Page 15 of Murder in Moonlight
Alice moved forward blindly, mostly to get away from everyone else, even if it meant walking toward the dreadful noise of the widow.
Deborah’s maid, Wilson, was with her, sitting on the edge of the bed, trying to talk calmly through the wailing while she held her mistress’s hand and stroked it helplessly.
At least Deborah had the luxury of grief. Alice had not. She could not give in—she had to think through it, behave as she ought.
Deborah sat upright, eyes tight shut, thrashing her head from side to side against the positive froth of pillows behind her, her heels drumming rhythmically against the mattress. She was clearly oblivious to her maid or anyone else. Without compunction, Alice pushed the maid aside and sat down, taking Deborah by both shoulders and pinning her to stillness.
“My poor Deborah, you must stop that noise,” she said firmly. “You have children who need you. What will Ellen think if she sees you like this?Hearsyou like this?” The whole house must be able to hear her, from attic to kitchen.
The howling cut off like a tap. Deborah opened her eyes and stared into Alice’s. Abruptly, she fell on Alice’s neck, weeping silently, and at last Alice too could give into tears. The two women held each other, united in grief, until Miriam came in with Ellen. Both girls were white with shock.
Quietly, Alice rose and left the room. At least the passage was now empty. She walked slowly back to her own room.
Thomas was standing by the bed in his nightgown. “What the devil is going on?”
“You had better get dressed,” Alice said prosaically. “Walter is dead, and the magistrate—or at least a constable—is on his way.”
“Don’t be silly! He can’t be—”
“I assure you he can,” she interrupted in a small, hard voice she barely recognized as her own.
“Dear God, how? What—” He broke off, scowling. “In any case, no one will come out in the middle of the night unless it is the doctor—”
“I assure you they will when they hear he died with a kitchen knife in his back.”
*
Constance felt utterlydazed, as though the floor had vanished beneath her feet and she was falling. Which was ridiculous. Although it was some years since she had witnessed violent death, tonight was hardly the first time she had done so. And she had known Walter Winsom a mere two days, so she was hardly entitled to grief.
Mrs. Bolton calmed the widow. The daughters clung to each other. Randolph stood alone in the passageway, staring at his parents’ bedroom door. In his dressing gown, white and still, he looked suddenly much younger than his twenty years, like a child in need of comfort.
Constance was suddenly ashamed. She had lost a possibility that in the grand scheme of things meant nothing. Randolph and his sisters had lost their beloved father, and in such a brutal, incomprehensible way. Impulsively, she went to Randolph and took his hand.
He turned his head and looked at her, blinking.
She squeezed his fingers. “Bear up, Randolph,” she whispered. “You must be strong now, for your family.”
Being strong, taking on responsibilities, was the only way she knew how to cope with grief. And her words did seem to reach him, for a spark of determination penetrated the bewildered glaze of his eyes.
She left him and went downstairs to deal with the servants, one of whom was in hysterics and frightening the others. By the time she had settled them to make tea and be useful, a white-faced constable and a half-dressed footman had brought the body into the house and placed it on one of the long supper-room tables next to the ballroom. The local doctor was there, talking to Solomon Grey and looking as shocked as everyone else. Constance asked him to call on the widow after he had finished with his other duties.
She then returned to the servants’ hall to send them back to bed for the few hours that remained of the night. Richards, the once-haughty butler, and Mrs. Farrow, the housekeeper, seemed to have wilted, which was probably scaring the lesser servants as much as the murder of their master. The pair sat silently together at one end of the table, the others in huddles whispering or weeping according to their natures.
At sight of her, the whispering stopped, and everyone looked at her in mingled hope and alarm. They were not used to their realm being invaded by those from upstairs, and yet they desperately needed some kind of direction.
“I think you should all retire now,” Constance said to Mrs. Farrow. “The family will need you and the staff quite desperately in the coming days.”
It seemed to be the right thing to say. Mrs. Farrow squared her shoulders and sent the maids off to bed. Richards blinked several times, then rose to his feet and jerked his head at the footmen.
On her way out, Constance heard movement in the kitchen and went in. To her surprise, the constable had not left the premises. He was with the stout cook and Solomon Grey, and in his hand, he held the bone-handled knife Constance had last seen in Mr. Winsom’s back.
For an instant, she felt queasy, until she reminded herself sharply that she was not really a refined, delicate lady. Grey saw her first, but acknowledged her with no more than a twitch of the eyebrows before his attention returned to the cook, who made a grab for the knife in the constable’s hands.
“Of course it’s mine,” she snapped, “and I’d like to know what it’s doing in your grubby mitts, Johnny Barker!”
Constable Barker snatched it out of her reach. “Sorry, Mrs. Corben, but this knife is evidence. You can have it back after the coroner says so.”
The cook grasped for the back of the nearest chair and almost fell into it. “You mean…the master was killed with my knife? Oh, dear God!”
