Chapter Seven

I n the library with Randolph, going through Winsom’s business papers, Thomas Bolton missed his partner. Which was odd, because he had resented Walter for much of his life, even while he admired him. But at least Walter would concentrate on the matter in hand. Randolph showed little interest and less understanding.

“Do you actually want the burden of the bank, Randolph?” Bolton asked, abandoning the pile of papers in front of him.

Randolph refocused on his face. “Of course I do. It’s mine.” He rubbed at his forehead with one hand. “I’m sorry. I find it difficult to concentrate. I keep thinking of my father.”

“So do I,” Bolton said, more gently. “Perhaps we should have given ourselves more time before we begin on this. It is just that I want everything to be in order so that there is no interruption to what you and your mother receive. And to be honest, I thought it would help to be busy. For both of us.”

“I railed against the bank a bit,” Randolph confessed. “I thought it dull and was desperate to pursue my own path.” He grimaced. “But of course I never found one.”

“You are young,” Bolton replied.

Randolph gave a slightly crooked smile, so reminiscent of his father that it caught at Bolton’s breath. “But no longer privileged enough to despise the business that feeds me, my mother, and my sister. I am the head of the family now.”

“And of the bank,” Bolton said lightly. “But to be honest, your father never got to grips with the day-to-day running of it. He trusted me to see to that while he concentrated on our most important clients and investors. That was his forte, and it could well be yours.”

Randolph had the sense to look doubtful. “I hardly have my father’s gravitas! Or his knowledge, let alone yours. How on earth would such wealthy men trust me , let alone rely on me?”

“They wouldn’t, of course, not quite yet. They must grow used to you. It will be hard work to reach the position your father occupied. You have to be sure it is what you want.”

“I want to do the right thing,” Randolph said determinedly. He gave a quick smile. “I just hadn’t envisaged doing it just yet. But needs must.”

“Don’t feel overwhelmed,” Bolton said kindly. “I will help you. Everyone at the bank will.” It was not the time to add that Randolph could simply step aside to pursue his own interests, leaving Bolton to guide the bank in the direction it needed to go. Walter had been far too high-handed, taking them down much-too-risky paths, and Bolton didn’t miss that side of his partner at all.

Randolph regarded the piles of papers and ledgers spread out on the desk and looked overwhelmed.

“Perhaps a glass of brandy would help,” Bolton said. “Your father found it aided his concentration from time to time!”

That wasn’t quite true, but the poor boy had lost his father, and in such a way.

As he poured, Bolton felt excitement surge within him. Being in sole charge of the bank was exhilarating, releasing a thousand new and wonderful opportunities. And yet the grief took him by surprise by rising just as fast. He would have no one to share his successes with. No one who understood. Only those who saw the results in terms of new gowns and servants and houses—like Alice, whom he could not afford to think about right now. Or Walter’s son, who gazed at him in such bewilderment, who really wanted money and position without working for it.

Bolton handed one glass to Randolph and raised his own. Tears prickled. “To your father,” he said huskily.

*

“How did she know?” Constance asked, when Grey had told her about his somewhat surprising encounter with Deborah Winsom, including the interesting fact that Walter had been banished from the marital bed to the dressing room.

They were once more alone in the morning room, both dressed for dinner. Constance wore burgundy silk, since it was the darkest evening gown she had brought with her. While she paced back and forth across the floor, Grey sat in the window seat, apparently fascinated by the rain on the glass. He could not have seen much through it.

It struck Constance that he was avoiding looking at her because he could not bear to be in alliance with such a distasteful person. That would have hurt, if she had let it. Instead, she concentrated on admiring his lean, handsome profile whenever it was within her line of vision. She enjoyed his stillness, even if she wondered intensely what went on behind that closed, private face of his.

But at her last question, a puzzled frown tugged at his brow. He even glanced away from the window. “How did she know what?”

She halted and turned fully to face him, letting her skirts settle with the distinctive, delicious rustle of silk. “That you didn’t kill her husband. From what you say, she was concerned the others were accusing you, not that you might have done it.”

“I don’t think she believes anyone she knows could have done it.”

“She doesn’t know you,” Constance pointed out. “She has met you twice.”

