“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
“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
“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.
Chapter 20
Before 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—”
