Chapter Fifteen

C oming back from the kennels, Randolph saw Constance emerge from the side door. His heart lifted because she looked so lovely in the late afternoon sunshine, hatless and carefree. The troubles weighing him down began to lift at the very sight of her, even though he had twice now offended her by saying the wrong thing or asking the wrong questions.

He had recognized her handwriting on the letter earlier that day. He should never have looked, let alone admitted it, but the address had shocked him.

Not that he had ever been to Constance Silver’s discreet establishment in Mayfair. It was as difficult to get into as the most exclusive London club. But a friend had once promised to get him a card, and described the wonders of her salons and her girls. Randolph had been undeniably shocked that his Mrs. Goldrich should be writing to someone there. And then came the stunning realization of the same Christian name. Constance Silver. Constance Goldrich. It had felt like a connection, and he had blurted something stupid and offensive that allowed Grey to tell him off in front of her.

Now, at least, he had the opportunity to apologize and make everything right again… Only Grey was behind her again. Irritation threatened to surge into anger, especially when he was sure she saw him and yet turned away toward the formal garden, apparently deep in conversation with Grey.

What is he to her? She is my guest, in my house . There was an insidious, guilty pleasure in those words . My house. My bank .

He strode into his house, seething.

Mrs. Goldrich had once seemed so immeasurably out of his reach that he had been amazed she actually accepted his invitation to Greenforth. Now at least he was a man of substance. And yet she had hardly paid him any attention since she had arrived, preferring the company of his father, his sister, even Davidson, and now Solomon Grey.

Wealth-wise, of course, Grey was in a different class. But was he even a gentleman? Randolph had never met him during the Season, nor at any of his clubs. He only knew the man’s name through overheard business conversations. Surely Constance would not be influenced by mere wealth?

Perhaps they shared charitable interests in reforming prostitutes and drinkers. His mother had met him on some charitable board and invited him because of that and his connection to Jamaica. No doubt they also shared membership of the anti-slavery societies that still existed after abolition in British territories in order to end the practice in the rest of the world.

Constance’s interests were clearly wide, and yet they did not appear to include Randolph. She treated him like a boy. In fact, he realized now she always had. Resentment and outrage boiled up inside him, not least because he suspected she might be right.

What had he ever done in his twenty years?

He was only wealthy now because his father was dead.

My father is dead . The knowledge swept over him in great waves of guilt and grief and exultation.

In the hall, he met Richards coming the other way and almost passed him without acknowledgment. Before he recalled the man had been locked up in his pantry by the police.

He halted abruptly. “Richards. They let you go, then?”

The butler inclined his head, almost his old, haughty self. “Indeed, sir.”

“Good thing,” Randolph said gruffly. “Bloody idiots. Don’t know what they were thinking of to arrest you in the first place. Where are they?”

“The policemen, sir? I believe they have returned to the inn for the night.”

Randolph nodded and carried on his way to the staircase to change for dinner. Constance was still at the forefront of his mind, though, preventing him from calling in on his mother, as he had intended. He changed quickly, admired his dramatic good looks in the glass, and twitched his necktie to make it perfect. Then he hurried down to the drawing room early, in the hope that Constance would do the same, or at least that he could corner her as soon as she arrived.

He poured himself a large brandy and sat down on the sofa, brooding. In a certain light, he could imagine Constance had been avoiding him since she got here. He had put it down to winning his parents’ approval, but other possibilities reared their ugly heads.

He was actually startled when she walked into the room in her burgundy evening gown, a necklace of jet around her throat emphasizing both its slenderness and the creaminess of her skin. If she were surprised to see him down so early, she didn’t show it. Nor did she bolt under some pretense, as he almost expected.

“Randolph,” she greeted him as he sprang to his feet. “How are you?”

“Apologetic,” he said ruefully. “Again. May I fetch you a glass of sherry?”

“Thank you.”

However, since Richards came in just then, Randolph left him to do the fetching, while he gestured for Constance to sit beside him. Unexpectedly, she did. It struck him that she did not seem surprised to see Richards back about his duties. Word spread quickly. There had been a certain air of relief among the guests after Richards’s arrest. Randolph supposed the tension would be back in full once more.

He took the glass from Richards’s tray and presented it to Constance himself before sitting down beside her. Richards bowed and departed, no doubt to inspect the dining table.

“What are you apologetic about?” she asked lightly.

“My rudeness over your letter. I offended against your privacy and your good name. I didn’t truly mean to do either. The words just came blurting out.”

“You are under a lot of strain,” she said, patting his sleeve. “Think nothing of it.”

“I am ashamed that I gave Grey cause to defend you when that honor should be mine.”

