Page 17 of Murder in Moonlight
Ellen’s turbulent gaze met his. “And what were you doing in the garden in the middle of the night? Just taking a walk?”
Constance’s stomach twisted. She should admit to being with him, only…
“Notjust,” Grey admitted. “I was in the library not long after midnight when I thought I saw something move outside. I was curious enough to go out and look around. I found your father but not the culprit. I’m sorry,” he added gently.
Ellen’s gaze dropped to her untouched plate of eggs and bacon. “So am I,” she whispered.
Grey finished his coffee, set down the cup, and rose, excusing himself with a bow.
“Well,” Mrs. Bolton said with some resentment, “if itwasanyone in the house who did such a thing, we should look first athim.”
“Why is that?” Constance asked.
“Because he wasthere, by his own admission,” Mrs. Bolton snapped. “And let’s face it, he is not one of us.”
Constance was not entirely free of her own suspicions, but at this, her hackles rose in defense of her fellow outsider. and she could not be silent. “Not one of us? You mean because he might bear the blood of the slaves whose cause you support so loyally?”
Mrs. Bolton flushed, her nostrils flaring with dislike, and Constance knew she had made an enemy.
“No,” Mrs. Bolton uttered. “I don’t mean that at all. It has nothing to do with his ancestry but with the fact that none of us knows him. Poor Deborah invited him on very little acquaintance. Walter had never even met him!”
“But he had heard of him,” Mr. Bolton said unexpectedly. “As had I. And Davidson, too, I imagine. He is, even I know, a sought-after guest.”
Mrs. Bolton waved one dismissive hand, but she said nothing further. Constance forced herself to take a bite of toast. All around the table, people were taking surreptitious glances at each other.
“One of the servants with a grudge?” Davidson murmured to Randolph, who shrugged impatiently.
“Unlikely. But then, it’salldamned unlikely, isn’t it?” Randolph glared around the room. “We were all in bed at midnight. I daresay the married people may vouch for one another, but the rest of us cannot prove we were in bed when my father was murdered.”
“Randolph!” Peter Albright said sharply.
“Well, Grey has a point! The policewillask such questions.”
“Not of the family, surely,” Miriam said, staring at him.
Such innocence,thought Constance pityingly.
“Oh, probably not,” Randolph said, “but one must be prepared for unpleasantness… More unpleasantness.”
Feeling the need for fresh air, Constance escaped from the breakfast parlor as soon as she could. She was fairly sure those remaining would speculate on the possibility that she had committed the crime, but she could not prevent that. What she did need to do was speak to Grey to decide what to tell the police.
Discovering from Richards that Mr. Grey had gone out, she ran upstairs to fetch her bonnet and change into walking shoes. As she left the house, she wondered seriously about the possibility of someone entering the house and stealing the kitchen knife before coming back the following night to murder Mr. Winsom.
“Constance.”
Annoyingly, it was Randolph calling from behind her, striding rapidly along the path to catch up. She forced down her irritation with a smile, reminding herself of his very recent loss.
“Randolph. How are you?”
“Coping. It helps to be busy. Or to plan to be. Thomas Bolton and I will go through Papa’s business papers this afternoon. It’s my mother who worries me.”
“Give her time,” Constance said gently. “It has only been a few hours.”
He nodded.
“Don’t ask too much of yourself, either,” she added. “As you say, it helps to be busy, but the grief will still be there.”
“You know about grief,” he said, gazing at her. “Because of your husband. Have you buried your own parents?”
