Charles Finch - Beautiful blue death

“Mr. Barnard, myself, two footmen, two upper maids, one of whom was Prudence Smith, two lower maids, a cook, a chauffeur, and a boy. In addition, Mr. Barnard has five guests this week.”

“Five? Goodness. I’ll leave them for later, but can you tell me if they were all here between ten and two today?”

“All five, yes. They were all in the drawing room and then at lunch during those hours, including Mr. Barnard.”

“And the staff?”

“Everyone except the boy, who was running errands, was either downstairs preparing food or upstairs serving it.”

“And were there any milkmen or salesmen or anybody of the kind who came to the door, either the upstairs door or the servants’ door?”

“None. I answer the door myself. Mr. Barnard prefers a housekeeper to a butler.”

“I have your word on that? None?”

“Yes.”

“You no doubt hired Miss Smith, is that correct?”

“I am responsible for all hiring.”

“And supervised her too?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Was there anything peculiar about her these last few months?”

Miss Harrison looked as if it would physically hurt her to speak, but after a tense moment, she said, “No, sir. And now I really must be off to finish the evening’s chores.”

T he thin, winding path of Hampden Lane was trapped in shadows, but two lights gleamed shallowly into the darkness. Graham was still awake in Lenox’s own house, and Lady Jane was awake too, hoping for his visit. Tired though he was, he had the cab stop at her door, which looked so much like his: a white door to a gray house.

“Jane!” he whispered through the side window.

There was a flurry of quiet steps, and the door opened a crack.

“Charles! Quiet, quiet, we mustn’t wake Kirk, he’ll be so cross!”

But she had, perhaps, underestimated her butler, who was in his own way as dependable as Graham, for when they sneaked into the dimly lit drawing room, he was standing there with a tray of spirits and sandwiches.

“With your permission, my lady,” he said, “may I-”

“Oh, Kirk, you darling man, yes, go to bed. Thank you so much.”

She smiled at him and then sat down on the edge of her rose-colored sofa, in the middle of the room, to pour them drinks. Lenox saw a down-turned book alongside a chair near the window, and it was clear to him that she had been waiting there, where she could see when he returned. Lenox wandered toward her desk. She had a far more splendid one in the morning room on the second floor, where she wrote to her friends, looked out over the garden, and had her breakfast, but she used the desk in her drawing room for a thousand smaller things, and it was cluttered, like his own, with all the artifacts of a happy life-unread papers, silver trinkets, old books, pencils, and pens. It made Lenox feel as if he had come home to see it.

“Charles,” she said, “I knew you would come. It doesn’t mean you aren’t good to do it, but still, I knew you would.”

She finished pouring their drinks: a scotch and warm soda for him, blended to the color of amber, and a glass of sherry for her. They each took a sip and then, for some reason, perhaps the strain of the evening, perhaps their relief that it was over at last, looked at each other and laughed. She gave him a plate with several sandwiches on it and took one for herself.

“Will you tell me what you learned?” she said.

“As you can imagine,” said Lenox, leaning back, “Barnard was none too pleased with the whole matter.”

“Of course not, the beast.”

“He had enlisted a man from the Yard named Jenkins, which was a blessing, actually, because Jenkins let McConnell and me have a look at everything. There aren’t three other men on the force who would have.”

“Thank goodness that man wasn’t there, the one-oh, I always forget his name…”

“Exeter.”

“Yes!”

“Exactly what I thought, my lady,” he said, and laughed.

“Well, and what happened?”

“George stomped around a bit and insisted that there was nothing at all mysterious about any of it, which raised my eyebrows right away. He asked about you, of course.”

“Did he? What do you mean by of course?”

Lenox laughed. “It’s no secret that he’s set his cap at you.”

She blushed. “That’s not true,” she said, with a slight stammer.

“Toto told me she thinks it’s better than Mr. Collins in Pride and Prejudice. She also said you ought to marry him just for our private amusement. It would pass the time.”

“That’s wicked of Toto. I’ll say something stern about it next time I see her.” But she couldn’t help laughing a little bit.

“But look here-about the case. Is there anything, Charles?”

“Is there anything what?”

“Anything mysterious? I know you well enough to see when you’re stalling.”

He put his hand on her shoulder. “I don’t like to tell you this, but she was murdered.”

Lady Jane froze with a sandwich nearly on her lips and then, roused by Lenox’s offering her the sherry, smiled strangely.

“I knew it in a way.”

“How could you have?”

“You don’t remember her at all?”

“Not at all, I’m afraid.”

“She was a sweet enough girl, you know, but she was-how shall I put it?-she was provocative.”

“Do you mean with men?”

“With men, yes, and with her friends. She was lively and cheerful, but she was also in low spirits now and then-all of those things to such an extreme that I recognized them, when usually the servants are as utter a mystery to me as I try to be to them.”

“In low spirits-do you think suicidal?”

“Not that sort of low spirits, no. I only mean that she had two sides to her. As we all do, I expect.”

There was a long pause before Lenox spoke.

“Well, I’m glad you told me. That may help.”

“I hope.”

“But you know, I only just spoke with her fiance.”

“Nevertheless,” she said.

On Lady Jane’s face was a peculiar mixture of emotions: sorrow, unhappiness, reluctance-but also determination.

“I think, Charles,” she said, “that if you mean to take the case, you should hear what I’m telling you.”

“All right,” he said, nodding.

“Now, will you tell me what you learned?”

“When we arrived, there was a note, a glass, and a bottle of poison on the desk.”

“Nothing else?”

“Oh, yes-and a fresh candle.”

“Not a pen?”

“Good for you,” he said. “You would make a better inspector than Jenkins.”

“The police’s uniforms are so ugly, though.”

“Not quite the thing, you’re right.”

“And what did the note say?” she asked.

“It said, It is too much. Sorry, James. I am sorry. Unsigned.”

“Rather strange.”

“I would tend to agree, but that remains to be seen. She may have written the note herself, after all, either because she intended to commit suicide and somebody hurried her along or on another matter entirely.”

“Then how do you know that it’s murder?”

“I’m nearly sure, and that because of McConnell. It was the bottle of poison on her desk, you see.”

“What killed her?”

“A rare, expensive poison called bella indigo.”

“Well, and won’t that serve as easily as another poison, if you want to die?”

“There are two things. First, it is a truly expensive poison; it costs more than her yearly salary for an ounce.”

“She could have stolen it from Barnard.”

“That occurred to me. But more importantly, the poison on her desk wasn’t the poison that had killed her.”

She raised her eyebrows.

“And there was no pen, but the note was uncreased, which most likely means that she hadn’t carried it around, or it would be folded. One generally doesn’t write a suicide note and then return a borrowed pen. After the note, the actual suicide is usually next.”