A Beautiful Blue Death

“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.”

“You know the thing you mentioned earlier, Charles? About George Barnard?”

“Which part?”

“You know, about… ?”

“Oh, about his liking for you?”

“Well, yes. I was thinking, perhaps I could use that—well, those feelings, though mind you I don’t think they’re actually there—but at least use our acquaintance to spend some time with him and see what I can see. If that makes sense.”

Lenox whitened. “Absolutely not.”

“But Charles—”

“Absolutely not! I won’t have you doing that. For one thing it might be dangerous.”

She was about to speak when they both heard footsteps across the great hall.

“What was that?” Lenox asked.

“I have no idea.”

“Stay here.”

He went to the door, wheeled around, and went quickly into the hallway. He found a small young woman in a nightdress. She looked vaguely familiar.

“Will you follow me, please?” Lenox said.

She nodded, and they walked into the drawing room.

“Excuse me, Lady Grey,” said the woman, “I only—”

“Lucy! Why are you awake at this hour?”

“I only wanted to ’ear a word over Prue, m’lady.”

There was a pause, but then Jane looked at her sympathetically. “You poor thing,” she said. “Charles, this is Lucy, one of our maids. She was Prudence Smith’s close friend. Sit down, dear.”

Lucy looked embarrassed at the thought of sitting down.

“How do you do?” said Lenox.

“Lucy,” said Lady Jane, “we know nothing for certain yet—whatever you may have heard in the hallway—but you will know when we do. And now you should really get some rest. We’ve all had a trying day.”

“Yes, m’lady.”

But Lenox held up a hand; both women waited expectantly. He walked to the desk, found a pen, and quickly scratched a few words across a piece of paper. Then he walked to Lucy and handed the paper to her.

“Does anything strike you as strange about this?”

“Lucy,” Lady Jane said, “you must not divulge what you are reading to—”

But for once, Lucy didn’t listen. She read the note twice, Lenox could tell, because her lips moved with the words. Then she looked up.

“Two things, sir.”

“Two things?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What are they, Lucy?”

“The first is she would never call ’im James, formal-like.”

“What did she call him?”

“Jem, always Jem. Or Jemmie, if she was in a mood.”

“But she may have felt formal, if she was going to commit suicide.”

“Maybe, sir. But there’s the second thing.”

“What’s that?” said Lenox.

“Prue couldn’t read nor write.”

Chapter 7

Graham, cancel my trip to Villefranche,” Lenox said, when at long last he reached home.

“Sir?” said Graham. He was sitting in small chair in the hallway, still dressed as he had been earlier that evening, reading the late penny paper. When Lenox came in, he folded it and placed it in his jacket pocket.

“Villefranche, Graham, on the Riviera. I must have told you.”

“No, sir. Although I did notice several maps of France on the desk in your library, sir.”

Lenox sighed. “That’s the second trip canceled this year, you know.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Paris in the autumn, before the damned forgery, and now Villefranche. There are many interesting archaeological mysteries in Villefranche.” One of Lenox’s passions was the Roman Empire, about which he read endlessly. From time to time he visited spots where the empire had left its mark, large or small.

“Sir?”

“And beaches, Graham. Warm beaches.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“Paris, and now the coast.”