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from the ledgers that apothecaries keep, especially if it was bought in London. But this much is certainly true: The contents of the bottle I am holding did not kill the girl on the bed.”

Chapter 5
    I t’s murder, isn’t it?” said Jenkins.
    “Yes,” said Lenox. He walked slowly back down the hall toward the kitchen, feeling tired. It was past eight by now and he had a good deal left to do. At the least, he had to talk to the fiancé and then to Barnard. Tomorrow he would begin in earnest. This moment was never altogether pleasant: when murder was confirmed and a case truly began.
    The kitchen was a very hot square room with a low wooden ceiling. It smelled heavily of starch and meat, but it was clean. On one side of the room there was a large open fire, whose flames were just beginning to die into embers. Hanging from pegs above it were cured ham, sides of beef, and baskets of onions and garlic, and other food was piled high in open cupboards all around the room. In the middle of the floor was a long wooden table, crudely made, where the food was prepared, with steam still rising from it because the maids had rinsed it with boiling water at the end of the day. Evidently Barnard was eating out. And sitting by it was a short lean man with his head in his hands, making muffled noises every now and then. Lenox stood by the table, while McConnell and Jenkins stood behind him.
    “James?” said Lenox.
    The man looked up with bloodshot eyes and said, “Yes, sir?”
    “I’m Charles Lenox.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “I’m very sorry for you, James. I truly am.” It wasn’t quite proper to shake hands, but Lenox did it anyway.
    “Thank you, sir.”
    “Time is the only friend you have, I’m afraid.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “I know you’ve had a difficult afternoon—beyond difficult, I daresay—but I’d like to ask you just a few more questions. For her sake.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Very well. Do you know of any reason why Miss Smith might have been unhappy recently? Had you two been quarreling?”
    “Gracious, no, sir. I was with her most of the morning, sir, and she was as happy as she could be.”
    The footman put his head in his hands again, and Lenox sat down next to him at the table.
    “Thomas,” Lenox said, “may I use your flask?”
    McConnell pulled a tall flask from his waistcoat.
    “Have some of this, James,” Lenox said.
    “Sir?”
    “It’s gin, I believe.”
    James took a quick sip and then a longer sip. “Thank you, sir.”
    “James,” said Lenox, “I will tell you the truth. There is a strong chance that Miss Smith died by someone’s hand.”
    “Not suicide?”
    “No, not suicide. In fact, between us, I’m sorry to say that it’s nearly certain.”
    “That she was murdered?”
    “Yes.”
    The young man bent forward over the table, and a lock of hishair fell across his forehead and into his eyes. He made fists of his hands but didn’t slam them down.
    “James?” said Lenox.
    “Yes?”
    “Can you think of any reason why this might have happened?”
    The young man was still looking at the table. His black hair had tumbled out of its shape and looked wild. He had interlaced his fingers and he was twisting his thumbs.
    “No,” he said.
    “Or anyone who might have done it?”
    “No,” he said.
    “How long had you been engaged?”
    “For four months, or near it. She came into service here to be—oh, damn it all.…”
    Lenox paused and then offered him another sip of gin. The young man took a deep sip this time and held on to the flask.
    “Who were her friends here?”
    “Just me,” James said. “She hated it here. Enough so she wanted to go back to Lady Grey’s employment. Her friends was there.”
    “She disliked the other members of the staff?”
    “Oh, hated ’em!”
    “James, which members of the staff in particular did she have quarrels—”
    “Charles,” McConnell said, “if I may interject?”
    “Yes,” Lenox said.
    “An ounce of bella indigo would be had