A Beautiful Blue Death (15 page)

“May I ask you a few questions?”

“Why not,” said Deck, with a gesture of futility.

“How did you know the girl?”

“I loved her. Nobody knows what love is.”

“This is an unpleasant question, Mr. Deck, but I ask it nevertheless: Did you kill her?”

To this Deck had a not altogether unexpected reaction; he whipped around the bar, and his hands flew toward Lenox’s throat. Nobody in the room looked their way. Lenox blocked his left hand but caught a blow on the chin. Then he put his foot behind Deck’s knee and pushed him backward, tripping him, and pinned his hands to his chest.

“I know it’s unpleasant, Mr. Deck, but I’m afraid it’s necessary.”

Deck had given way entirely to tears and didn’t struggle at all against Lenox’s grip on him. Weakly, he called out, “Fa?”

After a moment, a man appeared through the door.

Lenox released Deck, prepared, if need be, to leave as quickly as possible. But Deck only said, “Cover me, would ya?” The older man nodded and Deck began to walk toward the front of the bar, apparently with the expectation that Lenox would follow him—which he did.

Out in the cold air, the young man seemed to sober up. He lit a small cigar and tucked it into the left side of his mouth. “Sorry,” he said.

“It’s all right. I understand,” said Lenox.

“Only, you asking me, did I kill her—”

“I understand. I have to ask it quickly, before someone has his guard up, you see.”

“Never, never, never, never.”

“You loved her?”

“Always.”

Both men paused. Deck stared out at the water, which was sloping gently toward the docks. Lenox followed his gaze.

“How did you meet her?”

“I delivered ale for a party there.”

“And she took it from you?”

“No, the old witch did: Harrison. But I seen her.”

“Go on.”

“She was pretty, I saw straight off, so I went back to the house and knocked on the servants’ door, like, and another girl answered, and I asked if I could see the one with the brown hair. That’s how we saw each other, first.”

“And how long has this been happening?”

“Awhile. Less than a year.”

“Did you know she was engaged?”

Deck nodded vigorously. “To that prat. Of course.”

“James?”

“Jem. Yeah. Very formal. Had a bit of money tucked away. But she loved
me
.”

“Do you have any reason to believe that anybody would have killed her?”

Deck threatened to cry again but quieted himself. “No, I don’t.”

“How did you arrange to see her?”

“Tuesdays was her half-day, and Jem’s was Wednesday, so I saw her on Tuesdays. Her Sundays she spent with him, only since she had to.”

“You only saw her on Tuesdays?”

“Well. No, I suppose.”

“How else?”

“Did you see her room, like, Mr. Lenox?”

“Yes.”

“Did you see her window?”

“Yes.”

“She opened it some nights. So I would walk by, and if it was open I would go in.”

Lenox looked at him.

“It was open that night. I looked in and—well, there was her body and the police and everything.”

“At what time?”

“Late, you know.”

“And did you think of speaking to her friends?”

“To Lucy. Who knew about it. She told me when the funeral was.”

“Had you had any arguments with Miss Smith recently?”

“Arguments?”

“Disagreements? About her engagement, perhaps? Did she want to break it off with you?”

“No, no, no,” said Deck, shaking his head furiously. “The last time I seen her, we had the best of all our times, see. We never talked about Jem or us or anything, but only had a bit of fun, and a bit of love, you know. Oh, God,” he went on, and his eyes grew wide.

“Did you have any means of access to the house other than the window?”

Deck quieted. “No. Although I could’ve got in a dozen ways.”

“How do you mean?”

“Anyone could, wanted to cabbage something.”

“Cabbage?”

“Pinch. Anybody could have. Through any of the servants’ rooms, like, or through the top of the house, or anywhere.”

“What was Miss Smith like?”

“The best girl in the world.”

“But what else? Was she inclined to make people dislike her?”

“Oh, maybe people as was stupider than her, p’raps, but no, she was lovely, you see.”

“Did she ever mention anything about the guests at Mr. Barnard’s?”

“No, not to think of. She hated Barnard. Hated Harrison. She went there to be with James, but by last week she wanted to go back to her other place.”

