Chapter Sixteen

T he Reverend Peter Albright woke with a sense of wellbeing he had not experienced for a long time. It took him only an instant to remember why. For the first time ever, Miriam had initiated their physical love last night, and clung to him with a tenderness and a need she had never shown him before.

They had always been friends, of course, a partnership, but it had taken him several weeks after their marriage to realize she did not love him, longer yet to recognize that it hurt him. How ironic that it was her father’s death that had finally brought them closer and given him hope of something more.

He turned his head on the pillow and found her eyes already open and on him with a slightly embarrassed affection. It seemed a shame to risk that, but he could no longer put it off.

“I borrowed money from your father to pay for the building work.”

“I know.”

He blinked. “You do? Did he tell you?”

“Of course not. But I manage the household, Peter. I know what you earn and where it all goes.”

“It seemed a good idea at the time.”

“It was a good idea. I am very happy with the changes, and it made entertaining the bishop and his family much easier.”

“It cost too much,” he confessed. “I rather assumed your father would cover that too, but he didn’t. I’m sure he thought I should stand on my own feet, and he was right.”

She gazed at him expectantly.

He swallowed. “I am in debt, Miriam. I cannot pay the tradesmen who are in greater need than I. I asked Mr. Bolton to cover it, as your father had once implied he would. He told me to apply through the bank.”

Miriam’s eyebrows flew up. “I call that shabby.”

He smiled ruefully. “I call it disastrous.”

“Of course it is not,” she said in surprise. “We can pay it now with my dowry.”

He sat abruptly. “That is for you, for our children…”

“Peter. There is no me and you in this. Only us . So we will pay our debts, and when my inheritance is released we can pay back the dowry money.”

Peter closed his gaping mouth. She was so matter-of-fact, stating the simplest solution. Weeks of worry—months, even—slid off his shoulders.

Miriam was frowning. “I’m surprised at my father, though.”

“I thought he was angry with me.”

“Why would he be angry with you?” she asked, clearly surprised.

“I thought he knew, that you had told him…you were not happy with me.” It was difficult to say, but he met her gaze as he did so.

A hint of color, perhaps shame, tinged her cheeks. “I am not unhappy. Perhaps I needed time to adjust, to work out why I was…angry.”

“And have you?” he asked gently. “Have you worked it out?”

She nodded slowly. “I was angry with him. With Papa, for deciding who and what would make me happy. Because he wasn’t even concerned with that. He wanted a gentleman in the family to counter his own fall into trade. You are a nobleman’s grandson in a respectable profession. And I am an obedient daughter.”

His hurt must have shown in his face, for she cast herself into his arms. “I let it sour me. I thought it wouldn’t matter if I was just a good wife to you. Actually, I like being your wife. It was my father I could not forgive for his utter selfishness, not just to me but to my mother and Mrs. Bolton, and all the previous women.” Her fingers dug hard into his shoulders. “I am glad he is dead,” she whispered, chilling his blood with terrible suspicion. “I shall go to hell, but not yet. Not yet.”

*

He called me his friend . Constance rose with the pleasure of that thought in her mind. If felt like an achievement, even though the realist in her knew that they were barely acquainted, and that his feeling was inspired largely by their cooperation on the mystery of this murder.

More importantly, her awareness of his loneliness had been intensified since last night into something very like a mission. There was danger in that, for her. She was not used to physical attraction, and she hadn’t expected it to deepen as she grew to like him, with his subtle humor and his unexpected insights.

But she did like him, and she could not bear him not to know happiness, even those odd moments of reasonless joy that could come so unexpectedly, whether from laughter at a shared joke, some moment of beauty, or a friend’s well-earned success. It was almost as if he had cut himself off from such feelings, because he was so alone. He had no one to share with. He had lost more than a brother. He had lost a part of himself and found nothing—or allowed nothing—to grow in its place.

Except his work. He had turned himself from a struggling plantation owner into a shipping magnate, a wealthy importer with such a wide variety of business interests that even the abject failure of one could not touch his overall success. She knew this from Lord James Andover, who had once suspected Solomon of stealing his own diamonds and setting James up to take the blame. It hadn’t been true. Everyone said he was an honest man, if a hard one to cross or to get the better of. Solomon Grey was one of the benevolent rich who gave their time and money to worthy causes.

