Chapter Ten

“I vor Davidson,” she crowed to Grey when she tracked him down in the garden. “He, Randolph, and Mrs. Winsom all had muddy shoes the night of the murder.”

Grey sat on the swing, trailing one foot with him across the grass as he moved gently back and forth. Although his gaze remained on her face with polite interest, he did not look particularly excited by her discovery.

“Don’t you see the significance?” she said impatiently. “You must have felt the dampness of the ground when we found Mr. Winsom! It had rained early that day—before you arrived—but all the paths and most of the ground dried quickly. This patch…” She swept her hand from beyond the swing to the trampled flowerbed and the area around where Winsom had died. “This patch was still wet in the evening. The sun doesn’t shine directly on it except first thing in the morning, before it rained, so it took longer to dry. At some point, Davidson, Randolph, and Mrs. Winsom must all have trodden on this ground.”

“Not necessarily at midnight,” Grey said, “and since the shoes are cleaned, we can’t compare the kinds of soil attached to them to be sure it definitely came from this area. Also, have you considered that the murderer would not leave such evidence for the servants to find? Wouldn’t he—or she—be more likely to clean the shoes themselves? Or hide them until the opportunity arose to do so?”

Deflated, she scowled at him instead. “Damn. Do you have to be so pernickety ?”

“Yes.”

She sighed. “I thought I had made a vital discovery.”

“It’s possible you did,” he said. “It just doesn’t really rule anyone out. Though it might yet prove another nail in the murderer’s coffin, as it were.”

“You needn’t try to make me feel better. I shall get over the disappointment in time.”

His lips quirked. She liked to see him smile, however faintly.

He stopped the swing and rose to his feet. “I don’t suppose Owen saw anyone in the kitchen during the night? Or taking the knife at any other time?”

“He says not. But I’m sure the sergeant is asking all the servants such things right now.”

“Did you believe him?” Grey asked.

“Owen?” She frowned. “Actually, I’m not sure. I don’t believe he’s lying, precisely, but he sounds more certain than he actually is. I think. He’s a growing child up before dawn and worked hard until he’s sent to bed. The other servants are often still up, calling across the kitchen to each other, or laughing in the servants’ hall nearby. I doubt he gets enough sleep. I think he might have known someone was in the kitchen but was too sleepy to look and doesn’t want to think about it.”

Grey nodded thoughtfully, beginning to walk back toward the house. “All the same, for Owen’s sake, we should make a point of saying in front of everyone that he saw nothing and no one. That’s the best safety we can give him.”

*

Ellen, latching on to any emotion that was not unbearable, was glad to feel indignant when she received the inspector’s summons to the study. No one had ever gone in there without her father’s express permission.

Accordingly, she fumed as she marched downstairs, prepared to give the inspector a piece of her mind on the subject of his inferiority in general and insensitivity in particular. From the foot of the stairs, she saw a complete stranger open the morning room door.

“Who on earth are you?” she demanded, stalking haughtily toward him. How many of their rooms did this wretched policeman wish to overrun?

He turned quickly to face her, and she saw that he was ridiculously young. She had imagined the inspector would be closer to middle age, and far too stolid to blush at the sight of her.

He bowed a little awkwardly. “Flynn, miss. Sergeant Flynn. I was looking for Inspector Harris.”

“It doesn’t give me much hope when you people can’t even find each other. I believe the inspector is the study.”

Deliberately, she turned her back on him.

“Er…where is that, miss? Might I trouble you to show me the way?”

He had caught up with her, so she favored him with a glance of disdain. To her surprise, he did not look bashfully away. Instead, he met her gaze directly, his eyes uncomfortably penetrating. It jolted her, somehow. Because he clearly did not regard himself as inferior? Or because she knew she was in the wrong to treat a stranger with such discourtesy, whatever her own grief?

Or just because he was too intelligent to have the wool pulled over his eyes?