Solomon opened his mouth as though to make some derisive reply before he acknowledged the truth with a slight inclination of the head. “You think she did it herself? Is she that good an actress?”

“Perhaps,” Constance said. “Like most of us, she is used to playing a role in public. And her state of upset could be due to guilt as much as grief. Or perhaps she knows who did do it and is protecting them for some reason. In which case, we should probably watch over her quite carefully. Or…” She eyed him speculatively.

He sighed. “Or what?”

“Or she fancies you and now feels guilty about it because her husband is dead.”

Of course, he regarded her with disapproval. “Do you read a lot of novels?”

“In between the pamphlets that the reforming ladies leave on our doorstep. Trust me, those things give my girls more nightmares than the most lurid novel you can imagine.”

“I am sure you are made of much stronger stuff.”

“I am. It’s the laughing that keeps me awake. Don’t you want to know what I learned this afternoon?”

“Yes.”

“Absolutely nothing,” she said, scowling with discontent. “Alice Bolton looks down her pointed nose at me, as if I dropped off the sole of her dirty boot. Her husband was far too busy in the library with Randolph all afternoon, and Ellen is avoiding me. Which is interesting, I suppose, but hardly helpful.”

Grey at last left off gazing at the rain trickling down the glass and rose from the window seat. “Then let us join the others before dinner and see what else we can learn.”

They entered the drawing room together. Unsurprisingly, all conversation halted as everyone looked toward them.

“Mrs. Goldrich,” Ivor Davidson greeted her, his eyes both challenging and mocking. “Do you have all our movements recorded?”

“I wrote down what you all told me,” Constance said, as though she didn’t notice his hostility, “and left the results on a table in the library for you to see. If I have made mistakes—or you have—please tell me.”

There was no time for more, for Mrs. Winsom tottered in on Miriam’s arm.

“Mama!” Randolph went to her at once, which made Constance feel slightly better about him.

“How brave of you to come down, Deborah,” Alice Bolton said warmly. “We are all cheered by your presence.”

Constance rather doubted that. The most severely bereaved tended to be an embarrassment and were hardly the life and soul of any party. But perhaps Mrs. Winsom’s appearance was a welcome sign that she had not disintegrated altogether. Constance thought it probably helped the widow more to be among her family and friends, although surely she must be aware that one of them had murdered her husband.

Unless Deborah had done it herself.

Watching her with fresh eyes as she clung to Randolph and then to Thomas Bolton, Constance could still not quite believe in her guilt. Like everyone else, she had a motive, and, once her maid had left her, she had the best opportunity of whisking about the house and grounds unseen.

But would she even know where her cook kept the knives?

Perhaps she had seized it in passing one day, while consulting about menus…if such business was conducted in the kitchen rather than in Mrs. Winsom’s territory.

The company was even more subdued than at luncheon. No one wished to say anything to upset the widow further, which made for long silences and brief, awkward conversations.

Until Deborah herself said suddenly, “When should we expect the policemen from Scotland Yard?”

Strict table manners had fallen by the wayside as though the burden of one single, general discussion was easiest. Even so, there was a short silence following this question, some of it dismayed, or simply blank.

“Tomorrow sometime, I imagine,” Thomas Bolton said reluctantly. “The inquest will be held then, too.”

His wife added, “Mrs. Goldrich has taken it upon herself to write down where everyone was and who can vouch for whom. Apparently, the police might be interested in such matters.”

“I imagine they will be,” Mrs. Winsom said unexpectedly, looking straight at Constance. “Thank you, Mrs. Goldrich. You will wish to add me to your list, though I retired immediately and saw or heard no one after Wilson, my maid, left me at half past eleven.” She frowned. “I suppose you have included the servants in your list?”

She seemed quite unaware of the footmen currently standing on either side of the dining room door.

“I thought it might have been presumptuous,” said Constance, who had actually thought it would be useless. “But I did ask Richards and Mrs. Farrow to write down what they could.”

Mrs. Winsom nodded. “Very sensible. Most of the servants are together, after all. The maids share a room in the basement, where Mrs. Farrow has her own room, and the menservants are in the attic under Richards’s watchful eye…”

“Apart from the grooms and the coachman, who sleep above the stables and the carriage house,” Randolph pointed out.

