“It’s one of the cleverer schemes I’ve come across,” Harris said without admiration. “She just wrote out extortionate invoices no one but the victim had cause to question. And the victim, or the victim’s unwitting husband, simply paid up for items that were never bought, let alone received. The sums on Mrs. St. John’s invoices match the amounts paid from St. John’s bank account, so it all looks perfectly legitimate.”
“These would be Veronique’s special customers that her assistant wasn’t allowed near,” Constance said. “I wonder if she found me a likely mark for her next victim?”
“Did you find a hoard of blackmail material in her shop?” Solomon asked.
“In the flat above,” Harris said.
“What will you do with it?” Constance asked uneasily.
“Go through it and return what we can with discretion. Blackmail is a despicable crime, and I’ll rake up no more than I have to in order to jail the culprits.”
“As a matter of interest to us,” Solomon said, “since it involves nothing more than personal indiscretion, did you find anything related to Mrs. St. John? Perhaps under her maiden name?”
“Nothing, as it happens, though there was a letter written by your neighbor, Miss Morton. Which explains the axe.” Harris hesitated then took a bound book from his desk. “We did find this. It’s Veronique’s, half journal, half list of her customers andtheir—er…weaknesses. The name Jacintha St. John is here, at the bottom of the page, underlined as a heading, and then…”
He flashed the open book at them, just long enough for them to see that the next page had been torn out.
“No, I didn’t do it,” Harris said dryly. “And Veronique says she didn’t either. But I think she knows who did.”
“Kenny,” Solomon said grimly. “We need to find him. I don’t want him trying to use this against Bella or Cordell.”
Harris looked from one to the other. “You know what it says. We couldn’t find a word against Mrs. St. John, and believe me, we tried. It’s very often the wife, you know.”
“Oh, we don’t believe she murdered her husband or Neville,” Constance said quickly. “Inspector, could we talk to Veronique?”
Harris considered, leaning his head to one side as he regarded them. “Not without my presence,” he said at last. “But I suppose you might get her to talk where we didn’t.”
With one of his characteristically sudden flurries of movement, he sprang up, dispatched a constable to fetch his prisoner, issued a string of orders to his other underlings, and led Constance and Solomon on a quick march along dingy corridors to a small room with one rickety table and two hard chairs. After politely inviting Constance to sit, he vanished again and came back with two more chairs.
Veronique sailed in a moment later, dressed in her usual smart but modest dark dress, her head held high. A female warder followed her in and stood silently against the closed door. Veronique’s turbulent gaze swept around the other occupants of the room. Surprise registered briefly and then she laughed.
She sat in the one remaining chair without invitation or command and met Constance’s gaze with open mockery. “Shouldn’t she be sitting in my place? Don’t you know she’s just a brothel-keeper?”
“Notjust,” Constance said mildly. “At least I can afford your prices. Even when you inflate them, although, you know, I wouldn’t have paid those.”
Veronique looked her up and down with contempt. “They all say that. At first.”
“And some of them pay at first and then object,” Constance said. “Especially the oblivious husbands. When did Mr. St. John object to your prices? When the invoices came without dresses? About two or three weeks ago?”
A wary look entered Veronique’s eyes, but the faintest twitch of her brow betrayed something more like puzzlement. And that made Constance uneasy.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Veronique said grandly.
“Where did you meet him?” Solomon asked. “At the shop? Was your husband there too?”
Veronique met his gaze and smirked. “She calls herself Mrs. Grey, you know. Don’t your rich nob friends laugh at you? Or don’t you mind lending her out for cash?”
Constance’s fingers itched to touch Solomon’s, to stop the flow of his anger. But not for the first time, he surprised her. He didn’t twitch a muscle, merely continued to regard Veronique as though she were a rather curious insect.
“Like Kenny lives off you?” he asked. “And swaggers about his old low-life drinking and gambling haunts in his gentleman’s garb to impress his less-fortunate cronies? When did he meet St. John?”
“It’s a mystery, isn’t it?” Veronique retorted. “They didn’t exactly use the same low-life haunts.”
“I suppose that’s where he is now,” Constance said, “rubbing his hands together over the pages stolen from your book, ready to collect from all your hard work while you rot in prison. You picked a good man there, girl.” She let her accent shift a littlewith the sarcasm and hint of contempt. “You haven’t got the hang of this at all yet, have you? You want to see the light of day ever again, you blame it all on him, get him in here instead of you. That’s what he’s done, after all. We businesswomen can’t afford to stand loyally by our treacherous men—that’s always been women’s weakness. You and I, we’re not weak. Live to fight another day, girl. Tell us where he is and I know a clever lawyer will get you off.”
Veronique stared at her, her eyes still hard and defiant.
Constance smiled. “Scary cove, is your Kenny, by all accounts. Weep to the judge, play the kind of woman you despise—and walk.”