She said nothing, merely strode across the hall to her father’s study. Sergeant Flynn actually opened the door for her, which she chose to find impertinent rather than courteous.

She sailed in before him and, with a fresh spasm of pain, saw an older man in a worn but decent coat stand up from behind her father’s desk.

“Miss Winsom? I am Inspector Harris.”

“So I gather. This person is looking for you.”

“My sergeant, Flynn.” The two men exchanged looks over her head, which irritated her yet further. The inspector jerked his head to one side, and Flynn closed the door before sitting on a chair by the window and taking out his notebook.

Inspector Harris had the nerve to indicate the chair opposite his at her father’s desk. Clearly it had been put there for the purpose. She sat on the edge of it, her back ramrod straight, and regarded him with dislike.

“My sympathies on your grievous loss, Miss Winsom.”

To her horror, her eyes prickled. Here with these policemen, she could not possibly break down.

“Would you like to have one of your family present?” Inspector Harris asked. “I prefer to speak to the bereaved alone, but if you would be more comfortable—”

That word again! “It is not possible to be comfortable,” she interrupted. “And I am not a child to need my hand held. What is it you wish to know, inspector?”

“When was the last time you saw your father?”

“When we went upstairs to bed. He gave me a candle.” Her voice wobbled, and she swallowed fiercely. “We said goodnight, as normal.”

“Then he did not seem worried or excited about anything?”

She frowned. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Happy or unhappy?” Harris pursued.

“Happy. He was always happy when we had guests. He is—was—a very sociable man.”

“And I suppose he liked all his guests.”

“Of course,” she said.

“They are all old family friends?” the inspector asked.

“Yes! That is, no, not really all. The Boltons are, of course. Mr. Davidson is of more recent acquaintance, only about five years, I believe.”

If she had hoped to put him off with sarcasm, she was disappointed. He did not even appear to notice, which made her slightly ashamed. She never treated people this way. Why was she behaving so badly?

“My mother met Mr. Grey in London last month,” she added, by way of recompense. “But they knew him by repute. Mrs. Goldrich is a friend of my brother’s. I don’t know when he met her, but she is very kind.”

“I see,” Inspector Harris said without expression. “Was your parents’ marriage a happy one, Miss Winsom?”

“Of course,” she said coldly.

He smiled faintly. “But you will not tell me they never disagreed or quarreled? That would be unnatural.”

“I shall take your word for it, inspector. If my parents disagreed, they did so in private. She always supported him in my hearing.”

He nodded, as though he believed her. “To return to the night in question. You took your candle from your father and went up to bed. Did you go straight to your room?”

She glanced at Mrs. Goldrich’s list, which lay on the desk in front of him. “You already know I did.”

“I know what you told everyone else,” he said pleasantly. “I am concerned with the truth.”

“I am not in the habit of lying!”

“Then that is the truth you would be prepared to swear to in court?”

Her restless gaze flew back to his. “In court ?”

“If necessary. Miss Winsom, we are trying to discover the person who killed your father, not searching for salacious gossip. Do you know of anyone at all who would want to hurt him?”

She shook her head miserably. “No.”

She was never so glad to escape from anywhere, not even as a child being scolded or punished for misdemeanors. Vaguely aware that the sergeant held the door open for her, she glanced up at him and imagined she saw a trace of sympathy in his piercing blue eyes.

“Thank you,” she muttered.

She went immediately in search of Miriam and found her writing letters in the morning room.

“I’m surprised you can face writing to anyone,” Ellen greeted her. “What on earth can you find to say that anyone will want to read?”

“Nothing,” Miriam said flatly. “I am writing to inform family and friends of Papa’s death. Mama is in no state to do it.”

Ellen flew at once to her sister and rested her head in her lap. “Oh God, Miri, I’m sorry. I want to hurt someone, something. This is unbearable.”

Miriam touched her hair. “I know. It helps to be busy.”

“Can I write some of them for you?”

“Do you want to?”