“And the gardener has his own cottage,” Ellen added. “Of course, he has a wife to vouch for him. So does John Coachman, and the grooms may vouch for each other too.”

“So we can account for all of them,” Miriam said. She didn’t sound happy about it, probably because it cast the likely guilt back to the family and guests in the main house.

“Apart from the boot boy,” Mrs. Winsom said vaguely.

“What?” Randolph frowned at her.

“Owen the boot boy,” his mother said patiently. “He sleeps in the kitchen because he is up so early collecting shoes to polish and building up the kitchen fire for morning tea and breakfast.”

“He was certainly very fast asleep when I woke him at half past midnight,” Grey said.

Davidson laid down his spoon. “Then he would have plenty of time to steal the knife while was alone!”

“What, a child of ten who is up at four polishing your boots before he wakes the maids?” Ellen scoffed. “Where do you imagine he finds the time, let alone the energy, to steal knives and murder his master? For what conceivable reason?”

Davidson blinked at this attack. A hint of color stained his cheeks. “I’m not accusing the boy, merely stating a fact. I’m sure Mrs. Goldrich will pass it along to the police along with everything else.”

“Mrs. Goldrich is not a police spy in this house, Mr. Davidson,” Mrs. Winsom said with mild disapproval. “She is a guest like you, and trying to be helpful.” She smiled faintly. “Like you.”

Constance regarded her with surprised respect. So the widow had claws after all. An interesting time to use them when she was so clearly bowed down by grief. Even more surprising, she had been defending Constance. What on earth had Grey said to her this afternoon?

Without the presence of Mrs. Winsom, the company might well have scattered after dinner. But the widow gamely led the ladies out of the dining room to the drawing room. Constance found it hard to believe that it was only twenty-four hours since she had last done so. How different the atmosphere was now. Grief, suspicion, and regret seemed to shimmer in the candlelight.

There was no entertainment, unsurprisingly, apart from more stilted conversation. Tea and the gentlemen arrived promptly, and after one cup, Mrs. Winsom excused herself and departed, leaning heavily on Miriam’s arm once more.

Randolph looked relieved.

Ellen watched, her expression troubled. “I can’t bear to see her so…diminished.”

Was she diminished? Constance wasn’t so sure. No one answered, and in time everyone drifted off, including Solomon Grey.

When Ivor Davidson followed, Ellen stood up too. So did Constance. There was no sign of Grey following her. But she was in time to see Davidson leaping up the stairs two at a time, and Ellen, somehow disconsolate, wandering away toward the library.

Constance caught up with her there. Since the room was empty apart from them, she closed the door and said bluntly, “Are you avoiding me, Ellen?”

Ellen smiled ruefully. She did not seem unwelcoming. “I think I’m avoiding everyone.”

“As long as I have not offended you somehow.”

“No, of course not.” Ellen settled on the sofa, and Constance sat on the chair opposite.

After a moment or two’s silence, Constance asked, “How are you?”

“I don’t know. Sometimes I forget and feel fine. And then I remember and feel guilty for having forgotten, even for a moment. How can I?”

“Protection. You have to look after yourself as well as your family.”

“It’s all just so…beastly. For him to die like that. I cannot believe I know anyone who would do such a thing to anyone, let alone to Papa.”

“I know. It should be unthinkable.”

Another silence while Ellen fidgeted and stared, frowning at her hands in her lap.

“Do you think Ivor did it?” she asked in a rush.

Aware of an incipient confidence, Constance forced herself to remain calm. “There is nothing to suggest he did. Except that, like many of us, he cannot prove he did not.”

Ellen plucked at her skirts. “ He is avoiding me .”

“And you think that is because he is guilty?”

“Do you think so?”

“I have no way of knowing,” Constance said. “What reason could he have for committing so heinous a crime?”

To her surprise, a somewhat cynical smile flitted across Ellen’s face. “Don’t worry. I know he would not do such a thing simply because my father repelled his suit. Things between us had never reached such a pass.”

“He was flirting,” Constance said. “Which is hardly appropriate now.”

