Chapter Seventeen

T he ugly temper in Davidson’s eyes flared brighter. Constance held herself very still, pretending she barely noticed the cool, hard wood against her windpipe—not pressing or hurting, just touching firmly enough to show her how vulnerable she was to his strength.

She met his gaze without flinching, hoped he could not feel the hammering of her pulse. To her unspeakable relief, the anger began to die back.

The cue left her skin. Davidson turned it and stepped away. “You are quite right. I’m sure I’m already the chief suspect. As if I don’t have enough to worry about. You smell delightful, by the way. Are you wealthy, Mrs. Goldrich?”

“Wealthy enough that I need never marry a fortune hunter, though I appreciate your honesty. And your desperation.” She barely knew what she was saying. The cue was still in his hand, and he still stood too close for comfort. “What are you worrying about? Apart from the murder.”

He gave a lopsided smile, but before he could speak, the door burst open and Solomon stood there. Relief flooded her, turning her knees to jelly as the fear had not.

Davidson swung around to face him, and Constance slipped out of his reach, strolling around the billiard table on her trembling legs.

“Care for a game, Mr. Grey? I believe I am almost beaten.” Amazingly, her voice was very nearly steady.

And Solomon understood. She saw it in the flicker of his hard eyes. He didn’t move as Davidson walked steadily toward him.

“Take my place, Grey. I find I don’t care much for billiards anymore.”

Constance forced her legs to move faster, to prevent the inevitable confrontation. The eyes of the two men locked.

“Oh, Mr. Grey!” a female voice hailed him from the foot of the stairs.

Mrs. Winsom.

Grey did not move, let alone turn.

“Your pardon, sir,” Davidson drawled. “Mrs. Winsom wants you, and I want past.”

To Constance’s relief, Solomon stood aside and Davidson sauntered past. She heard him greet Mrs. Winsom on his way.

The lady appeared just outside the door in dark outdoor clothes, black crepe on her bonnet. “Mr. Grey, might I have your escort? I find myself eager to walk now the rain has gone off.”

Indeed, a beam of watery sunshine had brightened the room. Solomon greeted his hostess with a bow, though his frowning gaze quickly returned to Constance.

She did not want him to see her weakness. She did not want to be weak. “I shall leave you to it,” she said lightly. “Enjoy your walk.”

His brow twitched. For a moment he seemed about to dig in his heels, however much it offended his hostess, the recent widow, and that warmed her heart, though she needed him to go.

She willed him to see it. Go with her. You might learn something important . They would need to very soon, for she had this sick feeling in the pit of her stomach that the tension at Greenforth was about to snap into fresh catastrophe.

He turned away from her and politely offered his arm to Mrs. Winsom.

Constance waited, listening to their footsteps recede across the hall and the murmur of their polite voices. But only when the front door had closed behind them did she draw in a shuddering breath and leave the billiard room.

Despite what her head knew, she did not feel safe. She longed for the stout, loyal footmen of her own establishment, whose very presence protected her and her girls. Had she become too dependent on them? Too fearful?

No, she was just a realist who had faced much worse than one angry, selfish man with a billiard cue. And yet she was undeniably shaken. She looked about the empty hall as she crossed to the stairs, felt the hair on the back of her neck prickle as she climbed. She was ridiculously glad to see the chambermaids in the passage as she made her way to her own room, where she closed and locked the door behind her.

Only then did she sink into the armchair and wait for the trembling to stop. It had been too long since anyone had threatened her. She had grown too soft.

But she had survived. Even before Solomon had come—why had he come?—she was back in control. Still, he would have stayed with her had she shown the slightest need, the slightest desire for his company. And that was sweet.

*

“I have not left the house for days,” Mrs. Winsom said as they walked through the gardens toward the woods. “I began to feel trapped there.”

Solomon nodded. “A little fresh air and exercise are necessary to all of us.” Although he could have done without it at this moment. He was more worried about Constance. She had smiled and looked as self-assured and unconcerned as always, and yet he knew she was not. More, he knew Davidson was the cause.

“Mr. Davidson has almost beaten me.” She meant he had not touched her, but he had come close. He had threatened, and that, Solomon would never forgive. But she was his first concern. He did not want to be with the grieving widow right now, though he pitied her. He had to make the effort to concentrate on her, for apart from anything else, she could well hold the key to this whole mystery.

