Chapter Eighteen

I n contrast to the long, tense silences of breakfast, luncheon was almost hysterically lively. Bizarrely, no one asked how Monster had escaped, as though he had simply barged out or eaten his way through the bars of his kennel. For Constance, now that she knew Solomon was neither dead nor injured, that was the whole point.

He was asked to tell his story, which he did as humorously as possible, and Mrs. Winsom, more animated than she had been since the murder, told of her terror and her mad dash to get Randolph to recue Solomon from his pet.

Someone had let Monster out. Constance had every intention of examining his kennel, though she imagined Randolph had already made certain it was secure.

Randolph. From what she had heard, only Randolph had the courage to open the kennel door, and why would he? Why would anyone? Just in the vague hope of causing mischief? Or had it really been an attack against Solomon? Or against Mrs. Winsom?

She thought about who had been in the hall when Mrs. Winsom had been shouting for her son.

Where had Davidson been? Where had Alice Bolton been? And did it matter? The dog must have been released long before that. Only, who was brave enough to open the kennel door?

Both the chief suspects seemed on edge. Davidson, who cast her several covert glances, might have been waiting for her to denounce his unacceptable behavior. Certainly, he didn’t seem terribly interested in the tale of Monster and Grey, though he kept a pleasant smile on his face. Alice seemed distracted, merely pronouncing herself glad no harm had been done and that all was well in the end.

“I do trust you’ll lock him up more securely, Randolph,” she said. “He is not really a safe dog, is he?”

Randolph scowled at his plate full of chicken in an excellent wine sauce but agreed that Monster was a little unpredictable.

As soon as she decently could, Constance excused herself and walked around to the kennels. Monster was lying down in his own vast kennel. He opened one sleepy eye as Constance approached but didn’t otherwise stir. He also ignored the calls of the hunting dogs who were running and playing around their own separate paddock in the sunshine.

Keeping a sensible distance, Constance eyed the apparently undamaged kennel door, which was bolted. The far end of the kennel was open to the paddock beyond, so she walked around the fence, looking for holes or even recent repairs. The repairs she did find looked weathered and old.

As she returned to the front of the kennel, Randolph was approaching along the path.

“He’s exhausted, poor old fellow,” he said, when the dog thumped his tail but didn’t otherwise move.

“How did he get out, Randolph?” Constance asked.

He sighed. “No idea.” He cast her a glance. “A lot of weird things have been happening at Greenforth since I came home.”

That was an understatement. But she was distracted from asking him what precisely he meant by Solomon’s strolling along the path to join them.

Randolph’s expression changed. It wasn’t unfriendly. “Mr. Grey, come to visit your newest friend?”

“I thought I might look in on him.”

Monster swished his tail against the straw again.

“I owe you an apology,” Randolph said awkwardly. “You and my mother both, though it was you who was left to face down the beast. I know he’s scary, but you seem to have handled him just right.”

“Oh, I think he probably handled me. Certainly he had me playing ‘catch’ with him.”

Randolph grinned, and Constance remembered why she had liked him in the first place, why she had hoped he was family. She’d set about finding out all wrong, of course. She had lied from the beginning, because it had seemed the only way, but she saw now that even if he were her brother, her deceit was unforgivable. It hurt, but she had only herself to blame.

“I should have warned everyone,” Randolph said, his smile fading. “I just didn’t want to upset my mother. I never even thought of her walking in the woods, for she never does so, even at the best of times. I assumed he would come back when he was hungry, and so asked Hudson the gamekeeper to keep an eye out and bolt him in as soon as he was home.”

Constance’s eyes widened. “When? When did he get out?”

Randolph shifted from one foot to the other. “Yesterday evening, I think. I went to feed him before our dinner, as I usually do, and he was gone. I thought Hudson, who helps me look after him, must have left the door unbolted by accident. He said I must have.”

She remembered seeing him yesterday coming from the direction of the kennels. She had been with Solomon and deliberately avoided him. And when they met later, he had been on edge. He must have been worried about the dog, and then she flummoxed him further with their possible relationship.

Guilt twinged. “So he was out in the woods all night?”

Randolph nodded miserably. “That’s what bothers me. Why didn’t he come home? He likes me—he trusts me.”

Solomon stirred. “Has he done this before?”

