.”
“Then someone murdered Terrence, and Gareth was just unlucky…” Zenobia’s lips twisted. “It still makes no sense. Who would murder Terrence?”
“He does seem to have been the kindest and most liked of men,” Constance said. She waited until a couple walked past them toward the wine bottles, deep in some literary conversation. “But no one is perfect. Was there anything in his past that was less savory? Some slight, some foolishness of youth that someone might have borne a grudge about?”
“I cannot think what. He was never a rake or a gambler or a great drinker, never knowingly hurt people. I don’t recall anyone ever falling out with him.”
“Might Gareth Neville have? Could that be why he left you all?”
Zenobia’s jaw dropped. “And when he came back, he poisoned his old friend with opium?”
“It might have been accidental.”
“It is definitely far-fetched.”
“And yet Nevvy’s pocketknife was found in St. John’s back.”
“Pocketknife,” she repeated blankly. “Oh no, that is not Gareth. Poor Terrence was already dead!”
Constance sighed. “It is baffling. Let me ask you something else. Are you acquainted with a Mrs. Willow and her sister Miss Morton?”
Zenobia thought about that quite hard, as though grasping with relief at a question that finally did not hurt. “Daughters of Sir Gregory Morton?” she suggested at last. “The eldest was married to a fellow called Willow—very rich but not top drawer. Non-conformist, not Church of England. She was widowed during my one disastrous London Season, I believe.”
“Why disastrous?” Constance asked.
“Because I infuriated my parents, who had spent a great deal of money on me. I was shy and awkward, too tall, and too blunt when I did speak. Frankly, I wasn’t interested, and neither were the young men lined up to court me. We all agreed it was a wasted experiment, and I began to plan my first trip abroad… That was when my parents cut me off. My brother still won’t speak to me.”
“You seem remarkably cheerful about it.”
“I barely knew my brother. I don’t regret the decisions I made then. Do you know, I think I might plan another expedition? I have been thinking about South America—such vast lands, so little explored…”
With an effort, Constance returned to the case. “You knew the Morton family, then?”
“I may have met them,” Zenobia said without obvious interest. “I can’t remember them, though, or picture any faces.”
“The daughters might have been deeply religious.”
A light seemed to go on. “Willow was. A non-conformist with very fixed views. Charitable but stern. Why are you interested in them?”
“Do you think Mr. St. John knew them? The sisters live near Grosvenor Square.”
“I shouldn’t be surprised. He knew many people. And if he didn’t, his wife probably would.”
“Isshereligiously inclined?”
“Not particularly, I don’t think. But she likes to do the correct thing. I suppose that includes church and charity… She’s not a non-conformist, though, strictly Church of England.”
Constance thought about that. She wasn’t sure it helped, but she stored it all away for later.
“You have a wide mix of friends,” she remarked at last. “I don’t suppose one of them is a dressmaker known as Madame Veronique?”
Zenobia looked blank, then shook her head. “Neither socially nor professionally.” Her lips twitched and she gestured with her hands toward her person. “I do not indulge in fashion. I can’t afford it and I don’t like it. Not thatyoudo not look perfectly charming. Is this Veronique your dressmaker?”
Constance replied, “I have ordered something from her.” And she would be interested to learn the cost.
*
