Chapter Fourteen

T here were many areas of Miriam Albright’s life that she did not like to think about. Her marriage was one of them. The murder of her father was most certainly another, which was why she kept herself almost feverishly busy.

She had taken on herself the running of the house, writing the death notifications—with occasional help from Ellen—and such other arrangements as could be made without her knowing when her father’s body would be released to them. On top of that, she insisted on keeping up much of Peter’s correspondence, which was what she was doing after tea when he found her yet again at the morning room desk.

He seemed slightly shocked by her activity, always tried to make her rest more, talk to her about God’s will, and her own grief. Miriam bore these as patiently as she could and avoided them when at all possible.

“My dear, you will exhaust yourself,” he said now, with the sort of anxious kindness that grated on her nerves. “There is nothing we can do about the arrest of Richards, except pray. Of course, the servants are upset, but I think you must let Mrs. Farrow deal with that. I myself will speak to them and lead them in prayer this evening.”

She gave him a distracted smile. It was the best she could do, for she could feel the anger welling up in her again. She stood abruptly “I do not believe Richards did this.”

“We must allow the police to know their own business.”

“Must we? Would you say the same if they arrested me?”

For an instant, he looked startled, then his face smoothed. It seemed a long time since she had last wondered what he truly thought, which added to her guilt.

“Why would they be so foolish?” he said lightly.

She stood abruptly, striding to the window, then wishing she had gone to the door instead. The view from the window was too familiar to distract her for long, and her husband was still talking.

“I understand your distress. Richards has been with your family a number of years, but you cannot choose whoever you would prefer to be guilty.”

“I am aware of that,” she said stiffly. She heard him come closer and steeled herself. She knew he was trying and floundering in his attempts to ease her pain. He did not seem to understand that nothing could, and that annoyed her too.

“Such a terrible thing,” he went on tritely, “but if it was truly one of the household who committed the crime, it is better it should be a servant than—”

“Than one of us ?” she said harshly, spinning around to face him. “You think the scandal might be less this way, that we can somehow rise above it, and you will still be a bishop in five or six years?”

She knew she maligned him, and he looked so shocked by the accusation that it fed her guilt, and the guilt fed her fury.

“Does the truth not matter to us? Only what people perceive?”

For once, he did not trouble to hide his hurt. The mask of superiority and control slipped from his face, leaving it anguished. “Is that what you truly think of me, Miriam? That I am so consumed with ambition? Of course I would like to be a bishop, even an archbishop. I could do more good with such authority. I thought you understood that.”

She closed her eyes against his pain. God, she had to deal with that too. Was there no end to this?

“Why don’t you trust me?” he asked, his voice so sad, so bewildered, that she opened her eyes again in sheer surprise.

Impulsively, she grasped his shoulder. “I do. I do. It’s just…” Her fingers dug into his shoulder so hard it must have hurt. She gasped. “Oh, Peter, I have been so angry !”

He put his arms around her. She tried to pull away, but for once he was not tentative. He held her, hugged her. “Angry about your father’s death?”

“About my father! I saw him, Peter. With her, in the garden, by the swing, embracing. How could he do that to Mama? To us? I hated him. Part of me still hates him, still rages! Even in death he hurts us, and God punishes us.”

For once, he did not speak, did not lecture, only held her, stroking her hair, and for some reason a small stream of comfort began to trickle in. In truth, her anger had begun before her mother had told her about Papa’s affair with Alice Bolton. She had been angry about marrying Peter to please him, angry with Peter for being her husband, with herself for allowing it.

Yet now she let herself feel the comfort of Peter’s arms and recognized not just that he was a good man, but one who cared for her, loved her, as she did not deserve. She remembered she had liked him before their marriage. They had been friends.

Abruptly, she slid her arms around his neck, wondering if there were not after all many routes to love. And safety.

A knock sounded at the half-open door. She expected Peter to spring away from her to retain his dignity, but he merely raised his head from hers. “Yes?”