“He bolts sometimes. Usually takes his chance when the kennel door is open to feed him or something. He nearly always heads into the woods. I often take him there myself because he likes all the scents. But when he gets out on his own, he always comes back for his dinner. Even the time he leapt at the kennelman and trampled him to escape, he came back.”

“Do you think someone frightened him?” Solomon asked.

“I think it’s more likely he did the frightening.”

“Who else feeds him?” Constance asked. “Apart from you and your gamekeeper?”

“No one,” Randolph said in surprise. “Even the kennelman gives him a wide berth now, and I honestly can’t blame him for that.”

“So no one else goes into his kennel or his paddock?” Solomon asked.

“Only when I take him for a walk, if the kennel needs cleaned.”

Solomon turned back to the dog, clearly exhausted after his night’s adventure. He didn’t look very fierce. “I don’t suppose anyone’s not scared of him?”

“Not apart from you.”

“Oh, I was scared too,” Solomon said. “We didn’t become friends until I was resigned to being eaten.”

“He smells fear, and that frightens him so that he attacks. Stupid, great beast.” Randolph frowned. “He’d be better if I could take him into the house, where he’d get used to people and see they’re no threat, but my parents would never let me.”

Solomon regarded him in silence until the younger man flushed with sudden understanding. “It’s my house now, isn’t it? I can take him inside if I wish. Only I don’t wish to frighten my mother.”

“Of course you don’t,” Solomon agreed.

Still, Randolph looked thoughtful as he ambled away toward the house.

“I don’t think ,” Constance said, “that that is the reaction of a man who killed his father for freedom and financial gain. And I believe he was genuinely worried about the dog—to say nothing of his mother and you. I definitely don’t think he let it out.”

“I believe we’re narrowing our list. But are we right to include the dog’s escape in our thinking? It’s hardly a sure means of attack. Whether aimed at me or at Mrs. Winsom, it was always likely to fail.”

“A sign of our murderer’s desperation?” Constance suggested. “After overhearing us last night?”

“Possibly. Though it could be someone trying to protect the murderer.”

“By committing murder themselves?” she said doubtfully.

“A murder made to look like an accident. The entire household and no doubt several neighbors could swear to the dog’s viciousness.”

She frowned. “It bothers me.”

“It bothers me,” Solomon said with an odd fervency that refocused her attention.

“You know something!”

He shook his head. “Only that you were in last night’s conversation too. We both need to be careful.”

The intensity of his gaze unnerved her, even while she basked in his concern. She resorted to mockery. “Why, Solomon, you do care.”

“Is that so hard to believe?”

“No, I am everyone’s favorite.”

He caught her arm as she swung back toward the house. “I am serious, Constance,” he said urgently. “No more billiard games with just one, no tête-a-têtes or solitary walks.”

“I do understand, Solomon. I am not an imbecile.”

He let her go at once. “I beg your pardon.”

“If we are to be so careful of ourselves, how do we bait this trap we were discussing?”

“By being prepared,” he said, surprising her yet again. “And by pretending more knowledge than we have.”

A wave of excitement swept over her. “You have a plan,” she breathed.

*

Solomon had not been strictly honest with Constance. Though he did not know with any certainty who had murdered Walter Winsom, a new theory that seemed to fit everything was bouncing around his mind, looking for proof or refutation.

It all stemmed from one of the chaotic thoughts swirling around his brain as he made tentative friends with Monster. Had Deborah Winsom brought him here deliberately and then abandoned him to his fate? He remembered her flapping her arms in the dog as though shooing him away, and yet she knew movement excited him.

The suspicion didn’t really hold up to much scrutiny, especially now he knew the dog had escaped last night. There was no way she could have known the dog would still be free, let alone that he would come to that precise place at that precise time. Unless she had a partner who had brought the dog to the vicinity.

Although he had absolutely no proof of that, it did get him thinking along different lines.

What if there were not one murderer but two? Ready to provide each other with information and alibis in order to make the crime easier to commit and to divert investigation?

The most obvious pairings were married couples, already dependent on each other. Which meant the Boltons or the Albrights. And yet neither marriage was close and loving. Would Alice really ally with her husband to kill her lover? The other way around would have made more sense. And would Miriam really kill her father, whatever he had done? Somehow, he couldn’t really imagine the vicar committing so heinous a crime either.

