Chapter Twelve

“R ichards!” Constance gasped, with no idea whether she should be relieved or not.

“Mrs. Goldrich.” His voice was cold, and he did not bow. “Do you not know that this part of the house is dangerous?”

“Why, yes, Mr. Randolph told me when I first arrived. But I woke early, and I suppose curiosity got the better of me.” Was she talking too much? “You have duties here?” It never did any harm, after all, to turn accusations around.

“Of course,” he said. “I make certain there has been no further damage and carry out repairs where necessary. Like that one.” He nodded toward the rough repair over the rotted floorboards.

That repair had clearly been done years ago, probably as soon as Randolph had fallen through. But it did not seem wise to argue with Richards. Nor, for some reason, did it seem wise to bring up the subject of the well-used room beyond. He probably thought she was heading toward it for the first time, and she chose not to change his mind.

She had never thought of him as a large or threatening man before, but her stomach lurched as he advanced upon her now. Her instinct was to back away from him, but it had been so long since she’d let anyone intimidate her that she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She merely raised her eyebrows, and he halted again.

“If you please, ma’am,” he said, nodding toward the latched door she had closed over. “For your own safety.”

The words chilled her, even though he made no overt threat. She was hampered by bunched skirts that would trip her if she let them go. She had no defense.

She smiled. “Of course, you are quite right.”

She turned and walked in front of him to the door. Her neck prickled with fear. She could almost feel the blow, the shove, the pain. She had to force herself to take her time and pray he did not notice her shaking hand as she reached out and opened the door.

She stepped over the threshold, back into the main part of the house and the empty passage. She kept walking. Behind her, the door closed softly and a key turned. At last she could stand it no longer and glanced back.

Her knees almost gave way with relief, because he had remained on the other side of the door.

She stumbled back to her own room, closed and locked the door, and leaned against it. Slowly, she slid down until she sat on the floor. She could not remember the last time she had been so frightened.

Of Richards? The butler?

Had they been looking in the wrong place all the time?

*

Deborah Winsom was roused from her torpor of horror and misery by outrage at the police inspector, who wanted to search Walter’s room.

“You want to what ?” she said, drawing herself up to her full height.

“Look around his private chamber,” Inspector Harris repeated. “We may find some clue there as to why he died and who is responsible.”

“If you imagine my husband knew anyone who could do this to him—” Only he had. Thomas and Alice and Randolph all acknowledged that it must be the case. She would only look foolish to suggest otherwise. “I suppose I cannot stop you,” she said tragically. It seemed she had no control over anything anymore. Had she ever?

“You could,” Inspector Harris said surprisingly. “But your cooperation in this would be helpful to our investigation. I understand it seems something of an invasion, but if you wish someone to accompany me…?”

“ I shall accompany you,” she said frigidly, and led the way from the hall where he had accosted her, upstairs to her bedchamber. She sailed into Walter’s dressing room and stood in the corner, glaring at Harris. It made her feel marginally better.

Until, she realized, watching him rake through drawers and cupboards, that he had actually wanted her presence. He did not appear to be finding much that interested him, but he asked her questions while he looked—increasingly personal ones.

“Was he an indulgent father?” he asked, pulling letters from a bedside drawer.

Deborah’s gaze clung to them. Were they her letters? Should she have looked before the police got here? “Indulgent? No, he was a strict father. Kind but fair.”

“Was it not indulgence to your son to let him waste his time and allowance in London?”

“He was looking about him,” Deborah said with dignity, watching with difficulty as Harris skimmed his eyes over one epistle and flipped to the next. “Finding his feet in the world.”

“That is not a privilege most of us are granted.”

Deborah curled her lip. “Well, you are a policeman.”

“Much to my father’s regret. But at least I was earning. Did Mr. Winsom approve your daughters’ suitors?”

“Peter, obviously. Of course he did.”

“And Miss Ellen’s suitors?”

“She is sixteen years old!”

“Yet I understand Mr. Davidson is quite assiduous in his attentions.”

“Nonsense, he is just being friendly.”

“Did your husband think so?”

“My husband entrusted such matters to me. He had many other things on his mind.”

“Such as Mrs. Bolton?”

The blood left her face in such a rush that she felt dizzy and had to lean back against the wall. Even before a nobody like this, the humiliation was profound.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes you do, ma’am. If Mrs. Bolton had not already told us of her affair with your husband, these letters would have. According to her, you learned of it some weeks ago, and he ended the affair the night he died. Would you like to sit down?”