With a sound that was half laugh, half sob, Ellen shook her head. “No, not really. I’ve just been interviewed by the police.”

“They spoke to me earlier. What did they ask you?”

“Where I was that night, and a lot of questions about Mama and Papa and the state of their marriage. I told him they were happy.”

“So did I.”

Ellen lifted her head. “Were they?”

Miriam hesitated. “Mostly. More than most.”

Ellen swallowed. “When was Papa banished to the dressing room?”

“A few weeks ago.”

“Why?” Ellen asked, baffled. “Did he snore?”

Miriam smiled unhappily. “No. She was just angry with him.”

“Why? What had he done?”

Miriam shrugged. “He flirted, I suppose.”

“Flirted,” Ellen repeated. Miriam blushed. “You know, you’ve turned awfully mealy-mouthed since you married Peter. Who was his affair with?”

Miriam hesitated, but she must have known she could not keep it to herself now. “Mrs. Bolton.”

*

At that moment, Harris was facing Alice Bolton across the small desk in the study. Flynn, having left the servants to their duties for now, resumed his notetaking by the window.

“How is Mrs. Winsom?” Harris asked, causing the lady to blink at him in surprise.

“Devastated,” she replied. “Utterly devastated. Yet coping better than I imagined she would. She will recover more quickly without policemen in the house, if you will forgive me for saying so.”

Harris raised his eyebrows. “She does not want to know who killed her husband?”

Mrs. Bolton frowned. “Well, of course, but it won’t bring him back, will it?”

“Sadly not. And how are you coping with the grief, ma’am?”

For an instant, her gaze was piercing, though Harris knew she wouldn’t learn much from his expression. “I? My husband and I have been close friends of the Winsoms for twenty years. We are naturally shocked and terribly saddened. But we are hardly chief mourners.”

“How close?” Harris asked pleasantly.

“I beg your pardon?”

Harris took from his pocket the handkerchief Grey had found and spread it on the desk. “Do you recognize this, Mrs. Bolton?”

“It looks like mine,” she replied without much interest. “It has my initials on it.”

“Can you remember when you last saw it?”

She regarded him as though he had sprouted horns. “Of course I can’t. I have a dozen like it.”

“Then you didn’t lose one?”

“Clearly I must have, since it is in your possession, inspector, but I was not aware of having done so.”

“Would it surprise you to know that it was found in the hand of the late Mr. Winsom?”

It obviously did surprise her, for she stared at it in silence for several seconds. Color seeped into her face, which had been almost unnaturally pale, mottling her neck and leaving red spots on her cheeks.

“Of course it surprises me,” she said at last. “What on earth was it doing there?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

She shrugged elegantly. “Clearly, I must have dropped it somewhere. He found it and picked it up to return to me.”

“In the garden at midnight?”

“He could have found it at any time,” she said impatiently.

“And kept it clutched in his hand?”

She was glaring at him now. “What exactly are you implying, inspector?”

“I am asking if you met with Mr. Winsom that night after the household had retired.”

“No, I did not, and I resent—”

“Mrs. Bolton, were you and Mr. Winsom conducting an affair?”

For the tiniest instant, fear stared out of her eyes, quickly veiled. He had his answer. But almost at once she sat back in her chair, her lips curled in contempt. “You nasty, grubby little man—how dare you? My husband has friends among your superiors who will see that your insolence is curtailed.” She rose to her feet, causing both Harris and Flynn to stand also. “This interview is at an end. If you object, you may take that up with my husband too.”

She swung away from him and marched to the door.

“Does he know about the affair?” Harris asked.

Her back remained rigid. She neither answered nor hesitated in her step. At the last moment Flynn reached the door ahead of her and opened it for her. She did not so much as glance at him.

“Go and find the husband, Flynn,” Harris said, “before she gets to him first.”

*

Constance had stationed herself in the library beside the study, so that she could see those who emerged from Harris’s interviews. Alice Bolton stalked out in high dudgeon, but more than that, she was trembling, and something glistened at the corner of her eye. She marched blindly down the hall to the side door and let herself out.