No, the theory was foolish, which was why he didn’t mention it to Constance. He refused to analyze his reluctance to look foolish in her eyes. He rather liked her current friendship and the way she trusted him.

Since everyone had dispersed and the house was quiet, he accepted her invitation to look at her lists and connections.

Paper was spread all over her bedchamber floor, some of it closely written, with inked arrows pointing to other pieces of paper that she had numbered, presumably to keep track of when she picked it all off the floor.

He crouched down, examining it with her, while she sat on the other side, her legs drawn up beneath her billowing skirts. How on earth did she control them?

Concentrate, Sol, concentrate .

She pointed at one piece of paper with the word BANK in large letters. “What do you make of the books? Anything?”

“They seem deliberately impenetrable, which tells me something in itself. But banks are secretive by nature and necessity, so it may mean nothing. Still, I’ll work on them some more this afternoon. And Harris and Flynn have gone to speak to the bank staff and the solicitors, so they may well find out more. At least whether or not the bank is in trouble.”

“What difference would that actually make?” she mused. “Removing Winsom will not aid its recovery, although I suppose it limits the number of people who share the profits. In which case, Bolton and Randolph are the main beneficiaries.”

And Randolph would have known Bolton all his life. Were they the allies he was looking for? If the bank was failing, would it even matter how many people it needed to keep?

He read every piece of paper again, followed every arrow. She was thorough, remembered every detail, even quoted a few things people had said that seemed significant.

“This is helpful,” he said at last. “Clarifies… Though everyone here is connected somehow to everyone else as well as to the victim. And if we discount married alibis, anyone could have committed the murder. And let Monster out.”

“Meaning we are no further forward,” she said, sighing.

“No, we are. I can’t help feeling we have all the information we need to solve this, and I think we know everyone involved much better than we did.” He passed his hand over the paper diagram. “The answer is here, somewhere.”

“So let us bait our trap,” she said. “And see who falls in.”

*

She didn’t like his plan, of course, largely because it kept her out of the thick of things. Although she did eventually see the need of another witness, and possibly of rousing the household if necessary to save his life.

“Not that I am anticipating difficulty, you understand. But one never knows.”

He left her after that, to go and pore over the bank ledgers once more. A thankless task, he thought gloomily after an hour. The trouble was, one needed all the books, not just these two, to follow the complete trail of particular amounts.

He hoped the police could obtain access to them—and preferably to someone who understood them better than he.

And then he saw it. One single discrepancy from one book to the next, based on a hard-to-read figure that could have been a 1 or a 7, transcribed downward after the first of the far too many column entries. Which made no sense if the bank was covering up the fact that it was failing. And he could see no sign of that. Certainly the profits were down in the last couple of years, judging by the figures in the final books, but they were not yet in trouble. They were just being careful.

On the other hand, if six thousand pounds were unaccounted for… And these were not the day-to-day accounts, but the monthly figures… If such mistakes had been scattered throughout the weeks, then the fraud could be massive.

His heart was thudding. Framley, who had been with the bank for years, had been the only employee who had access to these books. Walter had discovered the fraud and blamed him.

What if he had then discovered the same fraud continued after Framley’s dismissal? And now the only person who had access to those books, apart from him, was Thomas Bolton.

“Got you,” he whispered, throwing himself back in his chair.

Only he hadn’t, not yet. One mistake did not mean massive fraud. But it was a significant one, and any replication would surely prove it.

Bolton, the cold, insignificant man with the beautiful wife, constantly overshadowed by his larger-than-life partner, even in the eyes of said beautiful wife. Had he stolen to give her things? Status and more wealth? Or just because he could, because he reveled in deceiving his arrogant friend?

And Alice had covered for him. In the end, perhaps because Walter had ended their affair, she had sided with her husband. He knew the house and grounds better than any other guest. He could easily have let Monster out last night, perhaps knowing only that the dog would stalk threats in the woods and crossing his fingers.