“What I would like—” She gasped and broke off, shuddering. “I find you impertinent. Our private affairs remain just that.”

“Then you do not believe Mrs. Bolton took her rejection badly enough to kill him?”

Deborah stared at him. What rejection ? “I cannot imagine what goes on in your life to make you imagine such a thing.”

“It is other people’s lives I am obliged to look into. Were you angry with your husband, Mrs. Winsom?”

What on earth did she reply to that? That she was? Would he then think her capable of murder? If she said he was not, did it make her an uncaring or complacent wife?

“Yes,” she whispered, opting for truth.

“Did your children know?”

“Of course not! They thought the world of their father. It would have broken their hearts.” She dropped her gaze again. “I might have hinted to Miriam. Mrs. Albright.”

“And Mrs. Bolton? According to her and to all your family and guests, you bear her no ill will, nor she you. I find that hard to believe.”

“I do not care what you believe,” Deborah said. “Alice Bolton and I have been friends for years.”

“And shared your husband for years?”

“How dare you?” she uttered.

“Then tell me the truth. When did it begin? When did you find out?”

She meant to stare him down, but he was clearly not going to crawl back under his stone. He held her gaze easily.

What did it matter anyway? Walter was dead.

“About a year ago, apparently. I found her earring in one of the spare beds last month, the day after they last visited us. And I could smell his soap on the sheets. I knew.”

She still had his full attention. “Did you confront him?” he asked.

“I had his things moved to the dressing room. He knew what it meant.”

“Did you know he had ended the affair the night he died?”

Dear God, was that kindness in his voice? Did he imagine knowing that made her feel better?

Did it?

She shook her head. Poor Alice . She had lost in the end. Though she still had her own husband.

As if he read her thoughts, the inspector said, “Did Mr. Bolton know?”

“I don’t know. I hope not.”

“Because he would be hurt? Or angry?”

“If you are implying Thomas Bolton killed my husband…”

“Did he?”

“Of course he did not!”

“How do you know?”

She stared at him. Was this a trap? What should she say? “I have known him for twenty years. He was my husband’s friend and partner. I could never imagine his behaving in such a way.”

“Nor Mrs. Bolton?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Did you go directly to bed the night of the murder, ma’am?”

“I already told you I did. It is still true.”

“There was mud on the shoes you left in the passage for the boot boy to clean that night.”

“There frequently is,” she said tartly. “I enjoy my garden.”

“Were you in the garden after the rain that day? No one else saw you go further than the terrace, which is never muddy.”

It had never entered her head that they would investigate anyone’s movements so thoroughly. She had to swallow before she could speak. “Then they were not looking. Which is also entirely understandable.”

*

Considering the tragedy that had occurred so recently in this house, Solomon was surprised to wake with a sense of eagerness and purpose that had been missing from his life for some time. It certainly had something to do with the mystery—was Constance right that he was prompted by guilt? He suspected novelty had more to do with it.

He had come to Greenforth because he was bored, and because it gave him one more chance, however faint, of discovering something more about David. He always hoped, but the strength of that hope faded with each passing year.

Now, even his business bored him. With the right people in place, it barely needed him. Finding the right people had been his biggest challenge. He could say the same for the charities he patronized. Apart from them, people had stopped interesting him in individual terms.

Until Constance Silver. The woman was a mass of contradictions, challenging his every prejudice. In fact, he hadn’t realized he had any prejudices until he met her. She defied labeling, did what she pleased, went where she liked by any means available. He found he liked those things about her, even if they were not always strictly honest. She was young—younger than he had imagined on their first meeting, if she were really only twenty-five or six. She was also beautiful, vibrant, intelligent—charming when she wished to be. Or when one took her by surprise.

Why did she choose to waste such talents managing a brothel? Because she liked to defy the convention that madams were raddled old hags? Or because it was all she knew?

He did not want to think about that. And yet it plagued him as he walked briskly though the woods after breakfast. He meant to think about the mystery, not Constance, whom he had avoided after breakfast, even knowing she lurked nearby with the clear desire to speak to him. He did not want the distraction of her nearness right now.