“Nonsense,” she said. Her eyes betrayed amusement that began to rile him all over again. “If my honor ever needs defending, I shall do it myself.”

“You are very independent.”

“I have had to be.”

“Being a widow,” he said, slightly ashamed of himself. “Are we friends, Constance?”

“Of course we are.” Her voice was friendly, though entirely lacking the special warmth he longed for. “Although I feel you should call me Mrs. Goldrich.”

It felt like a red rag to a bull. “Why did you come here, Mrs. Goldrich ?” he demanded. “Why did you accept my invitation to my parents’ house on such a short acquaintance? It was not because you liked me, was it?”

She met his gaze, her own as alluringly mysterious as ever. He doubted she could help that, but there was also a pride in her eyes that told him she would not answer.

“Did you use me in order to meet someone else?” he asked. “Grey? My father?”

Her lips quirked. “The latter.” She twisted the stem of her glass in her fingers, then said abruptly, “There are enough secrets in this house, so I shall tell you the truth and let you do what you will with it. I accepted your invitation because I thought you might be my brother.”

His mouth fell open. “Your brother ?” he said with horror.

“My mother was abandoned by a gentleman. I thought I might have discovered his identity.”

Randolph felt numb. “Had you?”

“I don’t know. He died before I could ask him.”

Other people came into the room then. Constance rose and moved away, and very soon he was walking into dinner with his mother on his arm, patting her hand in a soothing, inattentive kind of way.

Hurt and furious, he could not bear to look at Constance. Though it did strike him, savagely, that revenge for her abandoned mother made an excellent motive for murder. A word to the police inspector and…

He who laughed last laughed longest. He could have the perfect revenge and get rid of the police and their insolent, upsetting questions, thus killing two birds rather neatly with one stone.

*

Dinner was eaten that evening largely in silence, as though since Richards’s arrest and release they were now afraid to say anything at all about the murder or the police, and yet those things were clearly at the front of everyone’s minds.

From time to time, Solomon observed each of his fellow diners. Posture tense, faces bleak or falsely smiling, they made brief remarks about the weather or the food and ate quickly in order to get away as soon as possible.

Miriam and Ellen tried to persuade their mother to eat, but she mostly shuffled her knife and fork around her plate and left the contents. Solomon watched her, her drooping shoulders and almost blank expression. He found it interesting that no one was seriously considering the widow as a suspect, although arguably she had been hurt more than Alice Bolton by Walter’s infidelity. Exactly how hurt, how humiliated, he still could not tell. She had not shunned Alice, but then, this was probably not the first time her husband had strayed. Could she have finally had enough with this double betrayal and lashed out?

In her own way, she had been fighting back. She had decided to flirt with Solomon to make her husband jealous, which had made her feel guilty when Walter died. But her sense of guilt could be over something else. She could even be planning to punish Alice in some similar fashion, although her listlessness argued against it. She would have to be a very clever actress.

Alice was more obviously strong, physically and mentally. And then there was Miriam, devoted to her mother, who had known about her father’s infidelity and perhaps resented being pushed into her own loveless marriage. Ellen, restless and distracted, probably had the strength but not the character to plan so dispassionately as to take the knife in advance.

Had a woman really planned and carried out so violent an attack? Solomon did not look at Constance, but he had never seriously considered her as the murderer. And yet if one put a madam beside these respectable and respected women, which was the likeliest culprit in the eyes of the world?

Randolph glanced in her direction. Solomon did not quite like his expression, which looked more speculative than besotted. Was he beginning to suspect Constance was not who she claimed to be? Would they all demand her arrest? Not that Harris seemed a man to be bullied…

He realized the women were leaving, and hastily stood up. Richards placed the decanters and fresh glasses on the table. Solomon had given up hoping to learn anything in such gatherings, and indeed, no one had anything to say. The post-prandial drink was quick and perfunctory, the trip to the drawing room merely to say goodnight. No one wanted to talk to anyone else. No one trusted anyone else.

Did the Boltons trust each other? Did the Albrights? If not, it was a long time to be shut up in a room alone together…

Constance walked past him, her skirts brushing against his leg.

“Goodnight, Mrs. Goldrich,” he said civilly.

She inclined her head in return, and he knew from that brief meeting of eyes that she wanted to talk to him.

Accordingly, when his goodnights were said, he walked across to the library, openly in search of a book to read. He left the door open, assuming she would join him when she could do so discreetly. However, while he wandered around the shelves, footsteps and voices faded to quiet. Davidson glanced in, said goodnight, and moved away.

The hall lights were dimmed to almost nothing. Giving up, Solomon seized a book at random and walked out. A light shone from under the billiard room door.

