Chapter Eight

W hat on earth… ? By the light of his own lamp, he moved across the kitchen as if he knew his way. Silently, Constance set down her dim lamp on the table at the top of the stairs, where it was shaded by the wall, and peered over the banister toward the light.

In the corner beside the stove, it shone down on a small, still figure, sound asleep on a thin mattress roll. Owen the boot boy.

Fear clawed at her stomach so hard it hurt. But before she could move or make any sound at all, Grey moved away from him again. With one hand, he picked up a hard chair and carried it silently some distance from the boy and set it down against the wall. Then he sat in it and blew out his lamp.

From sheer instinct, Constance straightened and blew hers out too. Darkness closed around all of them. But it had finally come to her what Grey was doing. From his chair, he would be able see the sleeping boy. If there were any light.

He could not, however, see her, at least not when she wasn’t stretching over the banister.

He was watching over the boy, not harming him.

Why?

Because Mrs. Winsom had announced to everyone at dinner that Owen the boot boy slept in the kitchen. He might very well have seen who stole the knife that killed his master.

Constance lowered herself to the far side of the first wide step, where the table and her useless lamp now resided. With luck, no one would see her either. She thought with longing of her warm, comfortable bed as she drew up her feet, laid her head against the wall, and closed her eyes.

She did not rate her chances of sleep as very high, and yet the movement of the baize door definitely woke her with a start.

Dear God, she was right. Someone is coming to kill the boy!

She shrank against the wall, her heart hammering.

An indistinct figure eased through the door in the paler darkness. He—or she—carried no light but seemed to need none, almost gliding sure-footed down the stairs into the kitchen.

Constance extended her legs till her feet touched the step below then grasped the spar of the banister and hauled herself to her feet. Whoever this was would be desperate, quick, and quiet. Did Grey even know he was here?

Holding the skirts of her dressing gown off the floor in one hand, and clinging to the banister with the other, she crept downstairs. As she reached the bottom, she released the banister and felt warily around for a weapon. She should have thought to bring her lamp from the table at the top…

Her fingers had just closed around a heavy candlestick when all hell seemed to break loose.

*

Solomon had just begun to think that he was wrong to worry about the boy’s safety. In any case, he was likely to fall asleep soon and be worse than useless to him. He stretched one leg to ease it, then the other—which was when he heard the swish of the baize door and froze.

Though there was very little light coming through the un-curtained windows, for the night was cloudy, the intruder did not seem to need it. It appeared to be male, for he heard no rustling skirts, only the faintest of footfalls as someone moved down the stairs into the kitchen.

A patch of blacker darkness showed him moving from the foot of the stairs directly toward the stove and Owen. Solomon waited, poised, until the figure stood at the foot of the boy’s bed, then rose to his feet. It struck him that only an hour or so earlier, he must have looked very like that threatening figure as he gazed down at the sleeping lad to make sure he was still breathing.

Judging by his swift movement, the attacker probably had the advantage of knowing the kitchen better. He certainly moved fast enough. But Solomon dared not take the time to relight his lamp.

He advanced with more speed than caution. The figure jerked around and immediately lunged at him. Solomon staggered back under the force of the onslaught, knocking over his chair and the lamp he’d left on the floor. At the same time, the attacker let out a roar of rage or fear. Solomon, expecting fists or blade to strike him, regained his balance and shoved his attacker aside, springing between him and Owen, who woke up with a yell of “Who’s there?”

Solomon threw up his fists, ready for the next onslaught. He could hear the wild, heavy breathing of the attacker. Or perhaps it was own. Then the figure spun around and bolted—not toward the back door but to the stairs.

Solomon tore after him, but his foot slid, no doubt in the spilled oil from his lamp. He lunged onward, and the attacker let out a sudden cry, falling backward as though he’d been struck. A candle flame flared, illuminating the man, hunched and clutching at his eye. It wavered, raised in the hand of Constance Silver.

“Richards?” she said in disbelief.

Solomon knew how she felt.

The butler straightened, dropping his hand from his eye and blinking rapidly. “Mrs. Goldrich,” he said hoarsely. “What are you…?”

“What are you , more to the point?” Constance drawled. She seemed to speak like that when she was shaken or defensive.

