A Beautiful Blue Death

with paper, and after his initial excitement Lenox was daunted by the task ahead of him.

He spent from three until six, combing through documents relating the financial history of the Pacific Trust. From what he could gather, it was a company devoted to trading overseas commodities in Europe at favorable prices. Like the East India or any of these companies, it was relatively sound. Since the Bubble Act, all such companies had needed a royal charter, which was only stingily given. But what the Trust did wasn’t of interest to Lenox. He was looking only for a name.

He worked diligently but unsuccessfully. It was difficult work because the order of the papers shifted from alphabetical to chronological seemingly at random, and even the now-attentive clerk was flagging by 6 P.M. So Lenox sent his coachman around to Fortnum & Mason for a basket of supper, which he and Throckmortin shared in the dim quiet of the hall of records, seated at a small table. There was a tureen of soup, and then a side of roast beef, which they ate with a fine claret as complement.

Throckmortin was supporting his parents, he told Lenox, and hoped for advancement. His ultimate aim was to become head clerk at a large financial firm. Lenox listened carefully while they ate their dessert, a large buttery peach tart, and then the two men began their search again with renewed vigor.

Ten minutes later, Lenox found the first relevant document. It was dated from several years ago, but it had either been misplaced or filed according to someone’s cryptic system. He shouted happily when he scanned it and asked the young clerk to help him on a few points so he could be sure. The clerk confirmed his suspicion.

“Just as I thought, just as I thought,” Lenox said.

And then, his fortune suddenly reversed, a second document presented itself only twenty minutes later that again revealed what Lenox had suspected.

“Shake my hand, young man,” he said, “shake my hand. We have done good work—very good work—and you have served the City of London this evening more so than even you usually do, I think.”

“Proud to, Mr. Lenox,” said the clerk. “I shall always be happy to work with you.”

Lenox then left, with cheerful salutations, and Throckmortin cleared the last work from his desk and went home to his mother and father, who were worried and had overcooked the dinner.

Perhaps it is worth relating that the next day, though busy, Lenox remembered his young friend and sent his mother two fine legs of lamb and a case of his own favorite port for Mr. Throckmortin, Sr. And though it would take many years, the clerk’s final words were prescient, for he would help Lenox in the case of the Queen’s amulet, which had further implications than at first it seemed to, and rang through the court at its successful conclusion.

Chapter 43

Lenox rode back home through the streets of London, just after eight. Yes, it all fit, he thought. The leaf, the candle, the alibis of the suspects, the peculiar use of bella indigo, the stories about Soames’s finances, the windowsill, the knife, the wax on the floor, the newspaper articles, and the relative safety of the mint’s gold. There was one thing he hadn’t figured yet, and that was the identity of the men who had attacked him. But no doubt it would come to him in due course.

He sat by the fire, smoking his pipe, and played with the pieces so they fit exactly in his mind. He sharpened the edges of the impression that he had and tightened the case. It might pass in court—it might—but he would have to hope for a confession, because he had little doubt that good lawyers would be involved. Yes, well, it was nearly time to call in Exeter, but he owed somebody else his first allegiance.

“Graham?” he called, and the butler entered the library. “Graham, will you ask Lady Jane to step over? I would visit her, but there are a few things I want to show her, and I must wait for my brother to return.”

“Yes, sir,” Graham said.

A few minutes later, Lady Jane walked into the library, tugging at the fingers of her gloves and smiling.

“Charles, how are you? I’m due at the Duchess’s, you know.” She was wearing a gray evening dress.

“Can you give it a miss?”

“I can certainly be late. Why?”

“Will you sit down?”

“Of course,” she said, and came to the couch. “I came over for tea this afternoon, you know, but you weren’t here.”

“Would you believe I was performing the offices of a junior clerk?”

“Your excuses to avoid seeing me are becoming a trifle overblown, I think.”

He laughed. “I suppose. But I would do it again; I’ve solved the thing.”

Lady Jane reacted in an unexpected way to this news: she turned pale and didn’t speak. At last she said, “Oh, Charles, I am grateful.”

“Of course. I asked you over because I have to wait here for Edmund, but I wanted to tell you right away.”

“Thank you, yes, of course. Oh, what a relief.” She sighed. “Well, who was it?”

“May I walk you through the case? I’m only coming to it myself.”

“Yes, of course.”

Lenox put his fingertips together and puffed on his pipe, which he kept between his back teeth. He narrowed his eyes, looked into the fire, and waited a few moments to speak.

“Very well,” he said, at length. “Let us begin with the most remarkable fact of the case.”

“By all means,” said Lady Jane.

“Usually, when there are two murders, either the killer is a maniac or the second murder is committed as cover for the first.”

“That doesn’t seem particularly remarkable.”

“It wouldn’t be, if that were the case here. But instead I’ve come across something unique in my experience. The first murder was designed to cover for the second, the murder of Jack Soames five days afterward.”

“I don’t really understand, Charles—only a little.”

“I didn’t either, you see. I didn’t tell you, but in the days immediately after Prue Smith’s death I was at a loss: everywhere I looked was a dead end, every string I tugged on was limp. I exhausted the honor roll of normal motives, and each of them was empty.”

“I could tell,” Lady Jane said. “That was why I decided to spend some time with George Barnard.”

“Is that why? I’m sorry I drove you to it.”

“Not at all.”

“It was only after Jack’s death that I began to make headway—and then things came quickly, as they do in most murder cases. In other words, I could only begin to solve Prue Smith’s murder after Jack was dead, sadly enough. I wish it weren’t so, but it is.”

“Yes, I see,” said Lady Jane. “But then who did it, Charles?”

“I’m coming to that—forgive me if I go slowly; I am piecing it together still. Very well. Let me proceed.

“It appeared immediately that the list of suspects was short. Bella indigo is extremely costly and, though I kept this to myself, there is a still more persuasive reason that limited the list of suspects: It took McConnell a full day to identify it, and he’s an expert. Only someone with real expertise, or at least an aficionado’s knowledge, would have used it.”

“Or somebody who knew such an aficionado.”

“Ah, correct; you’re quicker than I was there. Well, I asked Barnard’s housekeeper—and also asked Graham, as a separate corroboration—to identify people with access to Prue Smith during the relevant time. The list was short: Duff, Soames, Eustace Bramwell, Barnard, Roderick Potts, Claude Barnard, and of course the house’s servants.”

“It seems as if you passed over the servants?” Lady Jane said inquiringly.

“I did. I discounted them because of the cost and obscurity of bella indigo. Just before Soames’s death, I began to think of going back to them, particularly to the young man who was engaged to