Drat the woman—how was he expected to guess she would go there? He moved silently across the hall and along the short passage. Voices drifted from the billiard room, but neither of them belonged to Constance.

Suddenly much more alert, Solomon stepped nearer.

“You see my problem?”

At first, Solomon could not recognize this rather stiff voice, though at once he knew the man who replied.

“I do, Peter, I do,” Thomas Bolton said sympathetically. “You spent the money before you had it in your hand, and a vicar in debt is not a reputation you want.”

Peter Albright, then. In debt? That was something Solomon had never considered.

“The vicarage is charming, of course,” Albright said, some of the stiffness fading from his manner, “but it was not great for entertaining on any scale. Mr. Winsom saw that at once and gladly lent me the money to make improvements. We went a little too far, and he was glad to lend the rest to cover the expense, only he died before he could.”

“If the work is only just completed, then you have a little time,” Bolton said. “At least—”

“That is the problem,” Albright interrupted, all the stiffness back. “It was completed months ago, and he kept forgetting to give me the bank draught.”

“Forgetting?” Bolton said with undisguised disbelief. “Walter?”

“I cannot otherwise account for it,” Albright said coldly.

“Sadly, I can,” Bolton said. “He never intended to give you the extra money. I think you know that.”

“How dare you, sir? I am not in the habit of lying! Nor was my father-in-law.”

“And yet you have said yourself there is no record of this arrangement. I cannot act without it, and nor can Randolph. You must reapply for the extra money in the usual way.”

“Sir, I am family! Randolph would never wish his sister to be in such a position!”

“Then you should not have put her there.”

A cue bumped against the door, and Solomon quietly retreated before he was discovered. But the odd conversation gave him considerable food for thought.

He lit a candle from the lamp at the foot of the stairs and went up to his room. Apart from the billiard room, the house appeared to be silent. In order to get to his own room, he had to pass the door he knew was Constance’s. A light shone beneath it.

The temptation was too great.

He paused, looked back and forth along the passage, then scratched softly at the door. It opened at once, taking him by surprise. The sight of him clearly surprised her too, for he could have sworn even in the flickering candlelight that color suffused her face. Even fully dressed as she was, she could not afford to linger with him in this position, so he stepped forward into the room, causing her to back away.

He closed the door softly behind him, and by the time he turned to face her, she had recovered fully enough to mock him.

“Why, Solomon. You are indeed a man of many surprises.”

“No, I’m not,” he said. Her room was surprisingly neat and tidy, the bed still made, no clothes left lying about. Even her cloak and bonnet hung on a hook on the door, next to the rather delicious robe he had seen her wearing in the kitchen. He brought his attention back to her face. “You wanted to talk to me.”

“I had thought the garden when everyone was asleep.”

He blinked. “Because that turned out so well the first time?”

“Someone had to find the body. And now I’m already on thin ice. If you’re found here—”

“On thin ice how?” he interrupted.

“I had to tell Randolph why I came to Greenforth.”

“Does he know?”

“My name? I expect it won’t take him long to work it out. You might find me gone at any time.” She frowned, which somehow never marred her looks. “It is inevitable, of course, but I am loath not to finish this.”

“Whatever their outrage, I can’t see Harris letting you go until it is finished.”

“There is that.” She lifted her chin. “Will you still speak to me, Solomon Grey, once I am exposed as the notorious Constance Silver?”

“Yes. I’ll go to the garden and wait for you.”

She reached to stop him, then dropped her hand without touching him. He found himself curiously disappointed. He liked her to take his arm, pat his hand, even in jest. “You’re here now. Any fresh information, or insights to offer? What should be our next move?”

She sat down sideways at her desk, casual and graceful, leaving the nearby armchair for him.

He sat, trying not to see the bed at the corner of his vision and to concentrate on the ideas that had been spinning around his head.

“Peter Albright borrowed money from Walter to extend his vicarage. Apparently he was promised more and did not receive it. As a result, he is now in debt. From what I overheard, Walter kept putting Albright off. Either that or Albright is trying to pull the wool over Bolton’s eyes—which is what Bolton clearly thinks, because he’s refusing to do anything about it or treat him any differently to any other customer of the bank. He is a harder man than he looks.”

Constance nodded, accepting that. “And you think that is a motive for Albright to kill his father-in-law? Shouldn’t he have got the money out of him first?”

“Not if Miriam inherits a good enough sum. But there’s more to it than that. What if the bank isn’t really doing as well as everyone thinks?”

“You said you had looked into it,” she reminded him.

“I asked around. It’s not exactly the same as auditing their books.”

“Do you think they need it?”