“I had almost forgotten it is summer,” Mrs. Winsom said. She sounded bewildered. “It feels as if months have passed instead of a mere couple of days. Or perhaps as if time has stopped in one terrible moment.”

Solomon nodded. “It will be hard to adjust. But you are not alone. You have your children.”

“I am blessed,” she said, with a slight crack in her voice. “Shall we walk through the woods?”

“If you wish, though the ground will be wet.”

After recent events, the wet clearly did not even register with her. She walked in silence for a while. Solomon assumed he was there merely for companionship, perhaps for the familiarity of a male escort.

“He was having an affair, you know,” she said abruptly. “My husband. With my friend.”

“It must be very painful.”

“She was not the first. I doubt she would have been the last. Nor am I the last wife who will suffer in such a way.” She swallowed. “It’s odd how much I miss him.”

“He was a very likeable man.”

She nodded. “Too likeable. He assumed he would always be forgiven. Like a beloved, overindulged child.”

He looked down at her, aware that no one had ever seriously considered her as a suspect for more than a moment. “Do you forgive him?”

She looked away, her smile faint and rueful. “Not for dying.”

“Someone else is to blame for that,” he said gently. “All of us, particularly you, need to know who that was.”

“You are right, of course. But somehow it seems less important than the fact he is dead.”

She was burying her head in the sand, and she knew it.

“You will live more easily, and keep yourself and your family safer, when you know.”

She did not answer or look at him, and with a sudden jolt he wondered if she did know. Or merely thought she did.

He must tread carefully here. One hint of interrogation and he would lose her.

“You know everyone at Greenforth better than anyone else,” he said carefully. “You could help Inspector Harris to find the truth, to end this awful uncertainty for you and your family.”

Unless it was one of her family. Who else would she cover for?

She nodded slowly. “I will think,” she promised. “Seriously.” She walked on, taking a narrower, less-trodden path into a thicker part of the wood. There was no cornflower or meadowsweet here to distract her. She just seemed to be going as far away from the house as possible. He felt a stab of sympathy for that.

“The police inspector wants me to say it is Alice,” she confided. “But I know it is not. She is as grieved as I.” A mirthless smile dawned and vanished. “In her own way. It must be a stranger, and yet one he has annoyed.” She glanced up suddenly, catching his eye. “It must be either Mr. Davidson, because Walter refused to invest with him, or Mrs. Goldrich. I still don’t know why she is here, but it is clearly not for Randolph. I think she came for Walter.”

“Then why would she stay?” Solomon was only half listening. As before in these woods, he had picked up the sounds of another presence, unseen but close enough to be alarming.

“I suppose she could have fled before the police arrived,” Mrs. Winsom allowed. “But surely the police would have suspected her more and found her anyway?”

Not if they hadn’t known her real name. Would Solomon have told them? “How well do you know Ivor Davidson?” he asked instead. “Did you know he is in financial difficulties?”

“No. But then, I would not normally hear such things.”

Solomon, his skin prickling all over with unease, turned her back the way they had come. “I think we should return to the house. This is far enough for your first outing in days.”

She accepted his dictate, clearly used to obeying the superior wisdom of men. Though after only one step, she halted, frowning. “Do you hear that?”

He did indeed hear the rustling in the undergrowth, and it was drawing nearer. Then he heard something else, an animal’s growl, and instinctively stepped in front of Mrs. Winsom, putting himself between her and whatever animal this was. Yet surely it could only be a dog…

“Keep walking,” he said quietly. “Don’t run.”

But she seemed rooted to the spot, resisting his urging, staring into the undergrowth. A huge bull mastiff loped out, its tread purposeful, its lips curled back in a snarl that showed his slavering fangs. Randolph’s pet, Monster.

“Oh, no, he’s got out!” Mrs. Winsom wailed in fright. She flapped her arms wildly at the dog. “Go home, Monster!” she all but squealed.

The animal tossed its head, not slowing in the slightest. Then it leaned back to spring, and Mrs. Winsom gave a squeal of terror. “He goes for the throat!” she shrieked, her voice still high with fear. “Stay still! Don’t move a muscle! I’ll fetch Randolph—he’s the only one who can handle Monster!”

Before he could stop her, she snatched her hand from his arm and dashed along the path. The dog immediately swerved toward her, so Solomon, almost resigned to his fate, lunged into the beast’s path. Distracted again, it halted and stared at him from its muddy, malevolent eyes.