Because he had overheard Constance and him talking of trapping the murderer? That conversation had happened after the dog had been freed, though Bolton might have somehow frightened it into bolting again after it came home as usual. That would explain its odd behavior in staying out all night and the next day. Monster really was more fearful and less terrifying than everyone thought. Bolton, the frequent visitor, could have known that…

Of course, so could other people. It was no proof of Bolton’s guilt. He had not been worried by the police looking over his books. He thought they were impenetrable, and he was mostly right. But if Solomon was right—and this, finally, felt right—then Bolton had the best motive of anyone to murder Winsom.

He sprang to his feet, closed the ledgers, and shoved them into the desk drawer. He locked it with the keys Harris had given him, then blinked in surprise at his watch. It was almost dinnertime and he was desperate to talk to Constance, not because he thought they should change their plan, just because he wanted to share with her.

He locked the study door behind him again, then had a quick look in the library, the drawing room, and the garden room. Finding them all empty, he ran upstairs, taking two at a time. But as he raced along the passage to her bedroom, the Albrights emerged from theirs, and he had to greet them pleasantly and keep on walking to his own.

He changed quickly into evening garb, then stared at himself in the mirror, striving to lose the gleam of triumph in his eyes. To bait the trap effectively, he would need to strike just the right balance. Gloating would not help. He needed to look knowledgeable and just a little na?ve, conscious of his own power, but not overstating it. Nor did he want to look too gullible, or assume that his audience was.

Constance would help there, of course. If she kept to the script they agreed. He realized that he was not sure she would. She went her own way, did Constance Silver, confident in her own judgment and courage.

His reflection smiled, not the faint amusement or cursory amiability of his social smiles, but one that took him by surprise. He realized he was excited by this chase, filled with anticipation and determination. How long since he had felt this way? Years. Since he had expanded his shipping empire and found success to be easy.

Right now, he was no longer bored.

Beyond that, he would not think. He had enough on his mind.

He twitched his necktie to perfection, as Constance had once done for him, and flexed his fingers. Then he strode confidently down to dinner to bait his trap.

*

Constance, uneasy about her own meager part in Solomon’s plan, followed her own instincts that afternoon by sending for Owen the boot boy. She waited for him in the hall, just beyond the baize door. The other servants must have been teasing him that he was in trouble for poorly polished shoes, for he emerged very warily, an inch of him at a time.

“It’s only me, Owen,” Constance said. “I need your help.”

As she had intended, the lad was flattered, squaring his shoulders and marching rather than slithering the rest of the way over to her.

“And you need to keep it secret,” she added. She kept her voice very quiet, made sure they were not overheard from behind any door or staircase.

Owen’s eyes gleamed as he nodded.

“Can you stay awake into the night? Or, better, wake yourself up at a certain time?”

“Depends,” he said dubiously. “ What time?”

“Midnight?”

“I can listen for the clock chiming. You can hear it in the kitchen. I don’t usually notice now, except when I need to get up, but I can tell myself to listen for the twelve chimes. I can count to twelve.”

“Good for you. You won’t be punished if you don’t wake up, but it would be a big help to Mr. Grey and me if you could come up at midnight and wait for me here, or at the library, which is behind that large door. Mr. Grey will be in there. You might need to wait a long time, but don’t let anyone except us see you.”

“Course not. What d’you want me to do?”

“Be an extra set of eyes. You might be the only one who can help us.”

“Really?” he said in the disbelieving tone of one who knew when his leg was being pulled.

“I’m serious. I think you see more than you know, even when you’re asleep in your cozy corner. Don’t you half wake sometimes when the other servants are still up and talking? Or when someone sneaks into the kitchen for a midnight snack?”

“I dream it sometimes. I’m not afraid,” he assured her quickly, “’cause I like to hear the others. I know I’m not alone.”

Her heart went out to the boy, though she knew he wouldn’t thank her for the sympathy. The other servants were probably the only family he’d ever known, the only people who’d ever been kind to him.

“But you remember those dreams,” she guessed. “And I’ll bet Mr. Randolph is one who sneaks into the kitchen in the middle of the night.”

Owen grinned. “Middle of the day, too. I know him.”

“Then I expect it’s not really a dream when you see him at night, helping himself from Cook’s larder.”

“Well, it’s a bit hazy-like. Misty. So I don’t know. In any case, he don’t do it so much now.”

“Who does?”

“Don’t know. I don’t see the family, except the mistress, or the guests much, so I don’t know ’em.”

