A Beautiful Blue Death

Chapter 13

The first two days of the case had been cruelly cold, but when Lenox woke on the third morning the winter sun was shining through his windows and the sky was blue, crisp, and cloudless. The fire in his bedroom’s grate had died down, but he felt warm beneath his covers.

He lay still for a few moments, unwilling to begin the day. But at last he roused himself with the prospect of eggs and kippers—and perhaps a pot of coffee—and descended the stairs to the dining room in his robe and slippers.

Ellie, the cook, had not stinted with breakfast. Placed along the wide table, which was covered with a plain blue tablecloth, were the foods that had inspired him to get out of bed, along with toast, butter, marmalade, and a bowl of plums. Lenox happily ate his eggs, which he liked scrambled, and even took a second helping of kippers, which were, as befit Ellie’s own bias, slightly burnt.

Only when he leaned back in his chair, with a second cup of milky coffee in his right hand, did he think about the case. He ignored the morning paper, which was tucked beneath the tray of toast, and he ignored the letters that sat on the side table, knowing they would find their way to his desk that afternoon if he had not yet read them.

What did he know? A great deal and very little, it seemed to him. If he was going to speak to the residents of Barnard’s house he would have to ambush them, which was not a prospect he relished. It might be all right for Soames, and even for the gaggle of nephews, but not, probably, for Duff, although they were acquaintances. Potts was a trickier matter altogether. He might talk, and then again, as the mood took him, he might not. And clearly, Lenox had already received all the help he would get from Barnard.

And yet he knew more than Exeter, to be certain, and if he had had a few days in Barnard’s house he felt he could have solved the case. He knew the means of the murder, and he knew the source of the poison, which was, in all likelihood, Oxford. But did that point to Claude, the wild young student? Or to Eustace, who was a botanist and might have visited his cousin at university? Or to Soames, who lived not far away, in Dulwich, and was well-known for his enthusiastic gardening? Or indeed to Barnard himself, who might have visited his nephew at Oxford and obtained bella indigo to feed some particular orchid? All these questions he could only answer by interviewing the houseguests.

He would have to approach the case from the other side, at least in part, he supposed, until he could catch the suspects off guard. That is, he would have to analyze the motive of the case, rather than the means and the possible murderers.

What did he have as motive? He walked around to the side of the table, picked up an apple, and sat back thoughtfully against the sideboard. There was, of course, the money. Who would have known about it? Barnard, to be sure. Perhaps one of his guests had learned it was in the house. Perhaps Prue Smith had stumbled on it.

And then there was the possibility that she had had an affair with one of the men. Or that she had made enemies. He would know more when Graham gave his second report, perhaps—he had learned to trust Graham’s findings unquestioningly, without wasting time by asking how he got them—but what did it mean to say that she was exotic? That she was mysterious?

And, of course, the possibility that it was something unknown—revenge, psychosis, unrequited love, another matter of money, anything under the sun.

He decided that he would have to talk to each of the men, no matter how Barnard and Exeter reacted. He would continue to follow the trail from the back end as he had been, but he would have to seek out the suspects too.

“Graham?” he called out, and took a bite of the apple.

His butler came noiselessly through a side door. “Sir?”

“When you find out what Miss Smith was like, Graham, be sure to find out whether she was exotic or mysterious or anything like that. And what those words mean.”

“I shall try to do so, sir. I would be able to gather more information if I began right away, however.”

“Take the morning, too, then. Do you need more money?”

“If I am forced to bribe anybody, sir, I will tell you after the event.”

“No, no, just take the money on my dresser before you go out.”

“As you say, sir.”

“Good hunting, Graham.”

“The same to you, sir.”

Lenox smiled and then wandered up the stairs, still eating his apple. He decided that he would run over to McConnell’s first to see about the glass from Prue Smith’s desk. Upstairs he bathed and dressed, and then asked one of the maids to call for his carriage.

He had taken the glass with him from Prue Smith’s room two nights ago and given it to McConnell, although even as he did it he knew that he oughtn’t to have. Still, there was only a brief window of time in which he could have acted. Exeter was no doubt still interviewing the servants one by one, while upstairs the murderer played a rubber of whist and dressed for dinner at his club. Within that context, Lenox didn’t mind the dishonesty of taking the glass.

A somber servant named Shreve, if he remembered correctly, escorted Lenox into McConnell’s vast dining room when he arrived at the house on Bond Street, which was so massive that it seemed to take up an entire block. McConnell himself was nowhere in evidence, but Toto sat at the end of the long dining table, eating a piece of toast that looked enormous in her delicate hand and reading a volume prettily bound in gold.

“Charles!” she said when she saw him. She put down everything wherever her hands happened to be—the book on her plate, the toast on a nearby chair—and ran toward him. “Dear Charles!”

“How are you, Toto?”

“How is darling Aunt Jane? Why hasn’t she been to see me? I called two days ago, and still she hasn’t come! Oh, and how are you, Charles? I know you have a case. Thomas has been playing with some silly glass noon and night and talking excitedly about suspects and things, which is why he’s asleep and I’m forced to eat breakfast all alone at this huge table, like a princess locked in a tower.”

She was like something fragile, small, and beautiful that you might find in a forest, living in perfect radiance no matter how torrential the monsoons or fierce the predators. No tempest touched her beauty. Lenox had known her since she was born. He was friends with her father from school—and even before that, now that he thought of it. Their own fathers had served in Parliament together, well before Toto was born.

“Perhaps,” he said, “I can make the table seem less huge, my dear, by sitting with you for a moment.”

“Oh, do! And Shreve, wake up Thomas and tell him to come downstairs as quickly as he can, or quicker, and bring out another plate and forks and things for Mr. Lenox, would you?” She whispered, as Shreve left, “It is a burden, Charles, to be stuck with the grumpiest butler in all of London, and to have him stare at one like a witless ogre, but Thomas says we must keep him, for some reason. My father gave him to us.”

“And complains about it every time he gets a chance, my dear. He told me the other day he was damned if he’d do it over again.”

“Well, he can have him back, then.” Toto picked up her toast from the chair and laid her book aside while she poured Lenox a cup of tea. “There will be coffee when Thomas comes down, but I only drink tea. He says it’s lower class not to like coffee, but I don’t, so there, don’t you think?”

“I can’t stand coffee. We shall be lower class together, Toto.”

“You liar, all you drink is coffee and I know it, but I agree to your offer nevertheless. Eggs?”

“I only just had breakfast.”

“Posh. Shreve, or whoever makes the eggs, does do that well.”

They ate and chatted, and after fifteen minutes McConnell came in, up early, for him, and wearing a suit. He said hello, kissed his wife more tenderly than Lenox had known he did any longer, and then buttered a piece of toast and took a bite, all the while standing up.

“Shall I show you?” he said to Lenox.

“Of course.”

“Oh, you beasts,” Toto said, “sit down and eat!”

“We can’t,” said McConnell, “we have—”

“I know, your rotten case. Well, goodbye, then.”

She stood up and flung her arms around Charles and then picked up her book, which was lying on a stray sausage, and began to read again. Lenox felt that lift of his spirits that he always did when he was with her, as he and McConnell left the room and went across a hall and up a short flight of stairs to the study.

As McConnell unlocked the door, he said, “Amazing, about her being illiterate.”

“You got the note?” said Lenox.

“I did.”

“It is amazing.”

“What does it show, do you think?” McConnell asked.

Lenox thought for a moment. “Either that the murderer didn’t know her, or that he didn’t know her as well as he thought.”