Page 45 of Murder in Moonlight
“Don’t you see the significance?” she said impatiently. “You must have felt the dampness of the ground when we found Mr. Winsom! It had rained early that day—before you arrived—but all the paths and most of the ground dried quickly.Thispatch…” She swept her hand from beyond the swing to the trampled flowerbed and the area around where Winsom had died. “This patch was still wet in the evening. The sun doesn’t shine directly on it except first thing in the morning, before it rained, so it took longer to dry. At some point, Davidson, Randolph, and Mrs. Winsom must all have trodden on this ground.”
“Not necessarily at midnight,” Grey said, “and since the shoes are cleaned, we can’t compare the kinds of soil attached to them to be sure it definitely came from this area. Also, have you considered that the murderer would not leave such evidence for the servants to find? Wouldn’t he—or she—be more likely to clean the shoes themselves? Or hide them until the opportunity arose to do so?”
Deflated, she scowled at him instead. “Damn. Do you have to be sopernickety?”
“Yes.”
She sighed. “I thought I had made a vital discovery.”
“It’s possible you did,” he said. “It just doesn’t really rule anyone out. Though it might yet prove another nail in the murderer’s coffin, as it were.”
“You needn’t try to make me feel better. I shall get over the disappointment in time.”
His lips quirked. She liked to see him smile, however faintly.
He stopped the swing and rose to his feet. “I don’t suppose Owen saw anyone in the kitchen during the night? Or taking the knife at any other time?”
“He says not. But I’m sure the sergeant is asking all the servants such things right now.”
“Did you believe him?” Grey asked.
“Owen?” She frowned. “Actually, I’m not sure. I don’t believe he’s lying, precisely, but he sounds more certain than he actually is. I think. He’s a growing child up before dawn and worked hard until he’s sent to bed. The other servants are often still up, calling across the kitchen to each other, or laughing in the servants’ hall nearby. I doubt he gets enough sleep. I think he might have known someone was in the kitchen but was too sleepy to look and doesn’t want to think about it.”
Grey nodded thoughtfully, beginning to walk back toward the house. “All the same, for Owen’s sake, we should make a point of saying in front of everyone that he saw nothing and no one. That’s the best safety we can give him.”
*
Ellen, latching onto any emotion that was not unbearable, was glad to feel indignant when she received the inspector’ssummons to the study. No one had ever gone in there without her father’s express permission.
Accordingly, she fumed as she marched downstairs, prepared to give the inspector a piece of her mind on the subject of his inferiority in general and insensitivity in particular. From the foot of the stairs, she saw a complete stranger open the morning room door.
“Who on earth are you?” she demanded, stalking haughtily toward him. How many of their rooms did this wretched policeman wish to overrun?
He turned quickly to face her, and she saw that he was ridiculously young. She had imagined the inspector would be closer to middle age, and far too stolid to blush at the sight of her.
He bowed a little awkwardly. “Flynn, miss. Sergeant Flynn. I was looking for Inspector Harris.”
“It doesn’t give me much hope when you people can’t even find each other. I believe the inspector is the study.”
Deliberately, she turned her back on him.
“Er…where is that, miss? Might I trouble you to show me the way?”
He had caught up with her, so she favored him with a glance of disdain. To her surprise, he did not look bashfully away. Instead, he met her gaze directly, his eyes uncomfortably penetrating. It jolted her, somehow. Because he clearly did not regard himself as inferior? Or because she knew she was in the wrong to treat a stranger with such discourtesy, whatever her own grief?
Or just because he was too intelligent to have the wool pulled over his eyes?
She said nothing, merely strode across the hall to her father’s study. Sergeant Flynn actually opened the door for her, which she chose to find impertinent rather than courteous.
She sailed in before him and, with a fresh spasm of pain, saw an older man in a worn but decent coat stand up from behind her father’s desk.
“Miss Winsom? I am Inspector Harris.”
“So I gather. This person is looking for you.”
“My sergeant, Flynn.” The two men exchanged looks over her head, which irritated her yet further. The inspector jerked his head to one side, and Flynn closed the door before sitting on a chair by the window and taking out his notebook.
Inspector Harris had the nerve to indicate the chair opposite his at her father’s desk. Clearly it had been put there for the purpose. She sat on the edge of it, her back ramrod straight, and regarded him with dislike.
