Page 36 of Murder in Moonlight
Solomon had justbegun to think that he was wrong to worry about the boy’s safety. In any case, he was likely to fall asleep soon and be worse than useless to him. He stretched one leg to ease it, then the other—which was when he heard the swish of the baize door and froze.
Though there was very little light coming through the un-curtained windows, for the night was cloudy, the intruder did not seem to need it. It appeared to be male, for he heard norustling skirts, only the faintest of footfalls as someone moved down the stairs into the kitchen.
A patch of blacker darkness showed him moving from the foot of the stairs directly toward the stove and Owen. Solomon waited, poised, until the figure stood at the foot of the boy’s bed, then rose to his feet. It struck him that only an hour or so earlier, he must have looked very like that threatening figure as he gazed down at the sleeping lad to make sure he was still breathing.
Judging by his swift movement, the attacker probably had the advantage of knowing the kitchen better. He certainly moved fast enough. But Solomon dared not take the time to relight his lamp.
He advanced with more speed than caution. The figure jerked around and immediately lunged at him. Solomon staggered back under the force of the onslaught, knocking over his chair and the lamp he’d left on the floor. At the same time, the attacker let out a roar of rage or fear. Solomon, expecting fists or blade to strike him, regained his balance and shoved his attacker aside, springing between him and Owen, who woke up with a yell of “Who’s there?”
Solomon threw up his fists, ready for the next onslaught. He could hear the wild, heavy breathing of the attacker. Or perhaps it was own. Then the figure spun around and bolted—not toward the back door but to the stairs.
Solomon tore after him, but his foot slid, no doubt in the spilled oil from his lamp. He lunged onward, and the attacker let out a sudden cry, falling backward as though he’d been struck. A candle flame flared, illuminating the man, hunched and clutching at his eye. It wavered, raised in the hand of Constance Silver.
“Richards?” she said in disbelief.
Solomon knew how she felt.
The butler straightened, dropping his hand from his eye and blinking rapidly. “Mrs. Goldrich,” he said hoarsely. “What are you…?”
“What areyou, more to the point?” Constance drawled. She seemed to speak like that when she was shaken or defensive.
In the candlelight, she was breathtaking. Her thick hair gleamed like burnished gold, falling loose about her face and shoulders. She wore a finely embroidered dressing gown of some thin, luxurious material and apparently very little else. Without a crinoline, her figure was everything he had imagined, sweetly curving hips and…
Solomon caught his breath. “What the devil did you hit him with?” he asked.
With her free hand, barely glancing at Solomon, she lifted the knotted cord that tied her dressing gown. “Effective in the short term. Richards, we need an answer.”
At that moment, Owen, in his shirt and unfastened trousers, tried to hurtle past Solomon toward the butler. Solomon grasped his shoulder and stayed him.
“I was protecting the boy,” Richards said hollowly. “I’d have come earlier, only I fell asleep.”
“I was trying to protect him too,” Solomon said.
“I wasn’t,” said Constance. “I was watchinghim.” She flicked her hand carelessly in Solomon’s direction.
So, she suspected him. Or pretended she did. Either way, it should not have hurt.
Also, he had not even heard her enter the kitchen. He was not so good at this kind of task as he had imagined.
“I don’t need protecting,” Owen said, affronted. “I’m eleven.”
“Not quite, you’re not,” the butler retorted. “And you’d better get back to bed, since you’ll be up again in a couple of hours.”
“But—”
“Owen!”
The boy swung his arm and turned reluctantly. “Am I in trouble, Mr. Richards?”
“No, boy, you’re not in trouble,” Richards said roughly. He straightened his shoulders, suddenly the haughty butler once more. “Perhaps you would like a tot of brandy for the nerves.”
“Perhapswewould,” Solomon said. He tried not to look at Constance, who was lighting another candle from the one she held.
The three of them sat on stools at the scrubbed kitchen table, drinking generous tots of brandy poured by Richards from a bottle he’s produced from the top shelf of a tall cupboard.
“Why did you fear for him?” Solomon asked quietly, setting down his glass and enjoying the heat of the brandy trickling through him.
Richards sighed. “I heard what Mrs. Winsom said about Owen sleeping in the kitchen. It struck me that whoever killed the master might not have known that when he stole the knife. He’s a good lad, is Owen. Got no one to look out for him.”