Of course, she might have done it, he reminded himself. He had assumed she was looking for her father because family meant something to her, or because she meant to bleed him of a little coin. But what if she were seeking revenge on him? Perhaps for abandoning her mother, or some worse crime against her? He had never asked because it seemed intrusive. And because he couldn’t believe her anyway.

But you are believing her . You are trusting her .

He had never frequented whores—at least not after one wild night in Port Royal when he was sixteen—but he had heard that the best of them could make you imagine you were different from their other clients, interesting and special to them.

Something clawed at his insides. She had nothing to gain from him, nor he from her. He had known purely mercenary people—still did—but she was not one of them. Life might have hardened her, but there was an odd vulnerability to her, a caring. Did that extend to a terrible vengeance?

Somewhere to his right, a twig cracked, as though stepped on by a heavy weight. The sudden sound dragged him out of his reverie. A few paces on, he heard something very similar and paused, listening. Apart from the fluttering of birds above, more distant singing, and the odd buzz of passing insects, the woods were silent.

He walked on, aware with every sense that someone or something was keeping pace with him, walking parallel to his course, maintaining the same distance between them. It could have been a dog, or a deer, maybe, but he suspected it was human.

It would not be the first time a human had objected to his presence. His very skin prickled with memory. Hiding among the tall sugar canes from a baying mob…

He walked with his hands loose by his sides, listening, watching, poised. For a time, his fellow walker shadowed him. But when he turned and headed back toward the house, he heard nothing more.

Imagination? Maybe.

In any case, why had it bothered him so much? He was living in the same house as a cold-blooded murderer.

He did not need to seek Constance out, for he saw her as soon as he entered the front door. Warm and bright as sunshine, she was placing a letter in the posting basket on the large hall table.

“It will be tomorrow now before it’s posted,” he said, “unless you take it to the village.”

Her lip curved into a smile as soon as he started to speak, even though she didn’t turn to face him at once. “I know. I have nothing urgent, just keeping in touch with home.”

She didn’t even say it to rile him. She really did regard her establishment as home.

“Then it wasn’t you walking in the woods just now?” he asked.

At that, she faced him fully. “No, I haven’t been out yet today.” She indicated the letter. “I was busy. Why do you ask?”

“I had the curious fancy that someone was following me.”

“And why would you imagine that someone was me?” she wondered, amused.

“Because you seemed to want to speak to me after breakfast.”

“Actually, I do! Would you care to sit in the garden?”

Avoiding the swing area, they found a curved wrought iron bench by the ornamental pond. It was far enough away from the house for them not to be overheard, and between them, they could see anyone approaching from any direction.

“I wondered suddenly where Alice and Walter trysted,” she said at once. “And I found what must be the place in the old wing. Unlike the larger room next to it, which is totally bare, this one has a made-up bed on the floor and a dressing table to make oneself alluring beforehand and tidy afterward. Also… I ran into someone there.”

“Who?” he demanded, suddenly afraid of more than rotting floors.

“Richards.”

He blinked. “Richards? What the devil was he doing there?”

“That’s what I don’t know. He said he looked over the wing every week to make sure there was nothing wrong. If that’s true, then he definitely knew about the trysting room before, and he certainly knows now. But the thing is…he was different.”

“In what way?”

“In a bully kind of a way. He didn’t even pretend respect. He just wanted me out of there. Probably before I saw the trysting room. He wouldn’t have known I’d seen it already. But this opens all sorts of different possibilities. We never even considered Richards or any of the servants before.”

“Perhaps that was his trysting place,” Solomon mused. “I wonder whom with? Did he take one of the maids there?”

“Or several?” Constance said with unexpected distaste. “Have I missed some fear and abuse in the servants’ hall? He seemed so kind to young Owen.”

“And yet he was there,” Solomon said slowly. “Standing over him. He had no weapon that I felt when I struggled with him, but we have only his word that he was concerned for the boy, like us.”

“He’s in and out of the kitchen all the time,” Constance said. “He could have taken the knife any time.”

“He could,” Solomon agreed, frowning. “Only, why would a respectable butler stab his master in the back? There has to be more to it than being caught tippling in the wine cellar.”

“Maybe he’s not respectable at all,” Constance said. “Maybe—” She broke off with a sigh. “He’s been here for a decade and more. Why should he turn on Walter now?”

“Perhaps Walter caught him making use of his—er…trysting place and tried to dismiss him.”