It was she who moved away, for it was Constance Goldrich who entered the room.

Miriam did not trust her. She was too beautiful, too self-assured, too confident in her handling of poor Randolph, who was so utterly besotted. Or had been. Why had she even come to Greenforth?

“Excuse me for interrupting,” she said. “And please excuse me for what I am about to ask you.”

“If it needs to be excused,” Peter said, “perhaps it should not be spoken.”

“Perhaps,” Mrs. Goldrich said, “but the thing is, I think we all need to get to the truth of your father’s death, particularly now they have arrested Richards.”

Miriam frowned at her. “What is this to you, Mrs. Goldrich? Why do you keep interfering? It is the duty of the police to investigate, however unpleasant.”

“Oh, I like to help,” Mrs. Goldrich said vaguely. She twitched one side of her mouth into a self-deprecating smile. “And to own the truth, I would like to go home. The quicker we discover who killed your father, the quicker I am out of your hair. So please, help me reach the truth.”

So she didn’t believe Richards did it either. For her own reasons, Miriam needed to know why.

She waved her hand to one of the armchairs. “Please, sit.”

Mrs. Goldrich sat with her perfect grace. Miriam wondered if she had studied to achieve it, and what Mr. Goldrich had thought of her.

“What is it you want to ask?”

“A delicate matter,” said Mrs. Goldrich. “I think perhaps you were aware of your father’s infidelity.”

“One might ask how you think you are aware of it?” Peter said coldly.

“Because I have spoken to Mrs. Bolton,” she said. “I am not here to cause trouble or gossip, let alone to judge. I just need to know how it was you knew, Mrs. Albright.”

Miriam looked her in the eye. “My mother told me. Somewhat obliquely, but she told me nevertheless. She was too upset to keep it to herself, and she could hardly talk to Ellen about such things.”

The woman nodded, then immediately asked, “And how and when did your mother find out?”

Interesting that Miriam could still feel something more than anger. Perhaps that had lessened slightly, thanks to Peter, and let in other emotions. The family had nothing more to lose, scandal-wise.

“Last month,” Miriam said. “My mother was looking at the guest bedrooms after the Boltons had been visiting, thinking about the planning of this party. In one room, she found Mrs. Bolton’s earring caught on a sheet. And she smelled my father’s cologne on the pillow.”

“A guest bedroom,” Mrs. Goldrich repeated. “Which one?”

“The one now occupied by Mr. Davidson. Why? How is it important?”

“I’m not quite sure,” Mrs. Goldrich admitted. “But I think it is.” She rose. “Thank you, Mrs. Albright. Mr. Albright.”

When she had left, Peter looked thoughtful. “I cannot quite make up my mind about that lady.”

“Neither can I. Perhaps she will be good for Randolph after all.”

*

Constance, meanwhile, went straight to her own room and seized the “treasure,” which she had wrapped in a shawl of her own, and went in search of Mr. Grey. Solomon . She smiled for no reason as she moved from room to room and eventually found him playing billiards with Ivor Davidson.

Both gentlemen had their coats off. Solomon was walking around the table, cue in hand. He spared her only the briefest glance, but inclined his head as if he understood the presence of the shawl in her arms.

“Mrs. Goldrich,” Davidson greeted her. “I challenge you to a game.”

Constance had already made her own assessment of the game, which was almost over. “You can’t expect me to play anyone but the winner. In any case, I suspect we shouldn’t really be playing at all in a house of mourning.”

Davidson kept his eyes on the table. “Special circumstances, I think you’ll agree.”

Solomon leaned across the table and struck his cue against the white ball, which cannoned across the table and knocked one of the two remaining red balls into the corner pocket. He straightened, walked past Davidson, and quite casually potted the final ball.

“Drat you, Grey—this speaks of a misspent youth,” Davidson said. “Revenge, if you please.”

“Only if Mrs. Goldrich does not defeat me, though I fear she will.”

