after supper. The shop had a bright lantern hanging in front of it above a large chalkboard advertising its goods.
He arrived at a little past two and pushed open Jensen’s door. The space inside was small but tidy and smelled of cinnamon and soap. There were rows of creams, hairbrushes, and powders on plain wooden shelves along the walls, and rows ofsmall, apparently unmarked bottles behind the counter. Jensen himself was an old man, who smoked without cease throughout the day and spoke in a thick brogue. He had tufts of white hair in his ears, none on his head, and white whiskers on his cheeks.
A customer was already at the counter. He appeared to be a footman, and he was, Lenox overheard, seeking a respite from the gout for his employer, one Lord Robinson of Bruton Street. Jensen told the footman that his master would need to see a doctor—to which the servant responded with a horrified shake of his head, betraying, no doubt, Lord Robinson’s own prejudice—and gave him a small bottle of medicine.
“Twice a day,” he said, “and tell Lord Robinson to eat lightly.”
This suggestion met with a reaction even more violent than the one to seek out a doctor, and by the time the footman hurried through the door, Lenox had begun to picture this lord as grotesquely fat and singularly averse to medical treatment and fewer than seven courses for dinner. Too fat to attend the House of Lords, or his name would have been familiar.
“Mr. Jensen,” he said, approaching the counter, “I fear I shall be no easier a customer than that young man.”
“What ails you, Mr. Lenox, sir?” said Jensen, in a strong Irish accent.
“Something called bella indigo, I’m afraid.”
“Wait a moment, sir, while I get my spectacles.” The old man reached beneath the counter for his glasses and put them on. “Ah,” he said, squinting through them.
“What demands such close inspection?” asked Lenox.
“You’re the first ghost I’ve gazed upon, sir.”
Both men laughed, the detective with his head thrown back and the chemist in a thick, rasping voice.
“Mr. Jensen,” said Lenox, still laughing, “I believe that’s the first joke I’ve ever heard you tell.”
“I was savin’ her up, sir.”
“It was worth the wait.”
Lenox chuckled again, and Jensen lit a short cigarette, which fit snugly in his hand.
“Now, sir, how’ve you come across a thing as nasty as bella indigo, if I might ask?”
“In a case for Lady Jane Grey.”
“Must be ugly business, Mr. Lenox.”
“Uglier by the moment, Mr. Jensen.”
“Tell me how I can help you, sir.”
Lenox pulled McConnell’s piece of paper from his pocket. “Have you heard of a man named Jeremiah Jones? Another chemist?” he asked.
“How did you get that name?”
“My friend Thomas, the doctor you once met.”
“Ah, Mr. McConnell. Knows a far sight more than many of the trade about their work. Yes, he would know of Jerry Jones.”
“Is this Jones a man to deal with?”
“He is,” Jensen said. “A peculiar man, Mr. Lenox, but honest.”
“And not likely to bridle if I ask him whether he has sold a vial of poison recently and to whom?”
“He might be, sir, he might be. Wait a moment, though.”
Jensen turned around and wrote something on a piece of paper. Then he folded it twice and handed it to Lenox.
“Give him this note and two pounds, Mr. Lenox, and be careful you don’t read the note.”
“As you say, Mr. Jensen. Thank you, as always.”
“A pleasure, sir.”
“One of these days I’ll buy something, perhaps.”
“Well, sir, I’ve seen a ghost now, so my days of nonbelieving are over. But anything for Lady Grey.”
Both men laughed again, and Lenox waved goodbye as he went out the door. He came back into the store a moment later.
“It may be today after all,” he said, reaching into his pocket. He found the small brown-stoppered bottle of poison fromPrue Smith’s desk and set it before Jensen. “Any chance of tracing this to
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