And he had died for it…?
*
“He’s an oddduck,” David remarked, when they finally sat in a hackney. It felt like three o’clock in the morning, although in fact it wasn’t quite midnight. “A gentleman gone to the devil who doesn’t even miss his old life?”
Solomon shrugged. “I don’t think it’s so very different from his old life. Except he doesn’t feel obliged to shave every day. And I expect the bed’s less comfortable. By all accounts, he was a nasty piece of work in both lives.”
“It’s odd, isn’t it?” David mused. “We can all lead several lives, one after the other…except you, who seems to lead them all at the same time. What made you this way, Solomon?”
Startled, Solomon peered at his brother through the darkness. “What way?”
“You move among the ladies and gentlemen, dispensing charity from your massive, self-made fortune. You married a courtesan and investigate other people’s problems for money. You deal with low-lifes and dangerous situations as though you’ve done so all your life. You’re my brother, and I don’t know who you are.”
David had never talked so personally since he had come back into Solomon’s life. For once, Solomon didn’t know what to say. A light rain had begun to fall, pattering on the carriage roof, reflecting the moving street lamps as they passed by the windows. The streets were quiet, the clop of their horse and the rumble of carriage wheels loud in the silence.
“What is it you’re asking me?” he said at last.
“I don’t know… I suppose… We’ve talked about me, what I remember and what I’ve forgotten, what I can do in my life going forward. You’ve told me about Father’s death. You’ve never told me about your life on the island. Tell me what you did, Solomon, what it was like for you when slavery ended, why you left, where you went, why you stayed here in London.”
It’s not important. The words died in his throat. Compared with what David had suffered, perhaps it really was nothing, but who wanted to be reminded constantly of their own wounds? They had both been formed by their experiences together and apart. It had just never entered Solomon’s head that David might want to know.
“Is there any wine in your house?” he asked lightly.
*
It reallywasthree in the morning by the time he knocked quietly at the area door of the establishment. The door wasopened almost immediately by Constance herself, though a large footman called Ally lurked not far behind. Seeing Solomon, he effaced himself.
Constance almost dragged Solomon inside. “Thereyou are! What happened?” The fright and relief in her face amazed him.
He touched her cheek in contrition. “Nothing bad. I’m sorry. I just went back to David’s to talk. I didn’t mean to stay so long, or I’d have sent word. Is all quiet here?”
“So far. What did you learn?” she demanded as he sank down by the kitchen table. She poured him a cup of coffee from the pot. Her own cup was half full.
“That for a duke’s son, Grizelda’s brother frequents some filthy dens.”
“We always knew that,” Constance said impatiently. “Did you find Madly?”
“Eventually, yes,” he said, and told her of the encounter.
She listened avidly, occasionally frowning or nodding, and he knew she was committing every word to her phenomenal memory. Tomorrow, she would write it into her notes, not to remind herself but to straighten her thoughts and look for the patterns that might lead to the truth.
“So you don’t think Madly is our blackmailer?” she said in frustration.
“No, I don’t. He wouldn’t talk about her because he never has. He’s fallen low, and doesn’t much care, but there’s still a speck of honor there. Love, even.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You think he genuinely loved Jacintha St. John?”
“You find that hard to believe?”
“Well…I suppose she doesn’t seem a very lovable person to me. So rigidly ruled by appearances and convention that she stopped her husband playing his violin except behind closeddoors. She kept him from his old friends. Even this afternoon… Behind her veil, she wasn’t exactly overcome by grief, was she?”
“A discontented woman,” Solomon said thoughtfully. “Possibly forced into marriage by her parents because of her youthful indiscretion with Madly. A loveless marriage with a man she did not understand, and who did not understand her…”
She waved that hurriedly aside. “Perhaps. So you don’t think Madly’s involved?”
“Not with blackmail. I wouldn’t put murder past him, though.”
“After twenty years?” Constance said doubtfully. “Why? He’s finally ready to settle down with a rich widow?”