Davidson sighed and replaced his cue in the stand. “Then I shall seek some other amusement for half an hour.” He picked up his coat, bowed, and sauntered out.

“I take it you don’t want to play?” Solomon said, reaching for his own coat.

“No. It’s time we took this”—she lifted the shawl bundle slightly—“to Harris. And to Richards. Deborah didn’t find the love nest in the old wing. She was led to believe they used a spare bedroom—now Mr. Davidson’s, in fact—by discovering an earring in the bed there. And a pillow smelling of her husband’s cologne. Miriam told me.”

Solomon paused, one arm in his coat, and looked at her. “They might have used both places to meet.”

“Why risk it? Besides…I don’t think Walter would have hurt Deborah in that particular way. The old wing is almost separate, as if he could think of it as not his wife’s roof.”

Solomon shrugged into his coat. “Could Miriam be lying?”

“I don’t think so, though it’s hard to tell. She is very…suppressed.”

“What do you suppose she is suppressing?”

“Anger,” Constance said. “She’s angry about something.”

“About her father’s affair? Angry enough to give him away to her mother? You think she, not Richards, took and hid these things? And Alice’s earring?”

“Maybe. Let’s see what Richards says. He was still skulking there.” Constance walked toward the door, but Solomon stood where he was.

“Do you think she could have killed her father?”

“I’m beginning to think she could,” Constance said.

Solomon moved forward at last, and they hurried to the study. Neither of the policemen were there. Constance went in and dropped the purloined keys on the floor behind the desk, ignoring Solomon’s sardonic smile from the doorway.

“You don’t suppose they’ve gone back to the inn for the night?” she said. “Or taken Richards off to jail?”

“Let’s see.” They went on to the green baize door, where they almost collided with a footman. He muttered a hasty apology and hurried on to the dining room. Whatever the upheavals, the business of feeding the family and their guests went on.

Voices came from the door on the landing, low and intense, and then Richards’s, high with stress. “I don’t care what you think! I know I didn’t kill him!”

Solomon’s eyebrows arched as he glanced at Constance. Then he pushed open the door to the pantry, and she sailed in, Solomon at her heels.

Richards, seated at his desk, stared at them without comprehension. He looked like a man in a nightmare from which he couldn’t wake. The two policemen stood opposite him, Harris upright, Flynn leaning negligently back against the shelves.

The inspector glowered. “This is beyond a joke. You are both facing a charge of interference in police—”

“We found something, inspector,” Solomon said, “which may be of interest to you. To all of you,” he added, as Constance plonked her bundle on the desk in front of Richards. As she untied the shawl, she saw the precise moment when Richards’s expression changed.

He recognized his own cloth wrapping, knew what was inside. His already pale, strained face whitened to his lips.

Not Miriam, then, Constance thought. It was Richards after all.

“We found these things in the old wing of the house that is shut off,” Solomon told Harris. “Where Mrs. Goldrich encountered Richards this morning.”

“You took these things, didn’t you?” Constance said quietly to the butler, while Harris fingered the items, frowning direly.

“No!” Richards said desperately. “I’ve never seen them before in my—”

“Richards.” Constance cut him off with one quiet word. “Your one chance now is to tell the truth. All of it.”

“And be hanged?” he whispered.

“You’ll be hanged if you don’t,” Harris growled. “That is a fact.”

Without moving a muscle, Richards seemed to slump.

“Did you take these things?” Flynn asked him.

Richards nodded dully.

“Why?” Harris demanded.

“To sow discord among the Winsoms and the Boltons,” Richards said.

“So you did blame them for your brother’s fall?” Harris said.

“They were to blame for my brother’s fall. At the very best, they let it happen when he had worked for them all his adult life. Turned their backs, without a word to him or even to me. My brother was not a thief—he was as honest as the day is long.”

“And that made you angry,” Flynn said.

Constance knew they had had this discussion before, probably many times. Richards nodded wearily. Perhaps admitting it for the first time.

“Very angry. After he died, I wanted—I needed to punish them. So I made it my business to pick up bits and pieces from both families.”

