Page 41 of Murder in Moonlight
“Alice Bolton seems likeliest,” Grey said, “the only person I know of with those initials. She is a guest here, a family friend and wife of Winsom’s partner, Thomas Bolton.”
“Why would he have her handkerchief?” Harris wondered.
“I suppose he might have found it in the garden and just picked it up,” Constance said, dropping her notes onto the inspector’s lap. “But we think there may have been an affair between them. We have no proof.”
Harris grunted and picked up the notes. He read quickly, flipping over to the next page, and then back again. “You don’t expect me to take all this as gospel, do you?”
“No,” Grey said.
“Good.” Harris glanced up at Constance. “However, it’s a good place to start, and lists, you might say, all thedramatis personae. Excluding servants, I notice. What do you make of them?”
“Most seem to have been with the family for at least two years, considerably more in the case of the butler, Richards, and the housekeeper, Mrs. Farrow. Less, perhaps, for the boot boy. Which reminds me, he might have seen who took the knife, for he sleeps in the kitchen. It worried us and Richards enough for us all to keep watch on him last night.”
Harris stiffened. “Really? Anddidanyone attack him?”
“No. But I still think he should be looked after.”
“You’re probably right,” Harris said. “Well, thank you. That will be all for now.”
Constance met Grey’s amused gaze, but neither chose to quarrel with the inspector’s dismissal.
“I’m going to breakfast,” she announced. “I shall sing your praises, inspector.”
Grey, though he held the door for her, did not announce his intentions, merely followed her out.
“Thank you,” she murmured as they walked toward the breakfast parlor.
He didn’t pretend to misunderstand her. “We agreed to do this together. And I believe he will keep your secret—for now, at least.”
His cool matter-of-factness did not upset her. She was happy to allow him it. She parted from him with a sunny smile, and he walked on to let himself out of the front door.
Constance entered the breakfast parlor. Everyone else, apart from Mrs. Winsom, was around the table, though their clearly earnest conversation cut off at once. They all stared at her.
“I have met the police,” she confided with an air of triumph. “The man in charge is one Inspector Harris, and he seems to be both polite and intelligent. Mr. Grey knows him,” she added, walking to the sideboard and collecting a warm plate.
“How?” Mrs. Bolton asked with distaste.
“Oh, something to do with diamonds that were stolen from him some years ago.”
Bolton sniffed. “Then let us hope this Harris is one of the competent policemen he dealt with.”
“Heseemsvery competent,” Constance replied, helping herself to some eggs and a slice of toast before walking over to the table and sitting beside Ellen. “And there is a sergeant called Flynn, who is talking to the servants.”
Miriam jumped to her feet. “Without any of us present?” she exclaimed in outrage. “I don’t think so!” She marched off, a surprisingly martial glint in her eye.
“Richards and Mrs. Farrow will be there,” Randolph called after her. “There is no need—” But she had already gone. Randolph shrugged and exchanged meaningful glances with Albright.
Ellen sighed.
Constance poured herself some coffee from the pot on the table and ate her breakfast.
*
In the lastyear, Inspector Harris had grown used to expressing dismay whenever he ran in to either of the Tizsas during any of his cases—which happened with alarming frequency. Not that he truly objected. Though they tended to complicate matters, they had too often supplied the insight and imagination that solved those cases for him to be truly angry. Transferring the samealmost-banter to the man he had last seen in their company had seemed natural, but in truth, Solomon Grey was a very different kettle of fish.
Cool, wealthy, and inherently intimidating, he was unique in that Harris did not know quite what to make of him.
Or of Constance Silver, if the truth be told. His days of arresting women of the streets were behind him, and in any case, she was more of an expensive brothel keeper. Although for some reason, that disparaging description made him uncomfortable, too. Not because it was inaccurate, but because he was all too aware of the poverty and the risks surrounding prostitution. As far as he knew, the police had never had cause to go near Constance Silver’s establishment. Perhaps because she greased the right palms. More likely because there had been nocomplaints from neighbors or clients. She kept her own order and had even moved into discreet premises in Mayfair. Rumor said one could meet more aristocrats in her salons than in the queen’s drawing room. Harris didn’t doubt it.