How long would it take Deborah Winsom to return to the house and bring Randolph back with her? Too long. It was up to Solomon to save himself. Or not.

“What are you doing out here?” he asked it conversationally. “Are you not supposed to be eating your head off in your kennel? Or did you bring Randolph with you?”

The dog cocked one ear. Its lip uncurled.

“Ah, you recognize your master’s name. That’s good.” I think . “What’s the matter? Are you hungry?” He’d never met a dog that wasn’t, but this one, by all accounts, including the gamekeeper’s, was seriously disturbed.

Solomon moved very slowly, lifting his hand to his pocket. The dog took a step nearer, growling deep in its throat. Just a warning. It wasn’t a snarl. So Solomon took the chance, curling his fingers around the horse treats in his pocket. He brought his hand out very slowly, hoping the food smell would appease Monster. Though how well slightly fluffy pieces of carrot and lumps of sugar went down with dogs, he had no idea.

Monster was still looking him in the eye.

“Sit,” Solomon said, firm but friendly, and with very low expectations he hoped the dog could not read.

Monster did not obey. But he dropped his eyes to Solomon’s open hand.

“Monster, sit,” he said more severely.

To his astonishment, the dog sat back on its huge haunches. Solomon threw it a piece of carrot, which the dog caught in its massive jaws with a lightning-quick snap that was still somehow terrifying, even though his tail actually twitched.

Monster barked, and Solomon threw another piece of carrot. It seemed they would be fine until the vegetables ran out.

*

Deborah Winsom was panting as she almost fell in the front door of Greenforth House. She had not run—she couldn’t—but she had walked very fast, as though all the fiends of hell were after her. At any moment, she expected to hear the screaming as Monster attacked. Perhaps the dog would get bored and leave him alone…

“Randolph!” she cried as soon as she was over the threshold. James the footman gaped at her. “Where is my son?” she demanded.

“In the library, ma’am, with Mr. Bolton.”

“Fetch him!” she commanded, collapsing, wheezing onto the ornate but uncomfortable chair that was kept in the hall for visitors one didn’t want even in the reception room.

James started across the hall immediately, but the commotion of her arrival must have already alerted most of the household, who had begun to gather for luncheon. Miriam and Ellen rushed out of the morning room. Peter leaned over the banister. Constance Goldrich seemed to be flying down the stairs. Randolph stuck his head out of the library door.

“Mama? What the…” Seeing her all but collapsed, he strode toward her, Thomas following more sedately, a concerned frown upon his face.

With a massive effort, Deborah heaved herself to her feet and staggered to meet her son. “Randolph, Monster is loose! He has poor Mr. Grey cornered in the woods! Near the cave where you used to play as a boy. You have to stop him before he kills someone! Shoot him or lock him up or—just go , Randolph! You’re the only one who can do this!”

White-faced, Randolph stumbled past her toward the door.

“Wait,” Thomas said urgently. “You’d better take a gun. I’ll fetch the key to the gun room.”

“How did he get out?” Miriam demanded as Randolph brushed past her in Thomas’s wake. “You should have shot him when he attacked the kennelman.”

“Easy to be wise after the event,” Deborah said. She was recovering her breath now, though she still trembled with fear. “It’s not so easy to kill a creature who loves you. Oh, hurry, Randolph!”

Ellen, the dear child, put her arm around her mother. Randolph, his set face determined, hiding his fear of what he would find and what he would have to do, marched past, armed with his shotgun. However this ended, it was going to be so awful for him. Deborah could not bear it.

“Don’t worry, Deborah,” Thomas said in passing. “I’ll go with him, and we’ll deal with it. All will be well.”

When he touched her shoulder in a comforting sort of way, she wanted to shake him off. Instead, she stumbled after them out the front door. Ellen hung on to her as if afraid her mother would try to go with them.

Which seemed to be what Mrs. Goldrich was doing. With neither bonnet nor cloak, her face white to the lips, her eyes dark with some turbulent emotion, she stormed past Deborah. The others emerged from the house too, all talking and whispering at once so that she wanted to cover her ears.

And then came a bark, so deep and powerful that it could only belong to one animal. Deborah froze. So did everyone around her.

Monster loped around from the side of the house, with Solomon Grey at his side. Tall and elegant as ever, there was a casual rakishness about him that she couldn’t quite fathom until she saw that he wore no necktie. That indispensable item of a gentlemen’s attire was looped through the dog’s collar as a short, makeshift leash that he held in one alarmingly strong hand.

