“Doesn’t seem quite right, that,” said Lenox dubiously.
McConnell chuckled. “Anyway, I checked, and those dregs, unlike the poison that so dramatically turned yellow in the victim’s room, turned purple. The glass had been used—filled with bella indigo, that is—then washed, then filled with water and arsenic, and finally drained again into a sink.”
“Fascinating.”
“A double deception. To confirm what I had found, I looked around the rim of the glass.”
“Yes?”
“While there was arsenic on the lip of the glass, there was no longer any sign that any human being had drunk from the glass. No partial print, even. And glass is notoriously easy to find fingerprints on, even with our inadequate system. The glass was washed after Prue Smith ingested the bella indigo and before it reached me, or her fingerprints would be all over it.”
“All of it is crafty,” said Lenox, “but only to the point that the murderer assumed that the police would conclude that the girl had destroyed herself.”
“Exactly. Though the murderer wanted to conceal as well the use of the rare drug.”
“Which may mean he knew the poison was so rare it would lead to him, perhaps. That’s very helpful. But why not just use the arsenic?”
McConnell looked at him keenly. “That crossed my mind,” he said. “I think there are two reasons. The first is that the murderer thinks himself very clever—a doctor, perhaps. The second is that arsenic is less definitely deadly than bella indigo, which always kills. Arsenic is hard to dose. It can make people very sick rather than kill them, for instance. And it’s easier to trace. The arsenic on the table must have been an afterthought.…”
Both men walked toward the armchairs by the fire. A window was open, as it was in every season, and a chill blew through the room.
“Can I offer you a glass of something?”
“This early?”
“It’s nearly ten, you know.” McConnell studiously avoided Lenox’s eyes as he poured himself a drink and took the first sip. “Anything else new?”
Lenox shrugged. “Yes and no. I know who Barnard’s guests are, now.”
“Who?”
“Two nephews. Neither of them seems the sort. And two politicians. Neither of them seems the sort either.”
“Which ones?”
“Soames and Duff.”
“Newton Duff?”
Lenox nodded.
“I wouldn’t like to have him in my house, for what it’s worth,” said McConnell, and took another sip.
“Nor would I,” Lenox answered. “That doesn’t convict him, unfortunately.”
“Who’s the last?”
“Roderick Potts.”
“The fellow with all the money?”
“Yes.”
“Toto won’t let us see him. She says he’s a beast, whatever that means. Perhaps even a perfect beast, which from my experience is a title that she reserves for few people. Shreve, on occasion her father, on occasion… well, myself, I suppose.” McConnell laughed uneasily and took a long sip of his drink.
“So you don’t know him at all?” said Lenox quickly.
“Not at all.”
“Toto may be right about him. Jane, insofar as she controls my social life, would never let me see him either.”
“Lower class, or a brute?” asked McConnell.
“Both, perhaps. From what I know he has few social aspirations, which sets him apart from most of these enormously rich men who come to London.”
“Sets him apart from Barnard.”
“You’re right,” said Lenox, “absolutely right. I would say that the only force strong enough to draw each to the other is a large amount of money. And as it happens, though I can’t mention details, there is a large amount of money on the periphery of the case.”
“Perhaps at the center.”
“It had crossed my mind.”
“How did this chap make all his money? Robbing graves, or something?”
“He’s from the north, actually, near Newcastle. He manages industrial plants there. Steel, that sort of thing. The end of the country farmer, the beginning of the modern age. Actually, I know very little about him.” He would have to think of a way to change that.
“Why did he come to London, then?”
“You’ve got me there. He lives in grand style quite near here. It may be that he manages his plants from afar and gambles on the Exchange.”
“That sounds like Barnard’s cup of tea,” McConnell said.
“Indeed it does. But you were right to say that Barnard would usually be too proud to have a man like Potts in his house—you know, salt of the earth.”
“Curious.”
“Yes. Although from what Graham says I believe there may be another possible reason.” Lenox frowned. “Apparently Potts has a daughter who has come of age. She’s pretty, I gather, and extremely well educated, and she’ll have a dowry and a half, should it come to marriage.”
“An impoverished older house, you think?”
“Something along those lines, I expect. Potts, as I say, has a grand house in London himself, but he would have gone to Barnard’s in any case if he had an ounce of social ambition.”
“Of course,” McConnell said. “Do you think Potts means to tie the girl to one of the nephews?”
“I doubt it. I imagine he thinks too lowly of them and too highly of his daughter. But if Potts could broker a deal with an older house, one of the Duchess Marchmain’s sons, for instance, he might have entrée to a world outside politics and money. Our world, Thomas.”
“We see enough of Barnard.”
“That’s true. But he has more acquaintances than friends.”
“What does this man Potts look like?” McConnell asked.
“I don’t know, really. A twinkle in his eye, good posture, exercises daily, cold baths, all that, I daresay. The self-made man. Intelligent, whatever you think of him.”
“Toto thinks quite highly of the self-made man, of course.”
“I do too, if it comes to it,” said Lenox.
“As do I.”
Lenox stood up. They shook hands and agreed to check in with each other soon, and McConnell saw his friend out of the room.
