Page 64 of Murder in Moonlight
Constance, finding nothing in the cradle, moved past him to a chest of drawers. Her wide skirts brushed against his legs, but he did not appear to notice.
The top drawer was empty. She began to think there was nothing to find. Perhaps they should just be looking for a peephole after all. She opened the second drawer down, already preparing to close it again before she registered that it was not empty.
A bundle of cloth lay in the middle of it, scrunched up like a ball.
When she reached out and touched it, something pricked her finger.
“Solomon,” she said huskily, unraveling the cloth with both hands. It wasn’t scrunched at all, just carefully wrapped around several objects. A glittering diamond hairpin. One lady’s silk stocking. Two perfume bottles, one square and masculine in style, the other curved and prettily decorated.
Solomon stood behind her, leaning over her shoulder.
Her mouth felt dry. “A bizarre little hoard,” she managed. “Richardson’s?”
She glanced over her shoulder and couldn’t breathe. He wasn’t looking at the “treasure” but at her face. His eyes wereso profound that she felt she was drowning, and God, they were beautiful enough that you wanted to. She had never found a man’s face to be beautiful before, but his was.
She licked her dry lips, and he looked deliberately downward at her find.
“Probably,” he said. “Why else would he have come this morning?”
“True, but why didn’t he take it away with him when he had the chance? He saw me on the floor below.”
He shrugged, still so close that she felt even that slight movement reverberate through her whole body. “He thought he had frightened you off.”
“I might have told Randolph or his sisters about his behavior.”
“In the midst of all this…grief? I think he knew you would not. It doesn’t seem to have entered his head that you would tell me, let alone come back.”
With an effort, she forced herself to turn back to the “treasure.” Her heart was beating like a captured bird’s. He reached past her, his arm touching hers as he spread out the items on the cloth.
“Apart from the diamond pin, none of this can have much value,” he observed. “Do you suppose Alice Bolton’s handkerchief once resided here too?”
She moved slightly further away from him, just so she could think. “You mean he killed Walter and planted the handkerchief to cast the blame on her? What a…horrible thought. Why her? Why not Mrs. Winsom? I’m sure that must be her pin.”
“A husband might easily carry something of his wife’s. It wouldn’t necessarily have the same meaning as clasping someone else’s handkerchief.”
Constance frowned. “He wanted everyone to know about the affair, as well as blaming her for the murder…”
“Maybe.” He picked up the square bottle and pulled out the stopper. After a quick sniff and a grimace, he passed it to her.
“Walter’s cologne,” she said without doubt, taking the top from his slender fingers and re-stoppering the bottle.
He passed her the other. “Mrs. Winsom?”
“Alice,” she said, frowning. Something bothered her about that, only she couldn’t think what. “How did Deborah discover the affair? Alice said she knew, but how? She can’t ever have come here, or the love nest would have been dismantled.”
“Does it matter?” he asked.
“Probably not, but what is Richards doing with all this stuff? Was he deciding whom to murder and whom to blame, giving himself a few options?”
“Why don’t we ask him?”
Constance met his gaze. “Inspector Harris wouldn’t like it. And I stole the wrong set of keys.”
“Can you give them back as easily?”
“Don’t you think I should own up?”
“It depends how often you intend to do it.”