In the candlelight, she was breathtaking. Her thick hair gleamed like burnished gold, falling loose about her face and shoulders. She wore a finely embroidered dressing gown of some thin, luxurious material and apparently very little else. Without a crinoline, her figure was everything he had imagined, sweetly curving hips and…

Solomon caught his breath. “What the devil did you hit him with?” he asked.

With her free hand, barely glancing at Solomon, she lifted the knotted cord that tied her dressing gown. “Effective in the short term. Richards, we need an answer.”

At that moment, Owen, in his shirt and unfastened trousers, tried to hurtle past Solomon toward the butler. Solomon grasped his shoulder and stayed him.

“I was protecting the boy,” Richards said hollowly. “I’d have come earlier, only I fell asleep.”

“I was trying to protect him too,” Solomon said.

“I wasn’t,” said Constance. “I was watching him .” She flicked her hand carelessly in Solomon’s direction.

So, she suspected him. Or pretended she did. Either way, it should not have hurt.

Also, he had not even heard her enter the kitchen. He was not so good at this kind of task as he had imagined.

“I don’t need protecting,” Owen said, affronted. “I’m eleven.”

“Not quite, you’re not,” the butler retorted. “And you’d better get back to bed, since you’ll be up again in a couple of hours.”

“But—”

“Owen!”

The boy swung his arm and turned reluctantly. “Am I in trouble, Mr. Richards?”

“No, boy, you’re not in trouble,” Richards said roughly. He straightened his shoulders, suddenly the haughty butler once more. “Perhaps you would like a tot of brandy for the nerves.”

“Perhaps we would,” Solomon said. He tried not to look at Constance, who was lighting another candle from the one she held.

The three of them sat on stools at the scrubbed kitchen table, drinking generous tots of brandy poured by Richards from a bottle he’s produced from the top shelf of a tall cupboard.

“Why did you fear for him?” Solomon asked quietly, setting down his glass and enjoying the heat of the brandy trickling through him.

Richards sighed. “I heard what Mrs. Winsom said about Owen sleeping in the kitchen. It struck me that whoever killed the master might not have known that when he stole the knife. He’s a good lad, is Owen. Got no one to look out for him.”

“So you did,” said Constance.

“Perhaps we should have spoken to you first,” Solomon said.

“Perhaps you should’ve, sir.” Richards drained his glass in one swallow. “I apologize for attacking you. I was pushing you away from the boy. I didn’t realize you were protecting him too until you got between him and me. I’d no idea who you were.”

“We seem to be no further forward,” Constance observed. She glanced from Richards to Solomon. “Do you think he is safe for the rest of the night?”

“I shall stay here until he rises,” Richards said.

It seemed safe enough. Even if Richards was lying, to kill the boy now would be to give himself away beyond doubt. Solomon stood. So did Constance.

She bade Richard goodnight and sailed upstairs ahead of Solomon, leaving him to bring one of the candles. At the top of the stairs she took a lamp from the table and held it for him to light. When he had replaced the cover and opened the baize door, she again walked out in front of him, as though used to the gentlemanly courtesies.

“Do you believe him?” she asked low as soon as the door swung closed behind them. Without waiting for an answer, she glided across the hall and into the morning room. He hesitated, then laughed at himself and followed her.

“I think so,” he replied, closing the door and setting down the candle. “Do you?”

“It’s plausible. We already agreed the servants were unlikely. None of them that I spoke to or observed appeared anything but shocked by Winsom’s death, and there’s no whisper of discontent below stairs, either against the family or Richards. I can’t see that he has a motive.”

She dropped onto the sofa. Perhaps because she was dressed as she was, she lounged more than usual, more than was ladylike. She looked graceful, lovely, and utterly seductive. He dragged his eyes away, moving past her to hide his discomfort.

“Do you still think Owen is in danger?” she asked suddenly.

“Nothing has changed since dinnertime. Perhaps the murderer has decided that if no one knows who he—or she—is, then Owen never saw him. He does sleep pretty soundly.”

“He’s shattered, poor child… The family would surely all have known that he slept in the kitchen.”

“Well, the girls might have, but can you imagine Randolph’s taking an interest in domestic matters?”

“No,” said Constance thoughtfully. “But I can imagine his plaguing the cook for snacks between meals. I think he’d know. The Boltons wouldn’t necessarily, nor Ivor Davidson, nor Peter Albright.”