“With the aim of discrediting them,” Flynn said.

Again, Richards nodded. “And to show them how easy it was to lay a trail, false or otherwise, for other people to see. Mr. Winsom thought his son had stolen coins from him and lied. That was the true cause of their quarrel. Mr. Winsom was angry and disappointed, Mr. Randolph hurt and offended. They barely spoke, and that hurt Mrs. Winsom.”

“But you took the coins,” Harris guessed.

Richards nodded. “I didn’t steal them,” he added quickly. “I put them back in the petty cash for paying tradesmen.”

A frown tugged Solomon’s brow and vanished again. He was right. There was something oddly honest in the butler’s insistence on his own honor.

“And Mrs. Bolton’s earring,” Constance said. “Did you take that too? Along with these perfume bottles?”

“I spilt perfume on the sheets of one of the spare beds, his cologne on the pillow. And I dropped the earring between the sheets.”

“To make Mrs. Winsom believe the worst of her husband?” Harris said with distaste.

“Oh, that wasn’t his worst,” Richards said savagely. “He was never faithful to her. But I had no objection to ruining the outward happiness of his marriage, and I knew she’d never go into the old wing and discover him that way.”

“Was that not unnecessarily unkind to Mrs. Winsom?” Solomon asked.

Constance blinked. He was full of surprises, was Solomon Grey.

“Unnecessarily? She stood by, did nothing when my brother was accused, even though she’d known him since her marriage.”

“Did Mr. and Mrs. Winsom not know you were Framley’s brother?” Solomon asked.

“Of course they did! It was why they took me on, because of my brother! Afterward, they seemed to think they were very magnanimous, doing me a special kindness by keeping me on when they had dismissed him without notice or character.”

“So you punished them in your own way,” Flynn said, understanding, even sympathy, creeping into his voice.

Richards grimaced. “In very small ways.”

“So when did these small punishments progress to murder?” Flynn asked.

Richards’s gaze flew to his face. “They didn’t!” he said.

“Of course they did,” Harris said contemptuously. “You even tried to cast the blame for the murder on Mrs. Bolton. It was you who put her handkerchief in his hand, wasn’t it?”

Richards closed his eyes. He nodded, his mouth curving down in misery. “I had it in my pocket. I’d been going to leave it in the mistress’s bed that evening, only I never got the chance. So when my duties were done, I went outside instead to see who was creeping around—I knew someone was. I almost fell over his body. I couldn’t quite believe it. I wasn’t the only one who hated him.”

“You’re telling us he was already dead when you just happened to fall over him?” Harris said sarcastically. “It must have been like Piccadilly Circus in that part of the garden.”

“Busier than you know,” Richards retorted with a spurt of anger. “I heard someone else coming—two people, in fact, judging by the whispering. So I stuffed Mrs. Bolton’s handkerchief into Mr. Winsom’s hand and bolted. It was my last chance to discredit him in public, and had the added bonus of hurting both the Boltons at the same time.”

“You wanted her to hang for a murder she hadn’t committed?” Solomon said.

Richards smiled tiredly. “Frankly, yes. At best, I didn’t care. My brother died in disgrace too, didn’t he? And you needn’t look so righteous either, Mr. Grey. It was you and her I saw creeping around when I ran off.”

“Indeed?” Harris said with blatant disbelief. “And you imagine that is a more believable story than the denials you’ve given us before?”

“It’s the truth,” Richards said defiantly.

“You were at the scene by your own admission,” Flynn pointed out.

“But he was already dead,” Richards insisted. “And I had no reason to kill him when he was already suffering, had I? Can’t you see that? Why would I bother with all this”—he waved his hand at the purloined items on the desk—“if I meant to stick a knife in his back?”

“Are you sorry he’s dead?” Harris asked, switching tack.

Richards drew a shuddering breath. He glanced at Constance, then away again. “Truthfully, no, I’m not. I’d never have forgiven him for what he did. But neither would I stick a knife in his back and give them something to hang me for.”