But he brushed off questions about his work. She suspected it no longer interested him, but he had nothing else to replace it in his life. No wife or family, no great cause he valued above all others. No true friends, only acquaintances with whom to enjoy the fruits of his success.

Except me. I will be your friend. I will make you happy again if it’s the last thing I do .

A grand ambition, she mocked herself, and doomed to failure if she didn’t accomplish it in the next few days. After this murder was solved, she was very unlikely to see him again. She was a friend of the moment, not of his life.

But she would not let that sadden her. She had to stop thinking about him and think of the killer and how to trap him. Or her.

Having washed and dressed, she sallied forth to breakfast.

On impulse, she detoured to the study to see if the policemen were there. They were, poring over two large ledgers and looking baffled.

Surely these must be the bank’s ledgers? In which case, they would reveal whether or not Solomon was right in his belief that the bank was struggling.

“Good morning,” she said brightly. “Can I help?”

They both straightened and frowned at her. “Good morning,” Inspector Harris said, “and unless you understand bookkeeping, I’m afraid not.”

“Of course I understand bookkeeping,” Constance said. “I keep accounts for my household and my business.”

Flynn blushed, bless him. Harris frowned at her, then, after a quick exchange of glances with the sergeant, waved his hand at them. “Please do. We can’t make head nor tail of it.”

Constance tried not to preen as she took the sergeant’s chair. It was as well she didn’t crow, for it did not take her long to realize this was beyond her.

“Are these from the bank?” she asked. “They are rather more complicated than a small business or household. I know someone who could do it for you, but she’s in London.”

“She?” Harris uttered in disbelief.

“Oh, you’d be surprised by some of the skills my girls have acquired.” She spoke with her usual humor, which she rather expected to go over the policemen’s heads, but fortunately, Solomon Grey strolled in and acknowledged the sally with a crooked smile.

“Don’t be deceived, inspector. Some of the young women who leave her establishment emerge as cooks, secretaries, shop assistants, maids, and housekeepers. An accountant would not surprise me. However, if you will allow me a glance…”

Constance rose, and was about to leave them to it when a thought struck her. “Does Mr. Bolton know you have these?”

“Yes,” Flynn said at once. “If I hadn’t told him, the manager at the bank certainly would. He was very reluctant to let me take anything at all. Mr. Bolton never batted an eyelid. He seemed quite happy for us to look.”

Not the behavior of a guilty man. But perhaps that of a man who had other things on his mind—like the guilt of his wife? Did he really not know about her affair with his partner? Would he even care? Most men regarded women, particularly wives, as their possessions…

As she wandered along the hall toward the breakfast parlor, she thought that Solomon, who had after all been born into a society that kept slaves, did not appear to think that way. As far as she knew. But how interesting that he was aware of her girls going into other work… Had he asked Elizabeth? Or come across one of them in his own employment? Was that why he was so surprised she did not abandon her profession herself?

And why did every line of speculation come back to Solomon? Her mind should be on the mystery and finding the murderer. She needed to get back to her own life soon. Even though she still didn’t know if the Winsoms were her family. Even if she wanted them to be. She did not care for what she knew of Walter, however warm and charming he had been. His children were a different matter. They seemed to need looking after, somehow. That was Constance’s forte.

Her other forte, of course, was that she understood people. She had seen the good and bad in most. Moreover, the livelihoods and the very lives of herself and her employees depended very largely on her judgment. These people were not so very different from the men who spilled through her establishment doors every night, or the women they came for.

She had been too diffident, too wary in her judgments at Greenforth. Because somewhere she wanted to be one of them. Because she knew she wasn’t. She had imagined she didn’t understand them, but she did. They had the same weaknesses, the same emotions and ambitions as anyone else. It was she who had hampered herself from looking, from relying on all the instincts and experience that had kept her alive and made her rich.

The tension in the breakfast parlor was palpable. The longer the uncertainty dragged on, with its inevitable suspicions and fears and doubts, the more powerful the strain on nerves, relationships, even sanity. Was the murderer just hoping it would all die down with no culprit ever found? After all, it was Richards who had sought to blame Alice Bolton, not whoever had actually done the killing.

It was possible Richards would still be charged with the crime, but Constance didn’t believe he’d done it. The first pain and rage at his brother’s death hadn’t made him start killing Winsoms and Boltons. Instead, he had begun a much subtler revenge. He was no killer.

