Chapter Five

I vor Davidson was shaken. Probably for the first time in his life, he found it difficult to think straight, to concentrate.

He had never expected the London police to be involved, and he had heard enough rumors of their privacy invasions to realize that he would soon be cast in a very poor light, if not clapped up and hanged. There was more involved here than just convincing a gentleman magistrate that he was a fellow gentleman and watching him deliver some poor ne’er-do-well to the Assizes for trial and hanging.

Everyone’s life would be turned inside out, and the state of Davidson’s once-promising business revealed. He could not bear the sight of Ellen’s tragic face—which perhaps was fortunate, since she seemed to avoiding his.

On the other hand, she must be an heiress, bound to inherit a good part of Winsom’s hoard…

But there was a time and place for everything, and this was not it.

Escaping the unbearable atmosphere of the house, Ivor let himself out of the garden room door with a sense of relief and was quickly buoyed up further by the sight of the delectable Constance Goldrich gliding toward him.

She had clearly been in the company of Solomon Grey, who walked on toward the stables with his loose, confident stride. Now there was a man Ivor should most definitely cultivate, only at the moment he did not feel remotely clear enough in his head. To lose himself in a little light flirtation—or even blind lust—seemed a much better short-term plan. And widows missed the physical comfort of their husbands…

“Mrs. Goldrich.” He bowed. “Have I timed my walk badly? You look as if you are returning from your own exercise.”

“Yes, but I am happy to keep you company,” she said with unexpected friendliness.

So he had hope. “I must apologize for my words last night,” he said as she turned and they set off together along the garden path. “I did not really mean to disparage Randolph to you. I was merely trying to make you a compliment, and it came out a little wrong.” He smiled winningly. “That is, very wrong.”

“Well, it’s not a technique I would advise in courting Ellen,” Mrs. Goldrich said wryly. “She seems rather fond of her brother.”

“When they aren’t teasing the life out of each other. Then you forgive me?”

“There is nothing to forgive on my part, Mr. Davidson. I am, after all, guilty of wondering much the same thing about you.”

“About me?” He didn’t know whether to be flattered she thought of him, or worried.

“Ellen is sixteen years old, a mere schoolgirl, however lively and pretty. You are a mature and successful man of the world. I cannot imagine you lack female admiration.”

“She is bored. Practicing flirtation in a safe environment.”

“I imagine you are very happy to help. After all, none of your other flirts have the felicity of being Walter Winsom’s daughter.”

He raised his eyebrows. “My, but you are sharp, Mrs. Goldrich. But then, I suppose none of the other gentlemen at your feet are Winsom’s son and heir.”

“Touché, Mr. Davidson. Touché. But are you not already in business with Winsom and Bolton?”

“They lent me money for a successful venture last year. Successful for them, too, I might add. I am offering them partnership in a new project… Or I was. I was very glad to be invited this week to discuss the matter.”

“I see. I suppose that must all be up in the air now, with this tragedy.”

“Yes. It is.”

She was watching his face with sudden intensity. He liked that. There was something exciting about her, something that went way beyond mere physical beauty. When she smiled…

“You do not seem cast down,” she observed.

He shrugged. “About business, why should I be? Thomas Bolton will be amenable, too.”

“And Ellen?”

He did not want to think about Ellen. “She is a child, as you say. Frankly, so is Randolph. I would rather talk to you, look at you. What do you say, ma’am? Should we not look for a little delight in each other?”

To his pleasure, she was neither outraged nor dismissive. Instead, she appeared to consider.

“We could look,” she allowed. “But would we find it? Considering the circumstances.”

“We could try.”

“I never try in such matters, Mr. Davidson. It takes all the fun out of them. Will you be able to tell the policemen where you were around midnight last night?”

“I shall have no problem telling them. They may have a problem believing, though frankly, where else would they expect me to be but alone in bed? Like you, I imagine.”

“You have no valet to vouch for you?”

“I don’t keep a valet, and if I did, there is little room for guests’ servants at Greenforth.” He smiled down at her. “I might wish I had stayed up late playing billiards with Randolph, or even enticed that pretty maid to my room, but sadly, I did not, since I can only think of you.”

“You are a poor liar. The police are not idiots, you know.”

He regarded her with open amusement. “What do you know of the police, Mrs. Goldrich? Don’t decent people avoid them like the plague?”

“Most, perhaps,” said the surprising widow. “I happened to be present one evening—along with several other, er…decent people—when the police captured a thief and a murderer. Unlike many, I believe London is safer for their presence.”