Solomon turned and glanced at her. “Nor I?”

“You woke him the night of the murder,” Constance reminded him. She met his gaze but did not elaborate.

“Why did you not tell me you were in the kitchen?” he asked. “You didn’t follow Richards, did you?”

“No. I followed you. I didn’t know who you were at first. I just heard stealthy footsteps in the passage and crept after them.” She laughed suddenly, not the silvery yet full-throated amusement he was used to, but something very like contempt. “Don’t curl your lip at me, Solomon Grey. We already agreed not to trust each other. But I saw you were watching him, not murdering him. I was curious.”

A reluctant smile tugged at his mouth. “You are, aren’t you? Curious. Well, having achieved little, shall we retire?”

“Mr. Grey. I thought you would never ask.”

“My father would have called you a minx.”

“I don’t suppose I want to know what you call me.”

“Trouble,” he said, and held out his hand to her.

For an instant she didn’t move, the laughter fading from her eyes. But he could have sworn he had surprised her. She took his hand and rose fluidly to her bare, dainty feet. They must have been frozen on the kitchen’s stone floor, but her fingers were warm, soft, and strong. He knew an urge to hold on to them, though with what purpose, he had no idea. He released her and turned to pick up his candle and light her to her room.

They did not speak, but her quick smile when she left him at her door pierced straight to his loins. God help him.

*

Despite another disturbed night, Solomon felt full of energy the following morning, and was first to the breakfast parlor at eight o’clock. He helped himself to some bacon, eggs, mushrooms, tomatoes, and toast and sat down with his heaped plate and a cup of coffee to consider what he knew about Walter Winsom and his death.

An ebullient man of strong character whom everyone had liked—or if not liked, then wanted as a friend or business partner. Or lover. Or father, in Constance’s case. His family clearly loved him, although Randolph had rebelled somewhat against the path chosen for him. He had been eager, too, to ensure he was not blamed for the murder. Was that a normal first reaction to such a tragedy?

Perhaps. No one knew how they would behave in any fraught situation until it happened.

Solomon laid down his fork and reached for his coffee cup. Thomas Bolton walked into the room. He blinked in surprise to see Solomon there, but made no effort to bolt.

“Good morning, Grey.”

“Good morning.”

When he had filled his plate to his satisfaction, Bolton chose a place on the other side of the table, not quite opposite Solomon, but close enough to avoid any accusation of avoiding him.

Solomon carried on with his breakfast, curious to see if the man would ask him anything or confide anything. He didn’t.

“What do you think of this whole business, sir?” Solomon said at last. “You knew poor Winsom well, knew his character, his family, his business. Did he really have no enemies?”

“It would appear,” Bolton said dryly, “that he had one . But I cannot agree that anyone in this house could have done such a terrible thing. We must have had an intruder, someone who knew the house and grounds and how to gain access.”

Solomon raised his brows. “Can you think of such a person?”

Bolton sighed. “I have been racking my brains, but no, I can’t think of anyone, certainly not anyone with the malevolence and wickedness to—to…to do what was done.”

“What about someone from the bank?” Solomon asked.

Bolton blinked. “From the bank? Who?”

Solomon shrugged. “A disgruntled employee, perhaps?”

“Our staff are all well treated and well paid. We provide opportunities for advancement. Everyone, I believe, is happy to work there.”

“But not, perhaps, to be dismissed? Mrs. Albright recalled someone swearing at her father in the street, someone lately dismissed from the bank.”

Bolton frowned in a clear effort of remembrance.

“Are there so many that you have difficulty remembering who it was who swore in public at Mr. Winsom in front of his family?”

Bolton’s frown turned into a scowl. “No. I merely could not remember the case at all, since the man had no possible grudge. He was fortunate not to be prosecuted.”

Solomon set his cup down in its saucer. “He committed some crime?”

“Framley? Oh yes. Fraud. We dismissed him at once. We had no choice. Though in consideration of his previous exemplary service, we did not charge him. At the time he was too angry at being discovered to be grateful.”

“What happened to him?” Solomon asked.

“I have no idea.” Bolton’s eyes widened. “You do not think he can have broken in here? Murdered poor Walter in revenge?”

