Page 61 of Murder in Moonlight
Randolph nodded. “All these things. And antique swords. My father collected them at one time. Whoever did it was obviously trying to cast the blame upon the servants, though it didn’t work.”
“Actually,” Constance said in an odd voice, “I think it did.”
Solomon followed her gaze. Harris and Flynn had both emerged from the study, and between them, pale and shocked, walked Richards. Flynn took his arm as though to prevent his bolting.
“What thehell?” Randolph muttered beneath his breath. He was already striding down the hall, Solomon and Constance at his heels. “Inspector! What are you doing?”
“I’ve arrested Richards on suspicion of the murder of your father,” Harris said calmly. He did not even slow down in his march toward the green baize door.
“You can’t!” Randolph exploded, following. “It’s preposterous! Richards has been with us for a decade!”
“I am aware of that, sir. And it’s possible further investigation will prove his innocence, but for now, everything points to him. My sergeant has suggested locking him in his pantry, meantime.” The inspector pushed open the heavy door to the servants’ quarters and held it for Flynn and the white-faced Richards to pass through.
In the kitchen, something like a copper pot fell to the floor, and the voice of Mrs. Corben the cook could be heard scolding. Flynn paused on the half landing beside a closed door Solomon had never noticed in his brief forays below stairs. The door was locked, which was interesting. Harris produced two rings of keys that he had presumably just taken from the butler.
Without a word, Richards pointed to the middle key of the smaller ring. The larger disappeared back into the inspector’s pocket while he unlocked the door. The pantry was not large. It contained a few shelves of bottles, others of silver, an upholstered armchair, and a desk—on which were laid out an open book that appeared to be a diary, and several lists.
Randolph bundled in after Richards and the policemen. Sighing, Solomon stood aside to invite Constance to precedehim. She did without hesitation, leaving Solomon to squash in after her.
Before he managed to close the door and create a modicum of space to stand in, he was pressed far too close to her. He could smell her skin, some soft, alluring perfume, and grew suddenly aware of just how lovely was her long, vulnerable nape.
He almost fell back against the door. Fortunately, no one was paying him any attention.
“What the devil…?” Harris began irascibly as he glared around the suddenly full room. “Why are—”
“On what grounds have you charged my butler?” Randolph demanded.
Solomon thought better of him for his defense of the servant, but clearly Harris did not.
“On the grounds that he had access to the knife,” he said impatiently, “clear opportunity, and the strongest of motives.”
“Utter nonsense! What motive could he possibly have for murdering his master?”
“You really don’t know, do you?” Harris said. “He didn’t tell anyone. Sergeant Flynn here went to Winsom and Bolton’s bank today, and among other things learned about the dismissal of one Harold Framley.”
“Framley?” Randolph seemed to struggle for the memory.
“Indeed. Apparently this man swore at your father in the street one day when he was out with his family. He’d been dismissed for fraud.”
“I remember,” Randolph snapped. “But what has that to do with Richards?”
“They’re half-brothers,” Harris said with an air of understandable triumph. “Different fathers.”
Constance cast a startled glance over her shoulder at Solomon.
“We know,” Harris continued, “because Sergeant Flynn here had the gumption to call on the Framley family. After his dismissal, Framley’s fall was spectacular. He could not get other work because everyone knew why he’d been dismissed, although he was never charged. He and his family were evicted from their home, and his wife took the children and went back to her mother. Framley took to drink, lived on the streets rather than seek help from the Richardses, and was finally killed when he fell drunk in front of a carriage in January.”
It was a harrowing tale, and it silenced the room. Richards himself sat where Flynn had put him, in the hard chair at the desk, his face set, his mouth turned down.
“He was never charged,” the butler said hoarsely at last. “It was never proved against him.”
Randolph was staring at him as though truly seeing him for the first time. Then he blinked. “It still doesn’t make sense. If Richards was so angry about it, why did he never speak before? Surely my father would have listened to so trusted a servant! And why wait so long to take his revenge?”
“Matters we would like explained,” Harris said dismissively. “Our investigation is not completed, but…”
Solomon lost the thread at that point because Constance stepped back into him once more. At the same time, she glanced again over her shoulder and twitched her head toward the door in unmistakable command.
Somehow, Solomon reached behind him, opened the door a crack, and slid through with mingled relief and disappointment. Constance flitted past him and almost bounded up the stairs.
