Page 16 of Murder in Moonlight
“No one’s suspectingyouof such a foul deed, Mrs. Corben,” the constable assured her. “But we will need to know exactly when and where you last saw it…”
The cook moaned, realizing for the first time that she might be suspected of this hideous crime.
Constance knew how she felt. If the knife had come from this kitchen, then surely it was someone in this house who had committed the murder.
Why had she not thought of that before? This was no random act of city violence, no opportunistic robbery by a passing stranger…
She realized Solomon Grey was gazing right at her.
She met his gaze, wondering what violence he had seen before, and what he had done.
And then she wondered about everyone else.
“I couldn’t find it last night,” the cook said hoarsely. “It wasn’t in its usual place in that drawer right there with my other knives. I used it preparing dinner during the day, and when I went to carve the meat, I couldn’t find it.”
So the knife had vanished the day or nightbeforethe murder. The day everyone but Grey had arrived. The attack had been planned. Somebody, surely somebody in this house, had stolen the cook’s knife from the kitchen in order to kill Walter Winsom with it.
Slowly, Constance turned and walked out to the stairs that led to the baize door separating the servants’ quarters from the family’s.
Chapter Four
It was onlyvery gradually that the house fell back into darkness and silence.
Constance lay in the comfortable bed she had been given for the week under false pretenses and wished it was dawn, when she would have to stay awake. Instead, she drifted into uneasy sleep, full of dreams of blood and violence that were half nonsense and half memory. It meant that when daylight did wake her, she felt shaken and unrested and wanted to bolt for the safe home she had made for herself and her people.
Escape, however, proved not to be an option. When she joined the other subdued and uneasy guests in the breakfast parlor, she found the magistrate seated among them. He was an upright, elderly gentleman with a trim beard and whiskers who had the look of a retired army officer. And indeed, he was introduced as Colonel George.
“I’m afraid I must remove Mr. Winsom’s remains for the coroner to examine,” the colonel said. “And I have sent to London for the help we will need with so vile and serious a crime. I must ask you all to remain here at Greenforth until someone from Scotland Yard has spoken to you.”
“That is something of an imposition on the grieving family,” Mrs. Bolton demurred.
“Nonsense,” said Miriam Albright, who, pale and red-eyed between her husband and her sister, seemed to have stepped up to her mother’s role. Mrs. Winsom was understandably absent.“My mother will be comforted by your presence especially, and by the support of all her friends.” She tried to smile. “I am afraid you will be terribly bored, since there can be no question now of the entertainment that was planned.”
Colonel George rose from the table and bowed smartly. “Thank you for your time and your understanding. Once again, my condolences.”
Constance poured herself a cup of coffee and took a slice of toast from the sideboard, though she doubted she could eat it.
“What do they want with a parcel of strangers from London to find a madman in this neighborhood?” Randolph demanded. “Surely the local men will find the culprit more easily.”
“Not necessarily,” Solomon Grey said mildly. “It is certainly more comfortable to imagine a passing stranger did this…”
“Comfortable?” Ellen said in a choked voice. “If you imagine—”
“Forgive me, Miss Ellen,” Grey said. “A poor choice of word, and yet imagining an insane stranger committed this crime is really an illusion. The weapon came from the Greenforth kitchen, and there is no sign that anyone broke into the house.”
Ivor Davidson tugged at his collar. “You are saying someonein this housemurdered Mr. Winsom?”
“It does seem the inescapable conclusion.” Grey sounded almost apologetic, but his dark eyes were anything but submissive. They were bright with intelligence and perception. “I do not say this to upset anyone, merely to warn you of the kind of questions we are likely to be asked.”
“Such as?” Davidson demanded.
“Such as where we were at the time the murder occurred, and”—Grey’s gaze flickered over everyone, so it might have been imagination that it lingered on Constance—“and exactly what was our relationship with Mr. Winsom.”
For several seconds, no one spoke.
“Who even found him?” Ellen asked into the stunned, awkward silence.
“I did,” Grey said calmly.