Constance sprinted to catch the door before she closed it behind her. “Are you well, ma’am?” she asked.

“I’m fine,” Alice gasped. “I just need some air.”

Constance had never really cared for the superior Mrs. Bolton, but she suddenly felt a wave of genuine sympathy for the woman’s distress. Her breath came quick and shallow, and she seemed to be holding herself together only by a precarious effort of will.

“Please…” Alice gasped. Please leave me was the clear command, but Constance could no more abandon her to her torment than she could one of her own girls.

She walked along beside her in silence.

“Insufferable man!” Alice burst out.

“Who, the inspector?”

“Wicked little man, poking and prying, making everything grubby …”

“I suppose they see a lot of grubbiness in their line of work. They don’t always understand.”

A strange sound escaped Alice’s lips, half savage laugh, half sob. “Neither do I!” She stopped in the middle of the path and closed her eyes. “And dear God, I’ve made it worse. I should never…”

“What on earth did you say to them?” Constance asked.

“I denied it, of course…” Alice swung on Constance, the words bursting out of her as if they could no longer be contained. “He accused me of an adulterous affair with Walter!”

Constance touched her arm. “It was bound to come out sooner or later.”

Alice stared at her, color rising and fading from her cheeks.

“I don’t judge,” Constance said, finding her way. “We all fall in love.”

Alice dashed her hand across her face. “I didn’t mean to. I suppose I always did, though. He was so different from Thomas, so… alive .”

“I know.”

“I didn’t intend anything to come of these feelings. I merely harbored them for more than a decade. But I knew he was not always faithful to Deborah, and I would not be one of many… Yet somehow it happened, once we were both old enough to know better.”

“And now you grieve as his wife does.”

“Worse,” Alice whispered. “Because in the end, he chose her.”

Understanding washed over Constance, along with pity for the strong, flawed woman brought low.

“Mrs. Winsom found out,” Constance said slowly. “And he ended the affair. The night he died?”

Alice nodded miserably.

“You met him in the garden, at the swing…”

Alice nodded again, then her eyes widened. “How do you—”

“What time was that?” Constance asked urgently.

“What does it matter?” Alice demanded with a spurt of more characteristic impatience.

“You must see, it all depends on time.”

Alice looked frightened. “You mean, he will think I killed Walter? Stabbed him in the back with a kitchen knife? Dear God!” But already the calculation was back, the careful mask. The moment of weakness and honesty had gone. “I met him not long after eleven. A quarter past the hour, perhaps. Not long after we all went upstairs to bed. We must have parted before half past. I’m not sure. I was upset.”

Upset. Not angry. She was choosing her words much more carefully now.

“Did you walk back to the house together?” Constance asked.

“No. I left him in the garden and went to bed.”

“Did you walk over the flowerbed to the house?”

Alice frowned. “Of course not. Why would I do that? I went along the paths.”

“Was Mr. Bolton in bed already?”

“He was in our room.”

Constance gazed at her until she looked up and met her eyes. “Did he know?”

There was a moment’s pause, and then Alice nodded.

Well, that explains the look of hatred Solomon saw on Bolton’s face. And when did he become Solomon to me…? “You should tell the inspector. If he asked you, he already knows.”

“And I have already lied.”

“People lie to the police all the time for all sorts of reasons. I’m sure he will understand your reluctance to admit adultery.”

A spasm of outrage crossed Alice’s face. The softness of misery had vanished from her eyes, leaving them defensive and hard. “And in any case, you will already have told the rest of the household, so I have no choice. Why did I even speak to you?”

“Because you needed a friend,” Constance said mildly. “A confidante who can keep secrets.”

Alice searched her eyes. “Can you?”

“Yes, but not from the police.”

A moment longer, Alice stared, then nodded once before she turned back to the house. It might have been gratitude.