Page 33 of Murder in Moonlight
“I imagine they will be,” Mrs. Winsom said unexpectedly, looking straight at Constance. “Thank you, Mrs. Goldrich. You will wish to add me to your list, though I retired immediately and saw or heard no one after Wilson, my maid, left me at half past eleven.” She frowned. “I suppose you have included the servants in your list?”
She seemed quite unaware of the footmen currently standing on either side of the dining room door.
“I thought it might have been presumptuous,” said Constance, who had actually thought it would be useless. “But I did ask Richards and Mrs. Farrow to write down what they could.”
Mrs. Winsom nodded. “Very sensible. Most of the servants are together, after all. The maids share a room in the basement, where Mrs. Farrow has her own room, and the menservants are in the attic under Richards’s watchful eye…”
“Apart from the grooms and the coachman, who sleep above the stables and the carriage house,” Randolph pointed out.
“And the gardener has his own cottage,” Ellen added. “Of course, he has a wife to vouch for him. So does John Coachman, and the grooms may vouch for each other too.”
“So we can account for all of them,” Miriam said. She didn’t sound happy about it, probably because it cast the likely guilt back to the family and guests in the main house.
“Apart from the boot boy,” Mrs. Winsom said vaguely.
“What?” Randolph frowned at her.
“Owen the boot boy,” his mother said patiently. “He sleeps in the kitchen because he is up so early collecting shoes to polish and building up the kitchen fire for morning tea and breakfast.”
“He was certainly very fast asleep when I woke him at half past midnight,” Grey said.
Davidson laid down his spoon. “Then he would have plenty of time to steal the knife while was alone!”
“What, a child of ten who is up at four polishing your boots before he wakes the maids?” Ellen scoffed. “Where do you imagine he finds the time, let alone the energy, to steal knives and murder his master? For what conceivable reason?”
Davidson blinked at this attack. A hint of color stained his cheeks. “I’m not accusing the boy, merely stating a fact. I’m sure Mrs. Goldrich will pass it along to the police along with everything else.”
“Mrs. Goldrich is not a police spy in this house, Mr. Davidson,” Mrs. Winsom said with mild disapproval. “She is a guest like you, and trying to be helpful.” She smiled faintly. “Like you.”
Constance regarded her with surprised respect. So the widow had claws after all. An interesting time to use them when she was so clearly bowed down by grief. Even more surprising, she hadbeen defending Constance. What on earth had Grey said to her this afternoon?
Without the presence of Mrs. Winsom, the company might well have scattered after dinner. But the widow gamely led the ladies out of the dining room to the drawing room. Constance found it hard to believe that it was only twenty-four hours since she had last done so. How different the atmosphere was now. Grief, suspicion, and regret seemed to shimmer in the candlelight.
There was no entertainment, unsurprisingly, apart from more stilted conversation. Tea and the gentlemen arrived promptly, and after one cup, Mrs. Winsom excused herself and departed, leaning heavily on Miriam’s arm once more.
Randolph looked relieved.
Ellen watched, her expression troubled. “I can’t bear to see her so…diminished.”
Was she diminished? Constance wasn’t so sure. No one answered, and in time everyone drifted off, including Solomon Grey.
When Ivor Davidson followed, Ellen stood up too. So did Constance. There was no sign of Grey following her. But she was in time to see Davidson leaping up the stairs two at a time, and Ellen, somehow disconsolate, wandering away toward the library.
Constance caught up with her there. Since the room was empty apart from them, she closed the door and said bluntly, “Are you avoiding me, Ellen?”
Ellen smiled ruefully. She did not seem unwelcoming. “I think I’m avoiding everyone.”
“As long as I have not offended you somehow.”
“No, of course not.” Ellen settled on the sofa, and Constance sat on the chair opposite.
After a moment or two’s silence, Constance asked, “How are you?”
“I don’t know. Sometimes I forget and feel fine. And then I remember and feel guilty for having forgotten, even for a moment. How can I?”
“Protection. You have to look after yourself as well as your family.”
“It’s all just so…beastly. For him to die like that. I cannot believe I know anyone who would do such a thing to anyone, let alone to Papa.”
