Page 34 of Murder in Moonlight
“I know. It should be unthinkable.”
Another silence while Ellen fidgeted and stared, frowning at her hands in her lap.
“Do you think Ivor did it?” she asked in a rush.
Aware of an incipient confidence, Constance forced herself to remain calm. “There is nothing to suggest he did. Except that, like many of us, he cannot prove he did not.”
Ellen plucked at her skirts. “Heis avoidingme.”
“And you think that is because he is guilty?”
“Do you think so?”
“I have no way of knowing,” Constance said. “What reason could he have for committing so heinous a crime?”
To her surprise, a somewhat cynical smile flitted across Ellen’s face. “Don’t worry. I know he would not do such a thing simply because my father repelled his suit. Things between us had never reached such a pass.”
“He was flirting,” Constance said. “Which is hardly appropriate now.”
“And I am not worth a deeper friendship? You ask me how I am. He has not asked me once.”
“I suspect he is feeling guilty about you, and looking after himself at the same time. Did you know he had asked your father to invest in his latest venture? And your father refused?”
Ellen met her gaze. Her lips twisted. “I see. He flirted with me to annoy my father. And now my father is dead, and he has two motives to have killed him.”
“That would be an extreme response to two minor setbacks. And you know, if he truly wanted whatever money will come to you now, he would be haunting your every step.”
“That is a good point,” Ellen allowed.
“Do you care so much?”
Ellen thought about it. “I think I dislike the idea of being used as a pawn. I don’t think I care forhim, though the flirting was fun.”
Good. Constance stayed a few minutes longer, and then they both retired to bed. After the disturbed night last night, the whole household seemed to retire early. As she closed her bedroom door, Constance felt suddenly exhausted. Somehow she managed to unfasten her gown without tearing it and then climbed out of it.
Bed,she thought with longing.Bed…
She blew out the candle and lay down with a sigh.
An animal howl rent the silence and chilled her spine—presumably Randolph’s huge dog, who rejoiced in the appropriate soubriquet of Monster. Inevitably, her brain began to wake up again. She was in a house with a murderer, openly trying to discover his or her identity. It could be anyone, even Solomon Grey, whom she appeared to be trusting.
Why was she trusting him?
Because she liked the way he looked? She knew better.
Because she liked the way he sounded? That deep, soft voice, like warm, melted butter in her veins… Soft voices could hide as much malice as strident ones.
Because she sensed someone as self-sufficient and yet as totally alone as herself? A foolish basis for friendship, even if it were true.
Was that what she wanted? When she teased him and challenged him and flaunted her trade in front of him, was she really trying to be friends? She knew better than that too. Solomon Grey would never be her friend. He might treat her with a degree of courtesy, but he was a man who “did not care to pay for such favors.” However loyal she might or might not be, she was too soiled in the eyes of any decent man for true friendship. He would never be seen with her, never introduce her to his friends. He would be ashamed. And he would find it distasteful.
And yet he notices me. Her mind seemed to be pleading with itself.
Yes, he noticed her, but he didn’t want to. He was ashamed of that, too.
Constance had never whined over the hand that life had dealt her, or the paths she had chosen. She had just done her best with them and made them work. She would not be ashamed. And she would never be friends with Solomon Grey, who might or might not be a murderer.
Her instincts said he was not. So did her brain, which reminded her the knife had vanished before he arrived. But where he was concerned, she could not trust her instincts. They were already urging her into unprecedented temptation.
