Page 91 of Murder in Moonlight
Somewhere, it still grieved her that she would never know now if that flawed, vital, charismatic man was her father. Whatever he had done, taking his life was not the answer. She swallowed foolish tears and turned back to face the room. As planned, she placed the upright chair as close to the door as she could without impeding its opening. Then she wrapped a shawl about her shoulders and made herself comfortable enough in the chair not to wriggle, yet poised enough to act immediately when she heard the first sound.
Beside her, on the candle table, the lamp was turned down low and shaded on one side with a towel to prevent the light showing under the door. It was the best she could do to pretend to be asleep and yet still move quickly when she needed to.
Below, the drawing room clock chimed midnight. She knew that Solomon, alert at his post in the library, heard it too. This was the hour in which the murder had taken place, but she doubted this evening’s action would happen so early. Surely the murderer would give everyone time to fall asleep, however reluctantly.
She kept herself awake by thinking of Solomon, of the danger he was putting himself in for the sake of people he barely knew. This whole mystery, harrowing as it was, seemed to engross him. As if he had grasped it with both hands because it was new and different.
The clock below chimed one. Poor Owen was having a long wait, if he had managed to wake himself. Constance smothered a yawn and waited. And waited.
And then she heard it.
The faintest click of a door opening. She could not even tell from which direction it came, though after a few moments she made out the hushing sound of soft footsteps. She rose, her heartthundering, ready to follow when she could not be seen. It wasn’t as if she didn’t know where the murderer was going.
Oh God, please look after Solomon Grey, who is a good man…
The faint footsteps didn’t fade. They stopped right outside her door. Now her heart twisted in fear. She was afraid to breathe.
Then came a scratch at the door. The same sound Solomon had made when he came here. Her stomach turned over, though whether in relief or a different kind of fear, she could not tell. What was he doing? Had the murderer confessed already, and she wasn’t even there to witness it?
She reached for the door, softly opened it a crack, and then wider.
No one was there.
Feeling behind her, she picked up the lamp, looking warily to each side. Then, hearing and seeing nothing, she stepped out into the passage. By the lamp’s glow, she saw at once that the door to the old wing of the house stood open.
*
Solomon woke witha start. Disoriented, he knew only that a noise, a threat, had roused him. What on earth had he been thinking of to fall asleep at such a time?
The plan rushed into his brain at the same time as he realized the library door was being pushed slowly open. A quick glance at the window on his other side showed him no one had entered that way or stood on the other side of the glass to shoot him. Hastily, he shoved one hand beneath the book and curled his fingers around the handle of the pistol. He had time to be grateful he hadn’t dropped the weapon to the floor, and then his visitor was inside.
The visitor carried a lamp held low, and at first all he could make out was skirts.
Constance? Fear for her clutched at his chest. But no, this woman did not move like Constance. Of course it was Alice Bolton—oddly enough, the weak link in the chain of her husband’s crime. She closed the door behind her and stood as though frozen, or perhaps just assessing him.
He didn’t stand up. He wanted to offer no threat. And he certainly didn’t want to scare her off with the sight of the pistol.
“Welcome,” he said quietly. “I knew one of you would come, but I confess I expected your husband.”
“My husband?” she said in a peculiar, startled voice. “Mr. Grey, are you quite well?”
She walked into the light of his lamp, and he saw his mistake.
Not Alice Bolton—Deborah Winsom.
*
In the passage,Constance hesitated. Why had Solomon deviated from the plan? He was obviously so eager to get to whatever he had learned about that he could not wait for her, merely showed her the way. Beyond the doorway, she could just make out a bobbing light within the old wing.
Eager to know what he had discovered, she snatched up her own lamp from inside her room and crept as quickly as she could along the passage and through the old door. Was she supposed to close it to prevent anyone following them? Or did it no longer matter?
She pulled it closed anyway.
She could no longer see Solomon’s light, only the bare walls and the badly repaired floor of the large chamber. She moved through it, shining the light on the floor to be sure where shestepped, and into the makeshift bedroom where Alice had met Walter. Nothing had changed, so far as she could see.
The door to the passage was open. Walking toward it, she glimpsed the moving light once more, near the staircase.
“Solomon!” she hissed. “Wait!”