Her pulse quickened. “Then you have seen—or dreamed—someone else in the kitchen, someone who’s not Mr. Randolph, taking food, perhaps?”

“Don’t know. I think it’s just a dream.”

“Would you know them again? This person from your dream?”

“Maybe.”

She gave him a little nudge with her elbow because he was looking worried. “It doesn’t matter if you can’t. Anyway, do your best to meet me here again at midnight and wait, will you?”

“Course I will,” Owen said. “Can I go now? Cook wants me to wash them pots…”

“Until later, then,” she said conspiratorially, and he grinned as he swaggered back off to the kitchen.

Constance, feeling one step closer to success, returned to her room to change for dinner.

She went downstairs early, in the hope of a last-minute discussion with Solomon. But she found the Albrights already in the drawing room, and, in fact, Solomon was the last to enter, just before dinner was announced.

He looked so splendid that her breath vanished. It felt almost like the first time she had seen him, when he saved her life. Only this time, he had everyone’s attention. The hum of somewhat strained conversation dropped suddenly as he drew all eyes.

That was when she realized it was deliberate. He could blend in or dazzle as he chose. And tonight, he meant to make his presence felt. Judging by his reception, he had begun well. She could almost see everyone watching him with fresh appreciation. He was not the kind of man who needed a billiard cue to inspire awe. He was every subtle inch a powerful man.

“Forgive me,” he said, bowing to Mrs. Winsom. “I appear to be late.”

“Not at all,” said the widow, slightly flustered as she went forward and took his arm. “In any case, after your heroism of this morning, we are all inclined to be lenient.” She seemed oddly energized after her earlier adventure, perhaps because she regarded Solomon as having saved her life. She certainly seemed inclined to cling to him, which was annoying when Constance wanted a private word.

“Policemen are not gentlemen, are they?” Ellen said to Constance, who turned to her in some surprise.

“I expect they are commanded by gentlemen,” she replied cautiously. “Why?”

“Oh, I was just wondering about ours. They don’t seem common to me.”

“Nor to me,” Constance said. If the policemen were “common,” what would they call her? Criminal?

But it was a curious subject for discussion, and Ellen’s color had heightened. “They are different, though.”

“Does that bother you?” Constance asked. “Do you mind them being in the house so much?”

Ellen shook her head. “Actually, no. I thought I would mind, but I don’t. I think he—they—are good men.”

Over Ellen’s shoulder, Constance met Solomon’s gaze for the briefest instant. He wanted to speak to her, too. But Richards announced dinner, and Mrs. Winsom, still on Solomon’s arm, led the way to the dining room. Constance sat between Randolph and Thomas Bolton, so there was no opportunity to speak during dinner either. She would just have to comply with their agreement, follow his lead, and observe.

Strict table formality had fallen by the wayside since Winsom’s murder, so conversation tended to be general.

Ivor Davidson said, “Where have our gallant police detectives gone today? Dare we hope they are leaving us in peace?”

“I doubt it,” Bolton said with distaste. “They were at the bank today, poking around and asking questions. Or so Blackford, our manager, informed me.”

“Couldn’t they just have asked you whatever they wanted to know?” Mrs. Winsom said.

“They would not believe anything I said. I am a suspect, after all. We all are.”

“Don’t,” his wife said shortly. “The situation is distressing enough.”

Solomon lifted his napkin to his mouth and let it fall. Constance knew it would be now. Of the servants, only Richards remained in the room, and the subject had been raised perfectly.

Solomon said, “At least it should be quickly over now. I believe they are closing in on the culprit.”

Everyone stared at him. He certainly had their attention, and they all looked anxious.

“What makes you say that?” Randolph asked uneasily.

“I’ve been talking to them, and their line of reason and evidence is very similar to my own. If I know who killed Mr. Winsom, so do they.”

Constance played her part, speaking into the uneasy silence with a deliberate trace of mockery. “Yes, but do you know, Mr. Grey? Or are you just speculating, as I’m sure we all do privately?”

Solomon gazed from her to Davidson and onward around the table. Constance looked too, observing the stunned and uneasy faces, until she came to Solomon’s own. There was no doubt that he dominated the room.

