Page 62 of Murder in Moonlight
He followed quickly, hissing, “What’s the rush?”
By way of answering, she lifted one hand and showed him a set of keys he had last seen in the inspector’s possession. That silenced him until they were on the other side of the baize door. The parlor maid scurried past them.
“Worth a try, don’t you think?” Constance murmured, a wicked gleam in her eye. She walked straight toward the locked door that led to the old wing.
Laughter caught in Solomon’s throat. As he caught up with her, he glanced around the hall. Only the footman by the front door was visible, and he was gazing out of the little window beside his desk.
“Old habits dying hard?” he asked. The door was out of the footman’s line of vision and, hopefully, of his hearing.
Constance was on to the second key, which didn’t work either. “A girl’s got to live, though I wouldn’t like you to think I picked clients’ pockets… Aha. Three was always my lucky number.”
The key turned, she lifted the latch, and they both slipped through the door. Solomon closed it behind him.
*
When the inspectorwent to explain Richards’s arrest to Mrs. Winsom, Sergeant Flynn sat down in the study and took out the ledgers he had removed from the bank. The manager had been most unhappy and only agreed to it because they were copies and because Flynn had promised to tell Mr. Bolton he had them.
He hadn’t seen Bolton yet. He wanted a head start, as it were. Flynn understood the basics of bookkeeping—it had helped in many cases of petty theft and fraud. But as he skimmed the many columns of the bank’s huge ledger, he found himself literally scratching his head. He wondered if he would ever get his poor brain around this lot. The sheer size of the numbers was off-putting in itself.
He opened the other ledger, hoping this would somehow explain everything. It didn’t seem to.
He was almost glad to hear the impetuous footsteps in the hall. He glanced up, and the door flew open to reveal Ellen Winsom.
She was furious, two angry spots of color flushing her cheeks, her eyes fiery. Her beauty took his breath away.
“Where is Inspector Harris?” she demanded as he stumbled to his feet.
“With your mother, I believe.”
She seemed about to storm out again, but she hesitated, her fingers twisting the door handle. “Have you really arrested Richards?”
“Yes, miss.”
“But why?”
Suddenly all the anger had left her and she resembled nothing so much as a bewildered child. It made her easier to deal with. He explained the butler’s motive and his suspicious secrecy.
“Why is it so suspicious?” she asked at once. “Wouldn’t you keep quiet if your brother was a thief and a drunk?”
“Perhaps. But you must admit, it requires further investigation.”
“While poor Richards is locked in his own pantry? Can’t you see what this will do to his authority with the servants?”
Flynn blinked. “If he’s guilty, miss, that will be the least of his worries.”
“And if he isn’t?” she challenged.
He sighed. “Do you really think we can take that risk? What if he attacks other members of your family? Or Mr. Bolton, whom he must see as at least as responsible as your father.”
She whitened, sinking slowly into the chair on the other side of his desk. “This is all a nightmare. I keep thinking—praying—I’ll wake up. But I don’t.”
“I’m sorry, miss,” he said gently. “I wish this hadn’t happened, but I can’t change it. I can only—wecan only—try to catch whoever it was who took your father from you.”
“Don’t bekindto me,” she spat, dashing her sleeve across her eyes. “It’s so much easier to be angry with you than with—” She broke off, shuddering. She dropped her arm and looked straight at him. Her eyes were beautiful, sparkling with tears. “I’m sorry I was rude to you.”
“You weren’t, miss,” he said gently.
Her eyes fell, clearly landing on the ledgers in front of him. “What are you doing?”