“Then you will be able to prove where you were around midnight last night?”

“I will,” she said tranquilly.

*

It was only after they had agreed that she should be the one to talk to Davidson that Solomon realized he too was using her charms to entrap a man. No wonder there had been a gleam of wry laughter in her eyes as she inclined her head.

“By the same token, you will appeal more than I to the ladies. See who you can seduce into telling the truth.”

He didn’t know whether to be amused or ashamed, so elected for neither, merely tracked Miriam Albright to the stables. When he glanced back, Constance was strolling in the sunshine beside Ivor Davidson.

Was he putting her in danger asking for her help? If Davidson had murdered Winsom…

Equally, Constance could have murdered him. She was strong enough and brave enough. He reserved judgment on whether or not she was wicked enough. The trouble was, she did not seem wicked in the slightest, which was a dangerous conclusion to reach about someone in her profession.

No, he was far from immune. But even allowing for that, her distress seemed touchingly genuine when she considered how the murder had been committed, and how close they might have come to saving him. She felt the tragedy.

At the stables, he waved the grooms away, assuring them he was only visiting his own horses. Inside the stable, he found Miriam Albright, her arms around the neck of a plump chestnut mare, her face buried in its neck as it nuzzled her like a foal.

It was an oddly touching moment, and for an instant he contemplated creeping back out again and coming in more noisily. Before he could, however, Miriam jerked around and saw him. The mare lifted her head and huffed.

“Your favorite horse?” Solomon asked lightly.

“Yes. She was my first adult riding horse, and now she is my sister’s.”

“She still loves you too.”

“They do love, you know. Papa used to laugh at me for believing so.”

“I expect he was teasing,” Solomon said diplomatically. He approached the mare and idly stroked her nose. “I’m sorry you have all this mess to put up with. It is bad enough mourning a parent without having police prying into everything.”

“Do you think they will?” she asked na?vely. “My father was not nobody, you know.”

“I do know. So do the police, which is precisely why they are bound to fully investigate what happened and why.”

Miriam shook her head, closing her eyes as if that could prevent her from seeing the inevitable images scored across her mind. “Who would do such a thing? I cannot believe anyone in this house is responsible. It must be an intruder.”

“Perhaps the police will find it is so,” Solomon said. He didn’t believe it, but it seemed kinder, and the girl looked so lost, her safe world turned upside down. She could only have been nineteen years old. “Did your father have enemies beyond these walls?”

“Enemies?” she said, startled. “I was thinking more of a disturbed burglar, a madman…”

Since Winsom had been stabbed in the back, he had clearly not disturbed whoever killed him. Unless he was running for help…? No, that made no more sense than the madman theory.

“We must help the police consider all possibilities,” Solomon murmured. “Your father was a successful man. It is difficult to achieve what he did without making some enemies—however inadvertent. I speak from experience here.”

She regarded him, frowning, her eyes unexpectedly direct. Slowly, she nodded. “Then I must take your word for it. I do remember a man swore at him in the street once—it must have been a year or so ago—because Papa had dismissed him from the bank. But to commit murder…”

“It would need to be a powerful grudge,” Solomon agreed. “That is why I ask about known enemies.”

“Mr. Bolton would know more about such things. He would not discuss them with us.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Bolton must be a great comfort to your family,” Solomon said. “You will have known them a long time.”

“All my life. Or, at least, all I can remember of it. They are family friends as well as Mr. Bolton being Papa’s partner in the bank.”

“I wonder which came first?” Solomon said. “Were they friends before they formed the bank?”

“Yes, since they were at school. Papa made a sizeable sum on imports and on the stock exchange. Mr. Bolton is a genius with figures and accounting. According to Papa, he had the money and the imagination, Mr. Bolton the necessary financial skill, which was how they came to found the bank.”

“It has an excellent reputation. I’m sure your brother will continue the fine tradition.”

For an instant, Miriam looked doubtful, then she smiled. “He will.”

“I don’t suppose,” Solomon said apologetically, “that there were any quarrels with neighbors? Tenants? Anything like that?”

She shook her head immediately. “Not while I lived here, and I never heard of anything after I married. I’m sure Mama would have told me.”

Solomon nodded. He had thought she would say that, though he would still ask around. “I am only a new friend,” he said, “but if I can help in any way, know that I will.”

“Thank you,” she said huskily.

Solomon inclined his head, beginning to move on toward his horses, who, hearing his voice, were whinnying at the far end of the stable. By way of a parting shot, he said, “Your father must have been very proud to see you settled so happily with such a fine man as Mr. Albright.”