Deborah’s legs gave way. She would have fallen if her daughters had not been holding her up. A collective gasp sounded from all the watchers.

After an instant of stunned paralysis, Randolph started forward. So did Monster, who had been walking quite sedately at Grey’s side. Everyone else fell back toward the house.

“I brought your dog back,” Grey said mildly.

It was, in its way, rather magnificent.

*

When the commotion arose, Constance had been in her bedchamber, writing down every fact and every suspect she knew of, and connecting them up with lines. By the time she heard Mrs. Winsom crash into the house, calling for Randolph, she had paper spread all over the floor. But at the panic in the widow’s voice, she sprang up and ran from the room, bolting for the stairs.

Even now, her terrible vision of Solomon being dragged to the ground by the snarling mastiff, its teeth tearing at his beautiful golden throat, faded slowly. It took a moment to adjust to the unlikely reality of Solomon strolling so carelessly beside the beast, connected by his necktie.

“I brought your dog back.”

Solomon and Monster might have been the best of friends, although Monster clearly reserved that honor for Randolph. With another earth-shaking bark, he jumped, placing his huge paws on his master’s shoulders to lick his face.

Solomon released the end of the necktie and looked at Constance. She wanted to slap him for scaring her so horribly, for the unwelcome glimpse into the depths of her own emotions, her own loneliness. She wanted to fling her arms around him and hold him and never let him go, to sing and laugh, just because he was safe.

She did none of these things. She dragged her gaze free and watched Randolph lead the docile Monster on toward the kennels. Everyone else was laughing with nervous relief, especially Mrs. Winsom, who appeared to be on the edge of hysteria as they went back into the house for luncheon.

Constance seemed unable to move.

“What happened to you?” Solomon said quietly.

She blinked and turned at last to stare back at him. “To me ? You’re the one who was having his throat ripped out by that ravening beast! Why didn’t it happen?”

“Carrots,” Solomon said.

The terrifying experience must have turned his mind. “Carrots,” she repeated.

“I keep them in my pockets, for my horses. Turns out Monster likes them too. Or, at least, he likes catching them. I don’t think anyone plays with him, and Randolph doesn’t pay him enough attention.”

She regarded him with fascination. “You are saying the dog tears people’s throats because he is lonely and misunderstood?”

“And scared,” he added.

“Solomon, you… I… Damn you, Solomon!” Striding the few paces between them, she grasped him by the upper arms as she had done last night, squeezing hard, just for an instant before she pushed herself away.

“Constance.” He caught her hand, drawing her back to face him. “What did Davidson do?”

Davidson. It seemed a lifetime ago. “Displayed his temper. He is a very worried man, wound tight as a drum and ready to take offense at anything and anyone. We are all fair game.”

“Including Winsom?”

They discussed the theory of Davidson’s taking the knife in a fit of rage one night, calming down, and then using it during a subsequent fit. “It suits his character,” she finished. “Sort of.”

“Just sort of ?”

She frowned, trying to put her instincts into words he would understand. “I think he’s a bit like Monster. Volatile, worried, living on his nerves, taking offense, and lashing out first. But he can be quelled.”

“Meaning a man of Winsom’s strong character could have quelled him if he tried?”

“I would imagine so. If he got the chance. I doubt he did, because he was stabbed in the back. I don’t think Davidson would have done that. Violence flares in him, he needs to frighten, to see you’re frightened, but he doesn’t… hurt .”

He held her gaze. “You looked hurt to me.”

Heat surged into her face. She didn’t know why. A strange kind of shame, perhaps. “He didn’t hurt me. He took me by surprise. I have grown…unused to that kind of threat.”

His eyes searched hers, a frown tugging his brows. Disgust, perhaps. “The worst thing is that you were ever used to it. I’m sorry.”

Surprise held her speechless. He gave her no time to recover, merely placed her hand on his arm, pulling her toward the house.

“The dog,” she said, managing to drag her thoughts back to Solomon’s escape from harm. “How did he get out?” Her stomach twisted as her original suspicions flooded back. “Do you think it could have been deliberate? Because the killer was listening last night and was afraid of our traps?”

“I don’t know yet. We should talk after luncheon. We need to finish this, Constance.”

On that, she was in complete agreement.