Page 13 of Murder in Moonlight
The danger was human, after all. She walked forward quickly, barely noticing that her hand was freed. They crouched together by the fallen man and Constance seized his wrist, feeling for a pulse.
His skin was not warm, though it lacked the icy coldness of death. She searched frantically for any positive sign of life but could find none.
“He’s dead,” Grey said. “And not for very long.”
Shifting position, he lifted the dead man’s shoulder, enough to let the moon shine down on his face. Their host, Walter Winsom.
*
The Reverend PeterAlbright strode into his marital bedchamber a worried man. The strength of his anger with his father-in-law made him doubt his calling, and he needed Miriam’s gentle strength. In fact…
But Miriam was not in their room.
The lamp was still lit, but her nightgown was neatly folded on her pillow.
He felt deflated, let down, even jealous, that she should be with her mother or her sister rather than with him when he needed her.
Hastily, he changed into his nightshirt, flung his robe about him, and paced the room until she came back.
She entered quietly, as though afraid of disturbing him.
“Where have you been?” he asked.
She jumped. “Goodness, you startled me! I thought you must be asleep by now.”
“I was waiting for you.”
“Mama is a little distraught,” she said carefully.
So am I!“You could have told me you were going to see her.”
She blinked. “How could I do that, Peter? You left the room almost as soon as we got here. Where didyougo?”
That was the thing about Miriam. She always did as he asked, never quibbled, was the perfect, obedient wife. Except when he was being unreasonable, which he was. He drew in his breath. “Sorry. I am a little on edge. I needed a few moments alone to calm down. I need to talk to you.”
“Now?” she said, trying to smile. She looked tired and strained. Pregnancy was taking its toll on her.
He managed to smile. “No, tomorrow will do. You are too tired. Come to bed.”
*
Solomon stared atthe dead man and lowered his head slowly back to the ground.
Walter Winsom lay on his front, both arms out as if he had tried to save himself from falling. He wore his evening coat, stained now with the damp, sticky darkness of blood, a small,irregular patch around the obscene knife sticking out of his person.
One side of his face was visible, his eye wide open in apparent surprise. Solomon sat back on his heels, inevitable pity and outrage mingling with his sense of frustration. Another door had closed, and in such a way that suspicion remained.
Who would murder a blameless man, and why?
A kitchen knife in the back was no accident, no act of self-defense.
Beside him, Constance Silver stared too. She had been feeling for a pulse that would never beat again and still held the dead man’s right hand. With a strange, blind look, she touched it to her cheek. Her eyes glistened in the moonlight. Something very like a tear trembled at the corner of her eye.
“What is he to you?” he blurted.
She blinked, laying Winsom’s hand back where it had been. Her smile was cynical, which somehow made it no less beautiful. “Not what you are thinking. I’ll rouse the household.” She rose quickly, and he with her.
He caught her hand. “Wait. Go back to your room. I’ll wake the servants.”