Harris’s best guest was Alice Bolton, who stood beside her now at the sideboard, helping herself to kedgeree. Constance didn’t believe that either. But then, she had some sympathy for a strong, passionate woman tied to a weak, cold man whose entire focus was his work.

“The scrambled egg is cold,” Alice told her with distaste as she was about to take some. “If you want it, ring for more.”

“I’ll just have toast,” Constance said. “I’m not really hungry.”

The table was unusually crowded this morning, with everyone present at once, except for Solomon and Mrs. Winsom. Perhaps no one had slept well. Strain and tiredness showed in everyone’s face—except Peter Albright, who looked even more tranquil than normal, despite what Solomon had overheard last night. Perhaps, in the end, he had talked Bolton into a favorable loan. Or perhaps Randolph had helped.

With her revived confidence in her own instincts, Constance chose to take the vacant chair next to Ivor Davidson. Had it been him skulking outside her door last night, listening? Certainly, his eyes were veiled as he wished her a pleasant good morning. And there might have been significance in his amiable question, “Did you sleep well?”

“As well as could be expected in these difficult circumstances,” she replied. Across the table, Randolph was watching her. It could so easily have been him at her door, as he had been the night of the murder. Only he knew now her suspicions about their relationship… She turned back to Davidson. “Did you?”

“Like a baby,” he said lightly.

He was lying. There were deep shadows under his eyes. The man was exhausted. And scared.

“Excellent,” she said, “then you will be ready for that long-threatened game of billiards this morning.”

“Is that quite appropriate?” Alice said, sounding genuinely shocked.

“I doubt my father would object to his guests playing billiards,” Miriam said with unexpected shortness.

“I was thinking more of your mother,” Alice said.

Miriam stared at her. “Were you?”

It was the first sign of hostility to Alice that Constance had seen from any of the family. Ellen dropped her fork in surprise. Thomas Bolton stared studiously into his teacup.

“I was,” Alice managed. Her face had paled, her lips stiff as she spoke. “But you are right to point out that this is not my house or my concern. I beg your pardon.” She rose and left the room.

Randolph frowned at his sister. “Was that necessary? Do we have to be at each other’s throats?”

Miriam met his gaze. “You decide, Randolph. You are head of the family.”

Everyone else finished breakfast in an uncomfortable silence. Constance, considering everyone with new dispassion, found it interesting that Mr. Albright did not censure his wife by as much as a look. In fact, when she was finished, he held her chair for her to rise, and left with her.

Constance left shortly afterward and found Davidson at her heels.

“Now?” he suggested.

She glanced at the rain drizzling down the front hall window. “Why not?”

“Do you play often, Mrs. Goldrich?”

“When I have the opportunity.”

He bowed her into the billiard room. “I imagine there are not so many of those for a widow.”

“Do you find it sad that I play against myself?” she asked.

“At least you will always win.”

She laughed, and he smiled as he took two cues from the stand and offered her one. She took it, then rummaged among the others, choosing another that she swapped for the one Davidson had given her. He watched the process with tolerant amusement.

“You have a suspicious nature, Mrs. Goldrich.”

“I have a careful nature and have grown used to making independent decisions.”

“So who made the decision about you and Randolph?” he asked. The table was already set up, so he gestured toward it to signify she should begin.

“What decision was that?” She chalked the tip of her cue.

“Well, he no longer lives in your pocket. Does he imagine he can do better now he is the head of Winsom and Bolton? Or have you jilted the poor fellow for Grey’s riches?”

She eyed him thoughtfully. “I can’t make up my mind whether you are deliberately offensive for theatrical affect, or whether you really don’t have any manners.”

His smile only broadened. “And what—er…independent conclusion have you come to?”

“I’m still debating the issue. I don’t believe you are an idiot, so I rather incline toward theatrical effect. Though of course you may be so in love with your own cleverness that you believe you can make such remarks without anyone understanding the offense. You can carry the act of ‘blunt new man’ too far.”

“It’s not an act. I am a blunt new man.”

“And you feel that, as such,” she said, bending over the table and smoothly hitting the white ball with her cue, “you are free of the obligations of a gentleman?”

“I see no reason to flatter just because someone calls herself a lady.”

