Page 95 of Murder in Moonlight
Deborah was hurtling toward him from the foot of the stairs. The stupid cow had sent Grey five minutes early, before he was ready, before he was certain enough of the fire… On the staircase, a line of frightened people in nightclothes were rushing down. She had roused them early too, but at least Alice was among them, thank God. He didn’t care about anyone else.
“Outside, outside!” he ordered them. “Send for help before the whole house goes up!” He kicked at the door. “Grey is in there! I think Mrs. Goldrich is also.”
“Why would they be in there?” Randolph demanded, striding across the floor looking too damnably like his father. “Grey should be in the library!”
“Oh, those two are playing some deep game of their own! They use the place for assignations. Get everyone outside, Randolph, and I’ll see if I get in upstairs.”
“Thomas, no!” Alice exclaimed as he shooed them all toward the open front door. Her cry warmed his heart as he ran up the stairs.
“I’ll only be a moment. You must take everyone out, Alice. Make sure they’re all safe, including the servants…”
He almost laughed. You could make people do anything with a little conviction, a little courage.
He was grateful to Walter, in a way, for finally inspiring that courage. It hadn’t taken very much bravery to steal from the bank, for he’d known no one would ever find out. The same when he’d taken Deborah. No one would ever believe it of him, and Walter himself was too occupied with Alice to notice his own wife was unfaithful. It had been rather delicious.
Until, inconceivably, Walter had noticed the discrepancies were still going on, and known only Thomas could be responsible. Nothing else mattered but to be rid of him.Thathad taken courage.
Until, the kitchen knife hidden in his coat, he had followed Walter outside on his walk. He had seen Alice with him by the swing. They were locked in a passionate embrace.
He had never seen them together before, although he had known for months what was going on. And so, cold fury in his heart, he had lurked in the shadows until Alice fled back to the house.
Then he had run across the flowerbed behind Walter and spoken his name.
“I don’t want to talk to you,” Walter had growled without even turning.
So Thomas didn’t talk. He plunged the knife into Walter’s back and watched him fall forward. His old friend’s face, turned to one side, hadn’t even looked surprised as the life faded from his eyes. Thomas was glad his was the last face Walter had seen. They had been friends, and he had almost been sorry.
Almost.
He had turned and walked back to the house, the same way as Alice. She was already in bed when he arrived there. But justas he’d known she would, she had lied that he had been there all night. He hadn’t even needed to ask her.
Smoke was oozing under the upper door to the old wing. Bolton amused himself for a little, kicking at the door and calling out to Grey. It shouldn’t be too long before the pair were overcome by smoke. His own lungs felt sore and burned. After that, it wouldn’t really matter if they put out the fire. Grey and the Goldrich woman would already be dead, or as good as. And he would be safe. He would sell the bank to Randolph, at a vastly inflated price, and take Alice abroad, away from the scandal and Deborah and all the other Winsoms.
It really was perfect.
The door was hot to the touch now. Downstairs would be an inferno. He gave one final kick to the door, splintering the lock, and risked a quick foray into the smoke to blacken his face and clothes a little more. Then he left, closed the door, burning his fingers on the metal latch in the process—it would look good to the police that he had tried to save even Walter’s evil killers.
Thinking himself into the role—he had been acting for most of his life, after all—he staggered downstairs and out into the blessedly chilly night. Smoke had dulled the silver gleam of the moon, but there were so many lanterns scattered ahead that didn’t seem to matter. He was slightly surprised not to see the sky orange and bright with flame.
“Thomas!” It was Alice’s panicked voice, calling to him because she needed him. How long had he waited for that particular tone? Euphoric, he wanted to swagger up to her. Instead, he staggered a little, coughing without having to act.
His throat rasped when he tried to speak. “I couldn’t find them. I got no answer when I called. I’m afraid they’re dead already…”
All the same, he felt slightly uneasy about the fire, which was no longer burning out of control. No flames leapt from the roofor through the shattered windows, though through the billowing smoke, he could still see patches of orange glow.
An organized line of servants and tenants and villagers were heaving buckets of water into the building. Some were up ladders, trying to keep the main house wet and safe and to quench the fire in the upper floor. Among the helpers, he picked out Randolph, Peter Albright, and Davidson. And surely that was Sergeant Flynn?
But the night had been his so far. He had done enough. Alice clung very tightly to his arm. Deborah was with her daughters, shivering uncontrollably. Inspector Harris seemed to have materialized in front of him.
“Who is dead already?” he asked sharply.
“Grey and Mrs. Goldrich. They were in the old wing—they must have knocked a candle or something and not noticed. But I couldn’t find them, and they didn’t answer when I called…”Careful.He mustn’t repeat himself. “I was driven back by the smoke and the heat. I couldn’t save them. Perhaps we can get in now… The housekeeper will have a key!”
He started toward the house again, pulling free of Alice, but it was the inspector who stayed him.
“No one is to go back inside the house until it’s safe.”
“But we can save them now from the worst of the fire—”
