Page 5 of Murder in Moonlight
“We shan’t be long,” Davidson said, smiling at her. “Ellen is beating me to flinders. Who wishes to play the winner?”
“Not I,” Grey returned, already turning aside with an amiable nod. “Please carry on. I am merely looking around… Who exactly is Davidson?” he asked when Constance had led him out. She walked next into the garden room, which opened onto the terrace where they’d earlier had tea.
“Some business associate of our host’s,” she replied, walking across the room to the French windows. “Unpretentiously in trade, not interested in gentility. Or so he says.”
“You don’t like him,” Grey observed.
“Not particularly. On the other hand, I don’t truly dislike him either. Many of the rooms, as you will see, open directly onto the garden. Like the formal drawing room next door. Let me show you.”
Mrs. Albright and Mrs. Bolton were discovered comparing needlework in the drawing room. This was a large, gracious apartment, also with a French window onto the garden, and containing a handsome piano and some elegant, older pieces of furniture. A glass cabinet displayed fine oriental porcelain.
The ladies smiled in welcome, clearly curious about Constance’s companion. Constance knew how they felt.
But again, Grey merely bowed and, after a polite exchange with the ladies, declined to linger.
“Mrs. Albright is the Winsoms’ elder daughter?” he said. “Married to the vicar, if I recall.”
“Toavicar,” Constance corrected him. “Not the local incumbent.”
“Somehow, I imagined Winsom would be more ambitious for his children.”
“Ah, well, Albright is an ambitious clergyman,” Constance said wryly. “They tell me he will be a bishop one day.”
He smiled faintly. “Did Mr. and Mrs. Albright tell you that?”
“Oh, no. I assure you, I have a vast array of sources.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
She crossed the hall to the front of the house again. “This is the breakfast parlor, where breakfast is served from eight o’clock onward. Next to that is a very fine library, if you are interested.”
“I am.”
Mr. Winsom himself was discovered in the library, writing busily, although, the perfect host, he beamed at the interruption and immediately laid down his pen and rose to his feet.
As always on seeing him, Constance felt her heart give a little flurry of doubt and hope and possibility. There was never any warmth in his eyes, let alone recognition. He could not have liked his son’s inviting her here, and yet since her arrival yesterday, he had shown her nothing but courtesy.
“Forgive the interruption,” Grey said in his soft-spoken manner. “Mrs. Goldrich is being kind enough to show me around.”
“I always find it helps to orient oneself in a new house,” Mr. Winsom agreed. “Although at least Greenforth is hardly large enough to lose oneself in! You must feel free to borrow any book you wish from these shelves, Mr. Grey. I am rather proud of my collection, from the classics to the flora and fauna of the West Indies. And I have several very rare volumes which are my weakness. What is your greatest interest, sir?”
“My interests are catholic and depend largely on my many moods. I shall certainly be grateful to peruse such a fine collection. Thank you.”
“Join us in the drawing room for a glass of sherry before dinner at seven,” Mr. Winsom invited them. “You’ll hear the gong.”
It was an amiable dismissal.
Grey’s eyes seemed to burn into her carefully serene face as they walked to the formal dining room.
“He intimidates you,” he said.
She smiled. “No. He eludes me, which is unusual for a man.”
“You expect us all to fall at your feet?” He sounded amused, damn him.
“No, I expect you to be easily read. Most of you are, you know. He is not. What isyourinterest in Mr. Winsom?”
The sudden attack was merely her form of defense, but unexpectedly, it struck home in this other unreadable man. His eyes pulled free and he shrugged as if he would not answer. Then, abruptly, he said, “Information.”