“Why, Mr. Davidson, you have taken me in such dislike, I am surprised you wish to play with me.”

“I don’t dislike you in the slightest.” He took his shot. Constance barely looked at it. “In fact, you intrigue me greatly. What do you believe makes a gentleman? The mere luck of his birth?”

“Of course not. It is a matter of behavior. Take our murderer, for example.”

Davidson, about to take his next shot, mishit the ball and scowled at Constance.

She smiled seraphically and stepped forward to the table.

“You think murder is only committed by those not regarded as gentlemen?” he mocked.

“Oh, no, I am not so na?ve. By its very act, murder is hardly gentlemanly conduct. And yet there is a belief that a gentleman kills face to face—like a soldier, or a duelist. Mr. Winsom was killed by a stab in the back.”

“Therefore, not by a gentleman?” Davidson said in disbelief.

She glanced back at him from the table, and her stomach gave a sickening jolt, for his expression had turned ugly.

“Are you and Grey trying to push the blame for this murder onto me? Because I am a self-made man and not a gentleman born?”

He lunged at her so quickly she would have been pinned to the table had she not whisked herself aside, almost falling back against the wall. He followed her, swinging up his cue as though to strike her.

It was a long time since she had been in such a situation, since she had allowed such a situation. But old instinct refused to let her show fear. She gazed into his eyes, her brows slightly raised, even as the cue descended toward her face. At the last moment, he shifted the angle and held it horizontal across her throat.

“I could kill you now,” he sneered. “Face to face. Would that make me a gentleman?”

Somehow, she held on to his gaze and her own sense of worth. “It would certainly make you the prime suspect in two murders.”

*

It didn’t take Solomon long to understand the difficulty with the books. Bolton’s system merely borrowed from the usual, and it had been so heavily modified that it was almost impossible to follow the money from one column to the next, one book to the next. Eventually, by following one particular amount, he began to see daylight.

Still, the system was unnecessarily complicated. Why?

He had focused on another figure, to try to prove his theory, when a footman knocked at the door. Habit made him call, “Enter,” before he recalled that this was not his own office. Fortunately, neither of the policemen were present.

A footman entered carrying two letters on a silver tray. “For you, sir.”

“Thank you,” Grey said, taking the letters. Dragging his brain away from the numbers, he said, “How did you know I was here?”

“You were not at breakfast, sir. Miss Ellen told me I would find you here.”

Miss Ellen did not miss much. Solomon nodded dismissal to the footman and laid the letters on the desk. He turned back to the ledger, then paused and looked again at the letters. Picking up the first, from his warehouse manager at St. Catherine’s Dock, he saw that the one beneath was from his traveling secretary, whom he had asked to look into the business of Mr. Ivor Davidson of Norwich.

Opening it first, he swiftly read the contents until he came to the line, He has overextended and is in dire need of investment. If he doesn’t get it within the next month, maybe two, he is going under. With such rumors, no one will touch him.

In which case, no wonder Davidson was so eager for Winsom’s partnership, and furious when he didn’t get it. Making a play for Ellen had been a desperate alternative… A desperate man committed desperate deeds. A desperate, angry, worried man. Had he taken the knife from the kitchen in a moment of fury? Then perhaps calmed himself, and then—perhaps even on his way to returning the knife—he could have spied Winsom in the garden with Alice Bolton. Would he not then have become enraged all over again by the self-righteous nature of Winsom’s refusal?

Though it was hardly proof of murder, Solomon could almost see these scenes playing behind his eyes and they brought a chill to his bones. Davidson hurtled to the top of Solomon’s list of suspects. Or perhaps joint top.

But Constance, who had always suspected Davidson, did not have this information. He didn’t put it past her to chase the man down, ask him questions that were too bold. If he was volatile enough to turn on his host…

Solomon was already out of his chair and striding for the door, stuffing his scrunched-up letter into his pocket as he went. In the hallway, he encountered the stately Richards, looking a trifle haggard yet as haughty as ever.

“Do you know where Mrs. Goldrich is?” he asked. Don’t be out walking alone with Davidson… He had warned her not to, even knowing she obeyed no one and trusted too much in her own ability to control any scene.

“I believe she is in the billiard room.” A gleam of malice shone in Richards’s eyes. “With Mr. Davidson.”