Page 37 of Murder in Moonlight
“So you did,” said Constance.
“Perhaps we should have spoken to you first,” Solomon said.
“Perhaps you should’ve, sir.” Richards drained his glass in one swallow. “I apologize for attacking you. I was pushing you away from the boy. I didn’t realize you were protecting him too until you got between him and me. I’d no idea who you were.”
“We seem to be no further forward,” Constance observed. She glanced from Richards to Solomon. “Do you think he is safe for the rest of the night?”
“I shall stay here until he rises,” Richards said.
It seemed safe enough. Even if Richards was lying, to kill the boy now would be to give himself away beyond doubt. Solomon stood. So did Constance.
She bade Richard goodnight and sailed upstairs ahead of Solomon, leaving him to bring one of the candles. At the top ofthe stairs she took a lamp from the table and held it for him to light. When he had replaced the cover and opened the baize door, she again walked out in front of him, as though used to the gentlemanly courtesies.
“Do you believe him?” she asked low as soon as the door swung closed behind them. Without waiting for an answer, she glided across the hall and into the morning room. He hesitated, then laughed at himself and followed her.
“I think so,” he replied, closing the door and setting down the candle. “Do you?”
“It’s plausible. We already agreed the servants were unlikely. None of them that I spoke to or observed appeared anything but shocked by Winsom’s death, and there’s no whisper of discontent below stairs, either against the family or Richards. I can’t see that he has a motive.”
She dropped onto the sofa. Perhaps because she was dressed as she was, she lounged more than usual, more than was ladylike. She looked graceful, lovely, and utterly seductive. He dragged his eyes away, moving past her to hide his discomfort.
“Do you still think Owen is in danger?” she asked suddenly.
“Nothing has changed since dinnertime. Perhaps the murderer has decided that if no one knows who he—or she—is, then Owen never saw him. He does sleep pretty soundly.”
“He’s shattered, poor child… The family would surely all have known that he slept in the kitchen.”
“Well, the girls might have, but can you imagine Randolph’s taking an interest in domestic matters?”
“No,” said Constance thoughtfully. “But I can imagine his plaguing the cook for snacks between meals. I think he’d know. The Boltons wouldn’t necessarily, nor Ivor Davidson, nor Peter Albright.”
Solomon turned and glanced at her. “Nor I?”
“You woke him the night of the murder,” Constance reminded him. She met his gaze but did not elaborate.
“Why did you not tell me you were in the kitchen?” he asked. “You didn’t follow Richards, did you?”
“No. I followed you. I didn’t know who you were at first. I just heard stealthy footsteps in the passage and crept after them.” She laughed suddenly, not the silvery yet full-throated amusement he was used to, but something very like contempt. “Don’t curl your lip at me, Solomon Grey. We already agreed not to trust each other. But I saw you were watching him, not murdering him. I was curious.”
A reluctant smile tugged at his mouth. “You are, aren’t you? Curious. Well, having achieved little, shall we retire?”
“Mr. Grey. I thought you would never ask.”
“My father would have called you a minx.”
“I don’t suppose I want to know what you call me.”
“Trouble,” he said, and held out his hand to her.
For an instant she didn’t move, the laughter fading from her eyes. But he could have sworn he had surprised her. She took his hand and rose fluidly to her bare, dainty feet. They must have been frozen on the kitchen’s stone floor, but her fingers were warm, soft, and strong. He knew an urge to hold on to them, though with what purpose, he had no idea. He released her and turned to pick up his candle and light her to her room.
They did not speak, but her quick smile when she left him at her door pierced straight to his loins. God help him.
*
Despite another disturbednight, Solomon felt full of energy the following morning, and was first to the breakfast parlor at eight o’clock. He helped himself to some bacon, eggs, mushrooms, tomatoes, and toast and sat down with his heaped plate and acup of coffee to consider what he knew about Walter Winsom and his death.
An ebullient man of strong character whom everyone had liked—or if not liked, then wanted as a friend or business partner. Or lover. Or father, in Constance’s case. His family clearly loved him, although Randolph had rebelled somewhat against the path chosen for him. He had been eager, too, to ensure he was not blamed for the murder. Was that a normal first reaction to such a tragedy?