“Risky,” Constance said, “when Richards must have at least guessed it was Walter’s. Aren’t they more likely to have made an all-men-together agreement of silence? And yes, before you ask, I’m sure that is what goes on among the gentlemen who encounter each other in my salons.”

“Whatever, I don’t like this.”

“Neither do I,” Constance said with a shiver. “I will be very glad to leave here.”

“Have you told Harris?”

“Not yet. He’s been searching Walter’s dressing room. Mrs. Winsom is outraged, though apparently they found nothing helpful. He was closeted with Alice Bolton when you came in.”

He rose and, without thought, held out his hand to her. “Let’s go back and try to catch him discreetly before he sees anyone else.”

Though she took his proffered hand and stood, he had the feeling that his courtesies amused her, whether because she did not consider herself worthy of them, or because she thought he was mocking her. He wasn’t, though neither was he sure what did compel him. One didn’t hold doors for maids, after all—well, not unless their hands were so full they’d drop something.

By mutual, if tacit, agreement, they split up when they returned to the house. Solomon skulked in the hallway, waiting for the study door to open. Constance walked into the library and sat with a book open in her lap. He hoped it was the right way up.

Stupid. Of course she could read and write. He had seen her do so, and very neatly and stylishly, too. Where had she learned to do that? Someone had also taught her to speak like a lady. Unless she had been born a lady in the first place and the East End accent she had displayed to him the other day was the one she had learned.

So much of her life was a mystery to him… And would no doubt remain so.

The study door opened, and Alice Bolton sailed out, her cheeks flushed but her head held high. He thought she would walk right past him, but at the last moment, she seemed to notice him and a twisted smile tugged at her lips.

“I suppose it is a comfort that I am not the only suspect,” she said brittlely, and walked on.

Since she hadn’t troubled to close the door behind her, Solomon stuck his head around it. Inspector Harris sat at the desk, scowling at nothing, his hands dug deep into the pockets of his coat.

“May I have a word?” Solomon asked.

The inspector’s scowl only intensified. “Another one?”

Constance had not joined him after all, so he closed the door and sat down. “What do you know of Richards the butler?”

“Nothing,” Harris said shortly. “Barely spoken to the man. Flynn dealt with the servants, found nothing untoward.”

“He might be worth another look.”

Harris swore beneath his breath, though whether at Solomon or at the knock on the door that heralded Constance’s arrival, it was impossible to say. Solomon rose, invited her to sit in his vacated chair, and brought over Sergeant Flynn’s for himself. Harris watched these maneuvers with growing ire, until suddenly his face cleared and he sighed.

“I presume you haven’t come to accuse each other. Tell me quickly.”

Constance told him concisely of her encounter with Richards and their realization that the butler was, if not involved, then not quite what he seemed. Harris listened without comment until she finished.

Then he stood up. “Don’t you think you’re reading too much into what is probably just the man protecting his master’s reputation? But I’ll look into his background as well as yours. Now please go away. I’m busy.”

At that moment, another knock sounded at the door, and before the inspector could respond, Sergeant Flynn entered with the force of a gale.

“Sir, I—” He stopped and inclined his head to Constance and Solomon.

“Well met, sergeant,” Constance said winningly. “What have you learned?”

Flynn glanced at Harris, who, glowering at his visitors, merely pointed to the door.

Constance, accepting defeat, laughed, curtsied with some style, and glided out of the room.

Solomon, afraid she would seek out Richards herself, steered her across the empty hall to the door that led to the old wing. While she kept watch, he tried the door and found it locked.

“Surely it must usually be locked,” Solomon murmured. “Too big a risk of discovery, otherwise.”

“Then perhaps Alice has a key.” She frowned. “But I got in easily upstairs this morning.”

“Richards must have gone in that way, not meaning to be long.” He met Constance’s gaze. “So what was he doing downstairs? There must be something else there. How do we get hold of the key?”

As one, they moved apart, as Randolph prowled out of the morning room, a pile of letters in his hand. Constance walked directly toward him. Solomon wandered in the direction of the stairs, wondering if he could induce Mrs. Winsom to let him into the old wing. But something about Randolph’s stance at the post table distracted him, so he paused, one hand on the newel post.

Randolph had picked up a letter from the posting tray and was gazing at it while he slowly lowered his own letters into the tray. His eyes lifted to Constance, who was walking up to him.

Before she could speak, he said clearly, “Why are you writing to the house of a notorious courtesan?”