“I think it highly unlikely,” Solomon said. “Was he ever invited to the house when he worked at the bank? Either as a guest or for bank purposes?”

Bolton finished chewing and swallowed. “I believe he was, once or twice. Carrying messages or books, that sort of thing.”

It was, Solomon supposed, something else to think about, but it seemed an unnecessarily elaborate way for an employee to take revenge. On top of which, when could he have stolen the knife? And Winsom would have been far too wary of him to walk with him in the moonlight!

Solomon sat back in his chair and regarded Bolton, who seemed both tense and morose. There were no servants in the room, and he might not have a better opportunity.

“I believe you do business with Ivor Davidson,” Solomon said.

“We shared a successful venture.”

“Not successful enough to risk any further ventures with him?”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“Oh? Then you didn’t know Mr. Winsom had refused to invest in his latest scheme?”

Bolton barely paused. “Then he must have had good reason. Or…”

“Or?” Solomon encouraged him.

Bolton sighed. “Sometimes Walter would refuse initially in order to obtain a more favorable agreement.”

“Did he mean to do so in this case?”

“I’m afraid I have no idea. Walter died before we could discuss it.”

“Then you think Davidson is a reliable man?”

“I think he has flashes of brilliance but is overambitious. He wants too much, too soon.”

“Does his business thrive?”

“I believe so, but really you must ask him that.”

“I imagine the police will,” Solomon said.

A spasm crossed Bolton’s face. “This is going to be most upsetting. Have you ever had anything to do with such people before?”

“Some years ago, I had some diamonds stolen en route to their buyer and one of my men was killed. I had a somewhat mixed experience with the police.”

“Meaning they were incompetent?”

“Meaning some of them were. Some of them were extremely competent. Let us hope for the latter in this case.”

“Indeed.” Bolton looked unhappy. “I suppose if they find the culprit we must forgive them for all the upset they will cause the ladies. I cannot like such interference in a gentleman’s house. It almost smacks of revolution.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Solomon said mildly.

It was only a few years since 1848, when revolutions had sprung up all over Europe. Britain had escaped any serious disorder, but the threat still hung over the wealthy and the powerful. Political revolution was not, however, quite the same as a professional force investigating crime, which had to be a good thing in Solomon’s book, providing the individuals in question investigated properly.

He finished his coffee and, since no one else had entered the breakfast parlor, excused himself and left the room.

In the hallway, Richards was directing a footman to the porter’s box by the front door. Presumably, the family were expecting condolence calls from neighbors. Constance Silver was descending the staircase in a dark blue gown, the crinoline of comparatively modest proportions.

Solomon bowed in her direction and sauntered into the morning room, where he hoped she would join him. He wondered what she would make of Bolton, and his view of Ivor Davidson.

A few moments later, she whisked into the room, in a teasing mood. “Are we having an assignation, Mr. Grey?”

“In front of the servants?” he said in shocked tones, and was curiously warmed by the glimmer of laughter in her eyes. Annoyed with himself, he immediately told her about his conversation with Bolton.

She listened without interruption until he stopped. “Do you believe him about Davidson?”

“That Winsom would have changed his mind? He did invite Davidson here. Why would he do that if he did not mean to invest with him? I don’t know. My feeling is that Bolton is suspicious of the state of Davidson’s business, even if he won’t say so. Perhaps that was what he quarreled with Winsom about.”

“And Davidson knew it and was desperate…” She met his gaze. “Desperate enough to kill Winsom and marry his daughter?”

“It seems a large leap,” Solomon replied.

“Also, Davidson seems to be leaving Ellen alone,” Constance pointed out. “Though I suppose that could be to make his plan less obvious. He has certainly incurred her notice, and could probably pick up where he left off once things have settled. Or imagines he could.”

“Is he that brutal?”

“I suspect he is ruthless. But a cold-blooded, premeditated murder…?”

Solomon sighed. “Also risky. He would have to be very desperate indeed, and I’m not convinced he is. On the…” He trailed off, for Constance had suddenly darted toward the half-open door and was peering through the crack.

His lips twitched. “I saw a farce like this once at Drury Lane.”

She glanced back over her shoulder. “It’s the police from Scotland Yard,” she said, and sallied forth to meet them. Solomon, giving up on discretion, followed her.