He had a point, Constance reflected. Why would he continue with the petty punishments if he simply meant to do away with the man?

“Did Winsom find you out?” Solomon asked.

“Him?” Richards scoffed. “He never looked further than himself.”

Solomon glanced at Constance. He didn’t think Richards was the killer. Constance didn’t think so either. They both looked at Harris.

“I don’t think it was Richards,” Solomon said. “The body wasn’t quite that newly dead.”

“You an expert on the newly dead and those who’ve been dead five or ten minutes?” Harris growled.

“I’ve had cause to notice. But more than that, we’d surely have heard something, even the thud of his body falling. We didn’t. And besides, he’s right. The other punishment makes no sense if he planned to kill Walter anyway.”

“You could have done both,” Harris said to the butler. “I don’t put it past you. But for the moment, I won’t charge you. You can go back to your duties.”

Richards laughed shakily. “Oh, I think I’ve just effectively resigned, don’t you? Better than dismissal, of course.”

Harris curled his lip. “You might even threaten a character out of them with what you know. And if I get even a whiff of that, you’re clapped up again before you can turn round.”

“Well,” Constance said brightly, “back to the beginning. If it wasn’t Richards, who did kill him? Who do you think it was, Richards?”

“Mrs. Bolton,” the butler said without the slightest hesitation. “Why do you think I left her handkerchief?”

“You’ve just told us it was to incriminate her,” Solomon said. “Because her husband was equally responsible for your brother’s dismissal.”

Richards shifted impatiently. “More than that. I know she seems cold and haughty, but she isn’t. She’s clever and controlling and she’s always been besotted with him, with Mr. Winsom. Believe me, she’s too proud to take rejection well, and I know he ended their affair that evening. She killed him.”

*

“What do you think?” Constance asked Solomon as they returned to the main part of the house. Without either of them suggesting it, they both turned toward the side door. “Is Richards right about Alice Bolton?”

“I don’t know. He still has the best motive out of everyone, and he has a history of trying to blame others for things they didn’t necessarily do.”

Constance pounced. “Does he, though?”

Solomon opened the door, and she sailed through, impatient to talk without being overheard. Randolph was striding down the path from the stables, so she turned toward the garden instead. No one else was around at this time, since the gardener had finished for the day and the household would be changing for dinner. Even in a crisis like this, formalities were rigidly observed. They seemed to be all that held these people together.

“Does he blame others falsely?” Solomon said. “He admitted it.”

“No, his proof might have been false, but his accusations weren’t. Alice and Walter were having an affair. And he believes she killed him.”

“Randolph didn’t steal the coins.”

“No, but it could be argued he is living off his father and contributing nothing. Not uncommon among the upper classes, where work is a dirty word, but among normal people, it is not admired.”

Solomon cast her a curious glance. “And Walter worked for the money they all lived off. You see Richards as some kind of moral arbiter?”

“Hardly. But he has his own code. You saw that, too. I don’t think he’s a murderer, just an angry, grieving, misguided man.”

“A generous interpretation. So you believe his accusation against Alice Bolton?”

“Emotions run high when people are intimate. What may begin as casual, transactional, need not remain that way for either party. And I think she loved Walter for years before their affair began.”

“Servants do see a different side of people,” he allowed. “They can bear the brunt of bad moods and ill nature and see private moments because their masters get so used to their presence that they are not noticed.”

“Exactly. I could imagine Alice hurt and humiliated, angry to have her excitement, her joy in life taken away. Beside Walter, her husband is a somewhat…colorless man.”

“Do you find him so?” Solomon sounded surprised.

“Don’t you?”

“No, but then, I prefer subtle people.”

Her insides twisted. I have to stop taking his every remark as personal .

“We’re no nearer a solution, are we?” she said lightly. “It could still be any of them. They all have a motive of some kind, and the garden seems to have been so full of people around the time of his death that I’m surprised we didn’t fall over each other.”