Page 6 of Murder in Moonlight
She glanced at him, searching his serene, averted face. Curiosity prickled, but perhaps his quest deserved the same privacy as hers. Instead of asking what she really wanted to know, she said, “Over there is Mr. Winsom’s study, where hegoes when he does not wish to be interrupted. No one but he and the maid who cleans are allowed in. Ever. Next to it is the gun room, I believe.”
“And where does this lead?” he asked, indicating the stout, ancient-looking door on the right.
“To the old wing,” she replied, “disused and strictly forbidden, since as a boy Randolph put his foot through an upstairs floor and fell through to the one below. It was a miracle he was not more badly hurt. He landed on a sofa, apparently. Now the doors are always locked, since the wood is rotten and even the masonry unsafe. Although it looks solid enough from the outside.”
They walked on, past the baize door to the servants’ quarters. “There is a ballroom right at the back of the house,” Constance said, “together with a supper room, and an orangery. Shall we look? Mrs. Winsom is holding a ball at the end of the week. Do you enjoy dancing, Mr. Grey?”
“I do. Perhaps you will save me a waltz?”
“Oh, no,” she said, just because it was so dangerously tempting to accept. She remembered the strength of his arms, his hard body… Why did only he have this effect on her? But at least now she was prepared. She opened the double doors of the ballroom and stood back to let him look. “I do not dance, Mr. Grey.”
He looked at her rather than at the blank, empty space beyond the doors. “Whyever not?”
She smiled. “Because I am a widow, of course, and still in mourning.” She curtsied, with more than a hint of mockery. “I shall see you at dinner, sir.” And she flitted away from him, disappointed she could not see his expression. But his breath of laughter made her smile, and then his footsteps echoed into the distance toward the orangery.
Chapter Two
Solomon continued hisexplorations alone. Constance had already given him valuable insight into his host, as much by what she did not say as by what she did. He would not think of what he had learned about her—if anything—except that somehow she surprised him. The silent, exquisite woman he had saved by instinct in Coal Yard Lane was today overawed by neither her surroundings nor her company. Now he wondered if she had been so then either.
She had said she was not pursuing Randolph, and yet she was clearly his guest here. What the devil was she up to?
It was, of course, none of his business. He had come to learn certain facts from Walter Winsom, things he might deny if asked by letter, simply through distrust and suspicion of a stranger.
The orangery was pretty and swelteringly hot. Enclosed as they were, the trees did not smell as they should to him, although they bore plenty of fruit. From there, he walked outside into a fragrant herb garden. Following the path he came on to a wider one that, judging by the horsey smell drifting on the air, led to the stables.
He paused to glance back at the house from this angle and was intrigued by the outside of the old wing. Although it must have been the other way round, it looked curiously tagged on to the main part of the house, the short leg of an L shape. There was no door that he could see, and the windows, though still glazed, did not gleam. They looked curiously blank, as if they hadbeen boarded from the inside. It seemed a waste to him to leave such space unused, especially if the servants lived in the usual cramped accommodation in attics and basements.
But it was not his house.
He walked on, took a detour down another short path, and found dog kennels. A gaggle of hunting dogs were playing and sniffing in the paddock beyond their indoor shelter, although they suddenly started barking and streaming back inside.
The reason seemed to be the man trudging down the path with two pails. He nodded civilly to Solomon. “Afternoon.”
Before Solomon could speak, a bark that was more of a thunderous roar startled him, and a black shadow reared up in a separate cage.
The man gave a crooked, almost malicious smile. “Don’t mind Monster. He can’t get out.”
Monster appeared to be a bull mastiff with large teeth and slavering jaws.
“I’m very glad to hear it,” Solomon murmured. “What does he hunt? Lions?”
“He doesn’t get the chance. He’s Mr. Randolph’s pet.”
“Pet,” Solomon repeated.
“Nearly took the kennelman’s throat out,” said the man with some relish, opening the main kennel to pour the contents of one pail into the trough within. “He refused to have anything more to do with him, so now I have to feed the brute. I’m Hudson, the gamekeeper.”
“Solomon Grey.” He never minded introducing himself to servants. “Why doesn’t Mr. Randolph feed him if the dog’s his pet?”
“Oh, he does sometimes. Tied up with guests just now. Mr. Randolph’s the only one he likes. Won’t let anyone else near him.”
The dog glared balefully at Solomon, drawing back its slobbering lips before transferring its attention to Hudson’s pail. He barked again, vibrating the ground beneath Solomon’s feet.”
“Best leave me to it,” Hudson advised. “He particularly don’t like strangers.”
*
The visiting ladiesat Greenforth made a virtue out of not bringing their personal maids with them, claiming they did not need them. Constance, who knew the real reason was the house’s lack of accommodation for servants, could have used the practical help in hooking and unhooking her gowns—she had no husband to perform the task for her. But she had no real choice in her decision to come without the girl. Janey still looked and sounded what she was—Covent Garden ware, pulled from a life on the streets when she grew too ill to earn. While regaining her health, Janey was still loud, mouthy, and utterly indiscreet.