“Think about it. Wouldn’t a proud and doting papa simply give the money to his daughter? Why make it a loan? And why not bail her out when she needs it? Then this business of the bank fraud—they didn’t charge Framley. Maybe that was in consideration of his family and his previous loyal service, but it could have been to save their books from coming under scrutiny. A bank thrives or dies according to its reputation. Then again, Ivor Davidson made them money not so long ago, and yet Walter refused to invest in his new scheme. What if he couldn’t?”

Constance rubbed her forehead, thinking about it. “If it’s true, does it change anything? Does it give anyone a stronger motive?”

“Not that I can see,” Solomon admitted. “I just can’t help thinking it’s important somehow.”

“If it’s true,” she said. “Can you find out if it is?”

“Probably. In time. Do we have time? We can’t all remain trapped in this house indefinitely. We must already know all we’re likely to find out. Any of them could have committed this murder, for any reason we know of, or one we don’t. Either we have to think our way to the correct solution—and prove it—or…”

“Or what?” Constance prompted when he trailed off.

He looked up and met her eyes. “Or set a trap that will force the culprit to reveal himself. Or herself.”

Her eyes sparkled. “Oh, I like the sound of that. What do we do?” Without warning, her face changed and she stood up, creeping rapidly across the floor in her stocking soles while she flapped her hand at him, clearly encouraging him to keep talking. She must have heard something he had not.

“That’s the problem,” he said, pulling words out of the air as he stood up. “I really have no idea. I’ll think about it.”

Her fingers closed around the door handle and yanked it open. Solomon threw himself forward to her side. But no one threatened her. No one could be seen in the passage in either direction, even when Solomon picked up his sputtering candle from the table and lifted it high. No open doors, no light, no person.

They slipped back inside, and Constance closed the door, her eyes wide as they stared into his.

“Someone was there in the passage,” she said. “I heard them. They brushed against the door.”

“I believe you. The question is, did they hear us ?”

“Perhaps we sounded so threatening, they’ll bolt and give themselves away.”

It bothered Solomon more that it might make the killer stand and fight. “Well, it can’t be much surprise to anyone in the house that we discuss the matter. We’ve been asking questions since he died. It is possibly of more concern to our eavesdropper that I was in your room.”

“It will be interesting to see if that story spreads. Who will regard me now as the scarlet woman?”

“The prospect does not appear to trouble you,” he said, searching her face.

She shrugged. “My masquerade is almost over. It is time to go back to reality.”

There was a hint of defiance in the eyes that met his, and yet she accepted it. Solomon did not.

“There are ways out, Constance. You can change your reality.”

“As you did?”

He acknowledged the attack with a small nod. “Yes, I suppose so.”

“But did it make you happy, Solomon Grey?”

For a moment, the words stuck in his throat. Memory rushed on him so fast, so vividly, he could feel the fun, the sheer joy of playing in the sunshine, the laughter, the companionship that he took for granted until it was gone. And the coldness of being alone, of being just one. That was a reality he could not change, only how he dealt with it. He had made a good, successful life, and he grasped that knowledge with both hands.

“I am not unhappy,” he said evenly.

She took hold of his arms, gave him a little shake. “That is not the same thing. And you know it. I saw it in your eyes. You know the kind of happiness I mean—a comfort, a contentedness, and moments of pure joy. I have that, Solomon.” You don’t .

The last words were not said, but he heard them anyway. And she was right, but he was not thinking of himself. He was thinking of her, and this new pain was unfamiliar.

“The men make you happy?” he said, trying to understand.

She smiled. “Not the men, Solomon. The women. Friendship. Fun. Creating happiness for others.”

He believed her. There was a vitality, a warmth in her that could not be faked. It fascinated him, perhaps because somewhere he envied it. He tugged his lips into a one-sided smile. “And you’re still not talking about the men, are you?”

“There, you do understand.”

“Only in part,” he said honestly.

Her hands slid down his arms until they found his fingers. “You are my first male friend.”

Startled, he gazed into her face. Her eyes were warm, serious, completely free of teasing, of mockery. He found himself absurdly touched by her declaration. Proud. He curled his fingers around hers and held them.

“Perhaps you are my first friend.” Why had he admitted that? Why did he even feel it?

Her long eyelashes, alluringly darker than her hair, swept down. He would have thought she was hiding except that she suddenly lifted his hand to her cheek. So soft and smooth and warm. Like all of her.

Then she released both his hands, and he was sorry. With an effort, he forced his mind back to practical matters, in particular to their eavesdropper.

“Take care, Constance,” he said urgently. “Go nowhere alone, or even with just one companion. And let’s think of a trap for our murderer before he comes up with one for us.”