Page 3 of Murder in Moonlight
“Mr. Grey is modest,” Winsom interjected. “He owns a large and successful shipping empire. I imagine London is the most obvious headquarters for you, Mr. Grey.”
Solomon inclined his head.
“And are you happy there?” Mrs. Winsom asked.
“It suits me for now,” Solomon replied, and casually turned the subject. “Is Greenforth your ancestral home, Mr. Winsom?”
“No, but it is my family home. My father was a man of the church, so I made my own way in the world. Acquiring Greenforth, almost fifteen years ago now, was my reward.”
“Winsom and I are partners in banking and other business ventures,” said Mr. Bolton, a slight, dapper man who appeared to have a quieter, less ebullient nature than his partner. “Both in Norwich and in London.”
“I see,” said Solomon, who was well aware of the fact, having made it his business to find out.
“Perhaps we may find a way to work together,” Bolton said, “to our mutual advantage.”
“Yes, but we shall not be discussing it at the tea table,” his wife said tartly.
“Indeed, no,” Winsom said, with a laugh that made sure his partner was not embarrassed. “Such bad form to bore the ladies.”
Solomon caught a look, then, on Bolton’s face that he could not quite read, but surely it contained a glint of malevolence, almost instantly smoothed into shared humor, and the moment passed.
The company was courteous and friendly, though he intercepted a few curious, searching glances in his direction as he drank his tea and conversed. He looked forward to getting to know everyone better—people interested Solomon—although it was Walter Winsom he really wished to speak to.
His biggest surprise, as the tea party was breaking up, was when young Randolph invited Mrs. Goldrich to “come and look at the garden.”
“Not right now,” she replied casually. “I’m talking to your sister.”
Randolph, already on his feet, scowled in annoyance. “Oh, Ellen doesn’t mind, do you, Ellie?”
Ellen’s eyes danced with mischief—she was the Winsoms’ youngest child, a very young lady, surely no more than sixteen summers.
Before she could speak, Constance said mildly, “Imind.”
And across the terrace, Mr. and Mrs. Winsom’s eyes met, very briefly, and parted.
It was another small incident, overheard by no one else, but interesting all the same. Solomon was almost sorry to leave the terrace and be shown to his bedroom by a most haughty and stony-faced butler called Richards.
He discovered his bags already unpacked by the Winsoms’ well-trained servants. Dropping his smart morning coat on the bed, he went to the partially opened window and gazed out over the gardens and fields that rolled over a gentle hill toward a narrow, winding river. Pretty. Very pretty.
A knock sounded on the bedroom door.
“Come in,” he said. Expecting a servant, he glanced around without much interest. But it was Constance Silver who whisked herself inside, closed the door, and leaned against it. She smiled, just as if she were delighted to see him.
“Well met, Solomon.”
*
Constance was, infact, appalled by the arrival of Solomon Grey. Any faint hope she might have harbored of his failing to recognize her was dashed the moment their eyes met. Nor was she relieved by the fact he had not given her away. Yet. He could still do so at any time.
They were hardly on first-name terms. She had never even spoken to him. Their entire acquaintance consisted of one admittedly memorable evening in Coal Yard Lane, when a man had tumbled off a tall roof in dank fog and almost landed on top of her. That she still lived was due to Solomon Grey’s hurtling out of the mist and shoving her to safety. It was hard to say which of them had been more shocked.
At the time, Constance had merely inclined her head in gratitude, too stunned by her narrow escape to speak. At least, she assumed that was the problem, although it persisted into the motley party that had then gathered at the house of Lady Grizelda Tizsa. There, Constance had continued to ignore Solomon Grey while being more aware of him than any of the other dashing, noble, and beautiful people in the house.
Strangely tense and off balance, she had left after only half an hour, in her own carriage, offering no one a seat.
She knew who he was, of course. And he clearly knew her. To ensure his silence, it did no harm to imply a fictional intimacy and the damage any hint of it could do him with her hosts were he foolish enough to give her away.
So she said, “Well met, Solomon.”