“Yes?”

“I didn’t, though. Farther for me to go see her.”

“She never mentioned anything about the guests?”

“Not—well, she mentioned that one of the nephews was fresh with her, but only in a laughing way.”

“Did she say a name?”

“No.”

“Have you heard of
bella indigo,
Mr. Deck?”

“No.”

Deck dropped the small cigar to the ground and stamped it out with his heel. He crossed his arms.

“Is there anything else you would care to tell me?”

“No,” said Deck, and started to cry again. Without another word, he turned around and walked back inside the tavern.

Lenox stepped back into his carriage. It never did to dismiss anybody, of course. But he had seen murderers, and Mr. Deck, at least in this matter, did not belong to their company.

B
efore he went home, Lenox decided to stop by and see Jensen at his apothecary. He had been there only yesterday, but he thought he could use another lead. Night had fallen completely over London by now, though a pitter-patter of sleet on the streets shone in the gas lamps along Piccadilly Circus. Nelson’s Column rose high in the distance, visible to Lenox as he walked along in the direction of Trafalgar Square. That had been built in… was it 1840? Another monument from Lenox’s youth. Amazing to think that if he had been born fifty years earlier London would have been so much barer a city, violent and unpredictable, full of gin alleys, without the bobbies or the new Parliament or Nelson’s Column. What an era to live in!

Jensen was preparing to close for the night. As he approached, Lenox saw the old man wandering down the aisles of his shop, turning a jar of cream to face forward or making a note on a little chit of paper, probably about replenishing his stock. The front lights were dim. Jensen lived above the store, and Lenox saw bright lights in those windows, as well as Mrs. Jensen, a plump old woman in a blue frock, busying herself with supper
and setting out a bottle of wine. For no reason he could think of, Lenox thought of Lady Jane.

He pushed open the door and immediately felt comforted by the familiar smell of wood chips and shaving cream.

“Mr. Lenox!” said old Jensen, turning around. “How are you?”

“Very well, thank you. And you?”

“I must say, my stomach is rumbling. Pork chops, I think.” He smiled and patted his stomach.

“Ah. In that case, I can return at another time—”

“No, no! I have what you were looking for.”

“Do you then? I’m impressed that you found it so quickly.”

Jensen went behind the counter, disappeared for a moment, and returned with a large ledger with the word TRANSACTIONS embossed on its cover in gold letters. He made a great show of taking out his glasses, perching them at the end of his nose, and flipping through the pages carefully.

“How much do I owe you?” Lenox asked.

“One shilling, please.”

Lenox nodded and put a shilling on the counter. Then he added another, and said, “As a down payment for my next professional visit.”

Jensen pocketed the money and nodded gravely, then took out another, smaller ledger and put a shilling’s credit by Lenox’s name.

“Let me see here,” he said, again scrolling through the larger book. “I always get lost among these lines when I open the book. My wife keeps the accounts, you see. But I’ll find it in the end.”

Lenox nodded and smiled. “It does smell like pork chops,” he said.

Jensen looked up. “And parsnip soup, if I’m not mistaken, with peas and onions on the side.” He patted his stomach again. “Ah!” he said, finding the correct entry. “Here we are.”

“Yes?” Lenox said.

“The arsenic was from Lymon’s, on the good side of Shore-ditch. You can tell from the crest. Luckily, Lymon is a member of our little club, the Ten O’clock Chemists. I went and spoke to him.”

“What’s the Ten O’clock Chemists?”

“We have a few rooms in the West End, with newspapers and cards and a good supper of meat on the joint every Wednesday. About fifty of us. At our meeting yesterday—we meet at ten, you see—I asked them to look for this bottle—Lymon marks each one specifically. Arsenic Act of 1861. Otherwise I doubt I could have traced it; takes the government too long to file all the records. Lymon sent over the note today.”

“Please tell him how grateful I am to him. Sounds like a charming club, too.”

“Full of decent folk,” said Jensen, smiling. “Don’t mind having my pipe there now and again.”

“Who bought the poison then?” Lenox asked.

Jensen peered down through his glasses. “Let me see then,” he said. “Ah. Does this name ring a bell? A Mr.… Mr. Newton Duff?”