It took her by surprise. She blinked several times. “Yes. It was what he wanted for me.” She tried to smile, a trembling effort that steadied under his gaze.

He merely smiled back and moved on, but he had already seen more than she had intended, more than he had.

Constance was right. Miriam did not love her husband, but she was strong enough to live with the choice. Just for a moment, her determination had wobbled, as if she were acknowledging that her father had only had a year to enjoy her appropriate marriage. Miriam had a lifetime. And if she had waited a year, she probably would not have married him at all.

How angry did that make her under the surface of her gentle demeanor?

*

Just before luncheon, Constance found the Reverend Peter Albright in the library. She had cause to dislike clergyman as a species, so she had to remind herself that her experience was not everyone’s. On top of which, when she had first come across Walter Winsom’s name in connection with her mother’s, she had set about discovering all she could about his family. No one had a bad word to say about Miriam Winsom’s husband.

The scion of an old, landowning family, he was well educated and ambitious. If a few people found him “holier than thou,” and a one-time fellow student described him as “a dull stick,” he was generally regarded as a good man who practiced what he preached. His parishioners liked him, praised his charitable efforts and his way with a sermon. An amiable if slightly debauched bishop of Constance’s acquaintance told her Albright was earmarked to replace him in the diocese in a few years. Albright had certainly never frequented Constance’s establishment, although she knew he visited the capital frequently, and no other madams or girls she had spoken to knew anything about him.

It was all in his favor. She might even have liked him had he not regarded her with quite so much suspicion in his eyes. And even that she could forgive, in theory, since he was, presumably, only looking out for his young brother-in-law.

He sat now at one of the smaller desks in the library, busily writing. A Bible was open beside him, and another book shoved to the edge of the table. He glanced up at her entrance, and his brow twitched before he set the pen in its stand and rose politely to his feet.

“Mr. Albright,” she greeted him with feigned relief. He was a man who appreciated modesty in women, so she made no effort to gain his admiration. It was probably a lost cause in any case. “You must be in a great deal of demand in such terrible circumstances. I hope you don’t mind my interrupting you?”

“Not in the least,” he said. “Is there some way I might assist you?”

“To be honest, I was hoping there was some way I might be of assistance to the bereaved family. I thought you would know best what needed to be done, any small service that a stranger might perform? Would any of the family be comforted by company, or should anyone be left in peace for now?”

“That is very thoughtful of you, Mrs. Goldrich.” He could not quite hide his surprise. “Everyone is still somewhat numb from the shock, but I shall pass your kind offer on to my wife and my mother-in-law. As for company… Only my mother-in-law seeks the privacy of her own rooms at the moment.”

Constance allowed her nose to wrinkle with distaste. “It will be so difficult once the police arrive from London with all their intrusive questions. I was thinking—particularly of Mrs. Winsom and her daughters—if we could present the police with the clear facts, there would be fewer questions for them to disturb the family with.” She felt like crossing her fingers as she said this, for she had no idea if it was true and rather suspected not. “I would be happy to collate what information we have?”

Albright blinked, wary but open to suggestion. She suspected this was how he conducted most of his life. “Such as?” he asked at last.

Constance sat on the chair by the next desk to his, and he sank back on to his own.

“Such as,” she said delicately, “who can be confirmed as in bed around the time the murder occurred, and if anyone saw or heard anyone else still up and about. For example, I imagine you and your wife would be able to confirm each other’s whereabouts very easily.”

“Of course,” he said stiffly. “We were in bed, as, I imagine, was everyone else.”

“Not everyone else,” she pointed out. “Not Mr. Winsom, for one. Was it his habit to take a walk so late?”

“Not to my knowledge, but I have known him to walk after dinner.”

“Did you hear him go out?” she asked. Seeing Albright’s nostrils flare, she added quickly, “If we knew when he went out, it might help keep the innocent out of the investigation.”

He mulled that one over. “Perhaps,” he said at last. “But no, I did not hear him go out. Nor anyone else.”

She assumed a puzzled, helpless expression. “What time did you retire, sir? I believe we all left the drawing room and went upstairs around eleven of the clock?”

“I believe we did.”

“Did you go straight to bed, or were you in a position to see anyone else moving elsewhere? The servants to lock doors or clear up downstairs? Someone looking for a book or a game of billiards, or a drink, perhaps?”

“I did not notice,” he said after a few moments. “But I can see those are sensible questions we can easily answer among ourselves.” He rose suddenly. “Shall we join the others for luncheon?”