“I have proof, of course. The only question I have in my mind is what I should do with it.” He fixed his gaze on Mrs. Winsom. “We all know this was a vile and heinous crime. Whatever the circumstances, murder cannot be tolerated. And yet the punishment of the perpetrator affects everyone concerned, almost as much as the original crime. The scandal may be great. Perhaps you, as the victim’s widow, should decide what must be done in order to keep your family safe.”

“I?” Deborah squeaked. “What am I against the power of the law? Which I am not against, in any case!”

“Of course you are not. Nor am I.”

“You owe it to us to tell us what you know,” Davidson said, shoving his plate aside.

“That isn’t necessarily the case,” Solomon argued. “I know who committed this wicked act, but I don’t know why. I’m not sure the why matters, although the law prefers it, so perhaps we should too. So here is what I propose…”

Here it comes, Constance thought uneasily. Will they believe in his arrogance? Allow him to take control in this way? Davidson and Bolton were frowning. Alice looked unexpectedly dazed. Randolph seemed impatient, as he often was. Mrs. Winsom was clearly frightened. But only Ellen looked angry.

“I shall keep the name of the culprit to myself for tonight, giving him—or her—the chance to explain to me why they did this thing. Once I have this last fact, I shall lay the whole before Mrs. Winsom. Or before the police, whichever she prefers.”

“You cannot lay such a burden on my mother!” Miriam burst out. “Has she not suffered enough?”

“Too much,” Solomon said gently. “Which is why she needs to choose the best way to spare herself and her children yet more. Obviously, if Mrs. Winsom refuses to hear, then I shall go straight to the inspector. I know I should in any case.”

“Do you expect us to confess over the dinner table?” Ellen demanded fiercely.

“Of course not. Immediately after dinner, I shall retire to the library and remain there all night. If the murderer comes to me and explains, then I will have a complete picture to present to Mrs. Winsom.”

“To all of us,” Miriam said tensely. “We should all decide. Except the person who killed my father.”

“Perhaps. Either way, we will have to agree to abide by whatever decision is made.”

“But you said the police have solved it, too,” Constance argued.

“ Suspect , not yet solved. I have the proof.”

“Which you would really destroy if my mother asked it of you?” Randolph said in a voice of disbelief, overlaid with contempt.

“Sometimes justice needs to be flexible.”

“Not in this country!” Albright said angrily. “The law is absolute and with reason. There is no justification for murder!”

A look of weariness crossed Solomon’s face. “When you have knocked about the world as much as I have, you learn there are circumstances which might justify almost anything. My proposal is not to create anarchy but to protect friends.”

“One law for this household and another for the rest of the country?” Ellen exclaimed.

“If that is what it takes,” Solomon said steadily. He glanced around the table. “Look, you don’t need to agree with me. If you don’t, speak to the inspector, who, I’m sure, will be here first thing in the morning. But I shall be in the library all night.”

“Aren’t you afraid?” Constance taunted him. “To invite a murderer there in the dead of night? A man—or woman—who has killed before and who has nothing to lose? I’m sure they would rather murder you too than depend on the mercy of Mrs. Winsom.”

“No,” Solomon said, with a blind, na?ve sort of arrogance that almost had her convinced, and she knew what he was about. “I have come to know you all during these last few difficult days, and I know that one of us is eaten with remorse and shame, even if they don’t yet know it. They will not hurt me, for if they do, they have lost their last chance of redemption. The rest of you will not remain silent, and the police will know to arrest their suspect. Then the matter is out of all our hands.”

“I for one will have nothing to do with this,” Bolton announced.

“Nor will I,” said Peter.

“You don’t need to decide now,” Solomon said. “You might change your mind overnight. Either way, I shall be in the library. No one has anything to lose by this proposal.”

“Except you,” Mrs. Winsom said hoarsely. “Mrs. Goldrich is right about the danger.”

Solomon smiled. “I can look after myself. But I won’t have to.”

It was supreme arrogance. Constance saw the contempt and the pity in the faces around the table. No one betrayed fear or determination. But then, she already knew their murderer was skilled in hiding.

In the early days, she had once had to winkle a thief out of her establishment. It had been one of the girls who was loudest in her praise of Constance. Constance had caught her by guile. She tried to tell herself that this was no more serious, but her stomach was clenching.

“Good luck, my friend,” Davidson murmured.

He will need it.