I
t so happened, when Lenox returned home, that he discovered that for once he had no social obligations. He knew he ought to be grateful for the free time, but almost immediately a sense of restlessness came over him.

Like some men of varied interests and comfortable means, he was rarely bored, but nevertheless he occasionally found himself unsatisfied by the pursuits available to him of an evening. Neither his books nor his maps nor the prospect of a spell at one of his clubs interested him, and therefore he found himself, in the hour before supper, walking vaguely toward the West End along St. James’s Street, growing gradually less certain by the moment of any firm knowledge he had about the murder of Lady Jane’s former upstairs maid. Newton Duff kept running through his mind. Would the man be foolish enough to kill somebody? And if so, why? Or if not, why had he bought the arsenic and to whom had he given it?

It had now been two full days, as well as the evening of the murder itself, that he had been invested in the case. It felt at once like less time than that and more. He had done a great deal, but instead of the work yielding back to him a series of
small discoveries, such as those that comprised most cases, all he could do was pull at the ends of the ropes and hope something would pull back.

This evening, at any rate, there was little more that he could do. He would have his supper and go down to the Devonshire Club later, perhaps, or go to see a few collectors he knew, or even drop by—but no, he felt; no, none of it would do. With the restlessness in his heart increasing every moment, he found his feet turned toward Clarges Street and, without quite realizing it, soon found himself standing across from George Barnard’s house, as if by staring at it he could unlock the secrets it held.

For fifteen minutes he saw very little. Indeed, it was hard to discern whether or not there was anyone in the house at all. Barnard’s dining room sat to the rear of his living room, whose windows were darkened, and if there was a glimmer, now and then, it might have only been a trick of the eye.

And then three things happened in rapid succession, all of which filled the space of less than half an hour but which it would then take Lenox a great deal of time to piece together.

First, Claude Barnard burst forth from the house, laughing, with a young man Lenox took to be a friend, probably from the Jumpers, a tall fair lad. The two of them paused together on the stoop to fix their cuffs and examine their appearances in the window glass—and in the light pouring through the front door and by an odd flicker of the streetlamp, Lenox thought he saw a small raw burn mark on Claude’s forearm. No sooner could he look again than the door was closed, the buttons had been buttoned, the coat donned, and the forearm again concealed, and the young men had turned down the street.

But the moment left Lenox with the peculiar feeling of having seen something revealing without knowing precisely what it was—and without having a chance to learn because it was so quickly withdrawn.

He turned on his heel, and within short order the second thing happened: He felt sure that he was being followed.

It was the sort of thing for which he had developed an instinct. No specific shadow stalked him, but from the corner of his eye he sensed a presence behind him amid the flickering lamps that played along the cobblestones.

This gave him no alarm, but all the same he felt he had better pursue a cautious course. He walked down the street, nodding, once or twice, to men he knew, and planning to seek refuge in the Athenæum, his nearest club. It was unlikely that anybody could follow him inside, unless it was a gentleman who sought a word but felt uneasy about meeting him in public—which was certainly possible.

But as he turned up the steps of the club, the man who had been following him apparently relented, because from behind him Lenox heard his own name called.

“Mr. Lenox!” the voice repeated.

The detective turned around to see James, the footman, fiancé of the dead maid, looking up at him breathlessly.

“James?”

“Yes, Mr. Lenox.”

“I understand that you’re having a difficult time, James,” said Lenox, “but it is unpleasant for anybody to be followed through the streets at night.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Lenox, sir.”

“It’s all right. What can I do for you?”

The young man looked so anguished, Lenox took a step back down the stoop to stand at eye level with him.

“Something is on your mind?” he said. “Is there anything you wish to confess?”

A moan of some sort escaped the footman’s lips. His black hair was uncombed and his eyes were sunken, as if he had not slept since Prue’s murder. “No,” he said, “no.”

“What troubles you, then?”

“Oh, Mr. Lenox,” cried the young man, “tell me anything, give me anything to do, anything, anything!”

Lenox softened toward him immediately. “I truly am sorry,” he said.