“And I am not worth a deeper friendship? You ask me how I am. He has not asked me once.”

“I suspect he is feeling guilty about you, and looking after himself at the same time. Did you know he had asked your father to invest in his latest venture? And your father refused?”

Ellen met her gaze. Her lips twisted. “I see. He flirted with me to annoy my father. And now my father is dead, and he has two motives to have killed him.”

“That would be an extreme response to two minor setbacks. And you know, if he truly wanted whatever money will come to you now, he would be haunting your every step.”

“That is a good point,” Ellen allowed.

“Do you care so much?”

Ellen thought about it. “I think I dislike the idea of being used as a pawn. I don’t think I care for him , though the flirting was fun.”

Good . Constance stayed a few minutes longer, and then they both retired to bed. After the disturbed night last night, the whole household seemed to retire early. As she closed her bedroom door, Constance felt suddenly exhausted. Somehow she managed to unfasten her gown without tearing it and then climbed out of it.

Bed, she thought with longing. Bed…

She blew out the candle and lay down with a sigh.

An animal howl rent the silence and chilled her spine—presumably Randolph’s huge dog, who rejoiced in the appropriate soubriquet of Monster. Inevitably, her brain began to wake up again. She was in a house with a murderer, openly trying to discover his or her identity. It could be anyone, even Solomon Grey, whom she appeared to be trusting.

Why was she trusting him?

Because she liked the way he looked? She knew better.

Because she liked the way he sounded? That deep, soft voice, like warm, melted butter in her veins… Soft voices could hide as much malice as strident ones.

Because she sensed someone as self-sufficient and yet as totally alone as herself? A foolish basis for friendship, even if it were true.

Was that what she wanted? When she teased him and challenged him and flaunted her trade in front of him, was she really trying to be friends? She knew better than that too. Solomon Grey would never be her friend. He might treat her with a degree of courtesy, but he was a man who “did not care to pay for such favors.” However loyal she might or might not be, she was too soiled in the eyes of any decent man for true friendship. He would never be seen with her, never introduce her to his friends. He would be ashamed. And he would find it distasteful.

And yet he notices me . Her mind seemed to be pleading with itself.

Yes, he noticed her, but he didn’t want to. He was ashamed of that, too.

Constance had never whined over the hand that life had dealt her, or the paths she had chosen. She had just done her best with them and made them work. She would not be ashamed. And she would never be friends with Solomon Grey, who might or might not be a murderer.

Her instincts said he was not. So did her brain, which reminded her the knife had vanished before he arrived. But where he was concerned, she could not trust her instincts. They were already urging her into unprecedented temptation.

If Grey did not kill Walter Winsom, who did?

She went over the possibilities, so deep in thought that it was a moment before she registered the faint sounds beyond her door.

A whisper of soft footsteps, the creak of a floorboard.

Did she imagine they halted at her door?

She stared toward it, though she could see nothing in the darkness. She wished she had not closed the curtains. And just in case someone was at the door, listening, she was afraid to sit up and make noise lighting the lamp at her bedside. Instead, she listened intently.

The footsteps moved on, barely heard above the beating of her heart.

At once, she leapt out of bed, lit the lamp, turned it down as low as it would go, and threw on her dressing gown.

She eased open her door, peering into the darkness, straining to hear and see. Surely a dim light moved, somewhere in the well of the staircase?

Picking up the lamp in fingers that were not quite steady, she set out to follow, keeping the lamp shaded as much as she could with the wide lapel of her dressing gown. From the stairs, she heard the swinging of the heavy baize door that led to the servants’ quarters and the kitchen.

Perhaps she had only heard a servant, Mrs. Winsom’s maid, perhaps, returning to her own quarters? Only the footsteps had not come from Mrs. Winsom’s room, but from the other direction. Though perhaps a servant would risk using the main staircase instead of the back stairs in the middle of the night.

Had the murderer gone to the kitchen for another knife? Her blood ran cold. Heart thumping, she listened at the baize door. Hearing nothing, she pushed it open warily. A dim light shone from the foot of the stairs. She leaned over the banister and saw the still figure, lamp in hand, with perfect clarity.

Solomon Grey.