Chapter 15
It was midmorning when Lenox left McConnell’s house, and while the air was brisk it wasn’t biting, and he walked along the busy sidewalks in a cheerful mood. The streets nearby were open and sunny, and he felt glad to be outside. His destination was the Jumpers, which when he found it seemed to be a building much like that of any other club: four or five stories, white stone, with comfortable rooms behind the windows. He was soon dissuaded of this impression of normalcy, however, when a shoe hurtled through the front window.
He had chosen to come here because it was the haunt, according to Graham, of Claude Barnard, the young man whom Lenox had briefly met in the hallway at the lad’s uncle’s house. Graham had said he could be found here at all hours of the day, and indeed, when Lenox asked the porter if he was in residence, the porter, who looked as harassed as Job on a middling day, merely pointed straight ahead to the dining room.
The shoe had evidently had its origin here, for there was a young man, apparently called Pinky, hopping angrily toward the door on one foot.
Claude was seated at the far end of the table, next to someone Lenox thought might be one of Lord Williams’s sons. He stood up without seeing the detective and began to walk out of the room, to calls of disappointment from his companions.
“Got to see to business!” he kept saying.
Lenox waylaid him by the door. “If I could have a moment of your time, young man?” he said.
Claude seemed to be clearly against the proposition. “What for?”
“You may remember that we met yesterday morning.”
“The chap in the hallway?”
“Yes.”
“Oh! Well, friend of Uncle’s, friend of mine. What can I do for you?”
“Answer
a few questions. I’d be pleased to take you to wherever you’re conducting your business, and we can speak along the way.”
Claude looked at him doubtfully. “If you wish, I suppose.”
“Thank you,” said Lenox.
They stepped into Lenox’s brougham, and Claude gave the driver an address on Marmalade Lane, a bad part of East London. Not the usual haunt of young and carefree Oxford students. Soon they had crossed London into a poorer neighborhood.
“Did you know a girl named Prudence Smith?”
“The murdered girl? To look at, nothing more.”
“To look at?”
“She was a maid. I saw her. I daresay she saw me, too.” Claude smiled jauntily.
“Did you form any impression of her?”
“None. Well, she was rather pretty, I suppose. But no, not otherwise.”
“How long have you been staying at your uncle’s house, Claude?”
“Not long. A week, perhaps.”
“You are on good terms with him?”
“Lovely terms. I’m like the son he never had.”
“Did you kill Prudence Smith?”
If Claude was taken aback, he refused to show it. “No. Couldn’t have done, I’m afraid.”
“What do you mean?”
“Word gets around. I don’t know about poison or any of that rot, for one.”
“Surely it’s the work of a moment to research any poison in the world?”
“Ah, but I have an alibi as well, dear old chum.”
Lenox betrayed no exasperation. “An alibi? You seem to have assumed that blame would land on your doorstep.”
“My uncle’s doorstep, you mean? Well, I can count. Only a few people were about, you know.”
“What is your alibi?”
“I was in the drawing room.”
“So was everybody else.”
“In that case I suppose none of us did it.”
“You didn’t leave the drawing room?”
“Not really. May have nipped upstairs to the washroom.”
“During which time you might have poisoned the young girl.”
“I went upstairs, old chap.”
“Can anybody confirm that?”
“Anyone you like. Messes of people. Maids and things. Footmen by the dozen. And the other guests. The man called Potts was in the room most of the time, reading a paper, and when he flitted out someone else was always there.”
“You seem to have thought this through.”
“Only the facts, you know.”
“Do you have any reason to believe that any of the other guests, or any of the servants, committed the crime?”
Claude frowned. “No, not really. Oh, but perhaps it was Eustace,” he said brightly.
“Your cousin?”
“Old Barnard wouldn’t like that,” said Claude, talking as much to himself as to Lenox. “The bad apple. Might turn him against his sister, mightn’t it?”
“You don’t like Eustace?”
“Can’t stand him. Grim chap. Horrid company. Always reading, you know. Just reads. I chalk it up to bad early influences. The child is the father of the man, I always say. Heartbroken parents, all that sort of thing.”
“In that case why did you submit his name for the Jumpers?”
“You don’t miss a trick, do you? I did it because Uncle asked me to. No doubt saw the boy’s defects and wanted to place him among good sorts.”
“You want to please your uncle?”
“Always obliging. Strong family connection. Jumpers through a few hoops.” Claude laughed uproariously at the pun.
A few moments later, the carriage had drawn to a halt on a thin dirty street, where the fresh snow was already covered by a layer of dust and children were running about. A few of them ran up to Lenox and Claude, and the elder man gave them each a coin and asked them to watch his carriage.
Claude led his questioner into a dingy wooden storefront with the name THE PAINTED DUCK on a weatherbeaten sign hanging above the door. It appeared to Lenox that they had come to a coffeehouse.
