A Beautiful Blue Death

Chapter 19

It was after four o’clock by now; Lenox had been to Lady Jane’s and had his tea and his hot muffin, and the two friends had chatted comfortably for a little less than an hour. He told her about Barnard’s two nephews and said that they confirmed her worst suspicions about that species, but he did not tell her about the information that Graham had given him about Bartholomew Deck. He had decided to protect her from it unless it became material to the case—which, he feared, was a real possibility.

For her part, Lady Jane told him she had been to the girl’s funeral that morning. She had seen Graham, she said, who had only bowed to her. Very few people had been present, and it was James, Prue’s fiancé, sitting in the first pew, who wept. Lady Jane did not add that she herself had cried; but then, it was not the sort of thing she needed to add for Lenox to understand.

It was perhaps unusual for her to go to the girl’s funeral—Lenox could think of no other woman of her class who would have done so—but Lady Jane simply was unusual, in her persistent refusal to remarry, in her close relationship with Lenox, in her ability to do what she felt was right—even if it meant skipping lunch with a duchess to attend a maid’s funeral—and maintaining her rarefied position at the same time. It was simply who she was. Her strength was in the integrity of her actions; she never compromised what she believed she ought to do.

They sat together on the rose-colored sofa for quite some time and talked, also, about Jack Soames and Newton Duff, and, more happily, about Sir Edmund and his two sons. Both Lenox and Lady Jane planned to return to the country soon—Lenox to visit Edmund and Lady Jane to visit her brother, who sat at the family seat—since her father’s death a few years ago—as the Earl of Houghton. They agreed that they would plan their trips to coincide, though Lenox, for his part, wanted a little time to hunt as well.

He left her house at a few minutes before five o’clock. Though it had been a long day, the cold was unobtrusive, compared to the last two days, and he still had energy left. Therefore he stepped into his carriage and directed the driver to the Bull and Bear.

Lenox’s mind had that quality which many great minds have—the ability to consider several opposing ideas at once—and, though he felt stifled in the case thus far, he had begun to consider its nuances, the possible relationships that may have existed, in secret, in Barnard’s house. And while Bartholomew Deck played no role in the beginnings of these thoughts, Lenox now admitted the young man to his mind as another possibility. It was one idea that was best either to dismiss or to embrace as quickly as possible, which was why he placed the task of visiting the tavern at the forefront of his plans.

The carriage crossed the Thames and made its way toward the docks as the sun fell. At last, in front of an empty pier, it drew to a standstill in front of a large well-lit pub, with a placard of the Queen protected by a bull and a bear on either side hanging above the door, and cheerful noises coming through its windows. Lenox got out and went inside.

It was an old makeshift building, and there was a sign over the bar, to the left, that said THE BULL AND BEAR SURVIVED THE FIRE OF 1666. Several men sat at the bar, rivermen, mostly, who trawled the Thames from these docks, ferrying passengers, searching for treasure, and drinking at the end of the day. Behind the bar were a row of wooden barrels tapped for ale; the last barrel was darker and said MILD in white stencil on its side. There were chairs and tables scattered around the warm room, and at the main table there was a game of nine-men’s morris going on. The place served some kind of food; Lenox saw a young woman by the door eating a plate of pickles, ham, bread, cheese, relish, cabbage, and egg.

Behind the bar was a young man, polishing the pewter tankards the beer was served in and, it seemed, crying.

“A pint of bitter, please,” said Lenox, and sat down at the bar.

The man behind the bar was handsome and fair, and upon Lenox’s request he took one of the tankards he was cleaning, gave it an extra wipe, drew full from the tap of a barrel, and said, “A penny, please,” crying all the while. If any of the customers seemed to see anything peculiar about his behavior, they did not show it, much less mention it. Occasionally one of the young waitresses nipped around the bar and kissed him on the cheek, but this seemed to have no effect on him beyond impeding his free movement among the barrels and taps.

To the man on his left, Lenox said, “Do you know why he’s crying?”

“ ’E’s sad,” said the man.

“How long has he been crying?”

“All evening.”

“Ah.”

Lenox stood up and finished his pint. He went down to the darkened end of the bar, where there were no patrons, but several empty stools and a dartboard that had fallen into disrepair. When he was seated, he beckoned to the young man behind the bar, who looked around for other customers and then walked toward him behind the bar.

“Bartholomew Deck?” said Lenox.

“I’m ’im.”

“I’m Charles Lenox. I’m investigating the death of Prue Smith.”

Deck leaned his head over the bar and continued to cry.

“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.