Inside it was dark, even with daylight outdoors, and smelled strongly of dark coffee and tobacco. There was wood paneling on the walls and a great Rumsford fireplace in the center of the room, with horsehair chairs and low tables all around it. Above the bar were bookshelves with souvenir cups on them, and horseshoes hung on the walls. There were dozens of men sitting around sipping coffee, not so much because they liked it as to rent space in the shop, and only one woman, a redhead with furious freckles who sat at the bar and talked to the proprietor. Most of the men were wearing out-of-fashion clothes, mended several times over, and they all talked in low voices, as if they didn’t want to be overheard.
The heyday of the coffeehouse had been a century ago, and they no longer drew many of the literary crowd, but they still received support from Parliament. They were thought to provide an alternative to drinking in pubs.
“Your treat, my friend?” asked Claude, finding a table.
“Of course.”
Claude ordered them both coffee, and then had for himself some toast with black-currant jam and a hard-boiled egg. Lenox declined food and neglected the coffee after his tentative first sip.
“You have business here, I believe?”
“Of a sort. After all, this is business, too,” said Claude merrily.
“I suppose.”
“And I have a meeting in a few minutes.”
“Then I shall try to be brief. What do you know of your uncle’s work at the Royal Mint?”
“Virtually nothing.”
“That seems odd.”
“It is his private mint which interests me most.”
“Does he confide in you?”
“No. You don’t think my uncle did it, do you? He’s a decent enough chap, I should say. Not the type. Bit flinty, bit imperious, but a leader of men.”
“I do not suspect him, no. What do you know of your other guests?”
“Well, there’s Eustace, who’s a tick. Of the first order. He’s probably your man. And there’s Soames, who’s nice enough. Duff is a hard sort but full of moral fiber. Not likely to murder a girl unless she blasphemed in his presence or something. Potts—well, as vulgar as the day is long, my old man, but I don’t see that there was any money in the business.”
Lenox had his own opinion of people’s vulgarity, but the boy was accurate enough.
“All told, not a very criminal lot,” Claude went on. “I should guess that a man slipped in from the street. The papers always have things like that, you know. I saw only the other day about a man who tried to rob a bank by kidnapping the manager’s daughter. When he couldn’t find her, he took the manager’s dog instead! Sorry to say he failed. Gives one hope when a chap can kidnap a dog and get a thousand pounds out of it.”
“And the servants?”
“Does one notice servants? There’s no butler, which is queer. I wouldn’t bet against the housekeeper in a fight with an angry tiger. One of the footmen was engaged to the girl. She herself was the only pretty one.”
Lenox rose. “I’ll leave you to your business, then.”
Upon hearing this, the freckled girl at the counter stood up.
“Good to see you,” said Claude.
As he neared the door, Lenox turned around. “Don’t tell anyone that we met, Claude?”
“Why on earth not?”
“Because, I hope, you desire the capture of this girl’s murderer.”
Claude sighed. “As you say. I shan’t.”
“Thank you.”
“Though perhaps I’ll tell Eustace that the Yard is closing in on him.”
“Please don’t.”
Claude sighed again. “It’s a hard world, when an honest young man can’t have a bit of fun after the daily grind.”
“Nevertheless.”
“Very well.”
Lenox walked out toward the sidewalk, where the young boys were watching the carriage intently, as they had bee
n paid to do, and discussing what they would spend their newfound riches on. He looked up and down the street. If only there were some way to fix this, he thought, these children with their worn-through shoes and dirty caps; the women reusing tea leaves until they were nearly white; the men spending their pay on gin, not food; the beggars, often no more than children, playing what they called hookem-snivey: pretending to be badly ill to encourage sympathy. A way to change all that.
Perhaps he would stand for Parliament someday. Somebody there needed to make their primary concern the debtors’ prisons, the Rookery, the Dials, the children looking in the gutters for something to sell. The Board of Trade and the India Commission and the Irish question were all very well, but here were human beings in their own city, suffering too.
As he stepped into his carriage he looked back to the coffeehouse and saw the girl sitting on Claude’s lap, kissing him on the cheek, and money quickly exchanging hands, and while he considered himself a progressive, he felt again disheartened.
Chapter 16
Eustace would be more difficult to track down than Claude, who seemed to use the Jumpers as a daily office, but he would be easier to catch than any of the other guests. According to Graham, whose research was impeccable, he usually ate lunch either at Barnard’s house or at the Oxford and Cambridge Club, which was somewhat subdued in comparison with the Jumpers and thus, in all probability, more attractive to the lad.
The Oxford and Cambridge was on Pall Mall, near Lenox’s house, and he arrived in front of it just in time for lunch. The streets were snowy and cold, and as he went through the heavy wood doors he sighed with relief at the warmth.
And here he struck it lucky, saving himself the unpleasant task of lurking about Clarges Street, waiting for the boy to leave his uncle’s house: Eustace was in the dining room.
Lenox sat down for a bit of food himself, a bubbling steak and kidney pie with lovely plump pieces of egg hidden inside it. His table was under a portrait of Henry VI where he could keep an eye on Eustace, who was across the hall eating a leg of lamb and reading what Lenox guessed was a scientific periodical. He was a thin lad with dark hair and a pinched, unpleasant face, small dark eyes and a sharp chin, without any sense of lightness about him.
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