Page 39 of Murder in Moonlight
“Oh? Then you didn’t know Mr. Winsom had refused to invest in his latest scheme?”
Bolton barely paused. “Then he must have had good reason. Or…”
“Or?” Solomon encouraged him.
Bolton sighed. “Sometimes Walter would refuse initially in order to obtain a more favorable agreement.”
“Did he mean to do so in this case?”
“I’m afraid I have no idea. Walter died before we could discuss it.”
“Then you think Davidson is a reliable man?”
“I think he has flashes of brilliance but is overambitious. He wants too much, too soon.”
“Does his business thrive?”
“I believe so, but really you must ask him that.”
“I imagine the police will,” Solomon said.
A spasm crossed Bolton’s face. “This is going to be most upsetting. Have you ever had anything to do with such people before?”
“Some years ago, I had some diamonds stolen en route to their buyer and one of my men was killed. I had a somewhat mixed experience with the police.”
“Meaning they were incompetent?”
“Meaning some of them were. Some of them were extremely competent. Let us hope for the latter in this case.”
“Indeed.” Bolton looked unhappy. “I suppose if they find the culprit we must forgive them for all the upset they will cause the ladies. I cannot like such interference in a gentleman’s house. It almost smacks of revolution.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Solomon said mildly.
It was only a few years since 1848, when revolutions had sprung up all over Europe. Britain had escaped any serious disorder, but the threat still hung over the wealthy and the powerful. Political revolution was not, however, quite the same as a professional force investigating crime, which had to be a good thing in Solomon’s book, providing the individuals in question investigated properly.
He finished his coffee and, since no one else had entered the breakfast parlor, excused himself and left the room.
In the hallway, Richards was directing a footman to the porter’s box by the front door. Presumably, the family were expecting condolence calls from neighbors. Constance Silver was descending the staircase in a dark blue gown, the crinoline of comparatively modest proportions.
Solomon bowed in her direction and sauntered into the morning room, where he hoped she would join him. He wondered what she would make of Bolton, and his view of Ivor Davidson.
A few moments later, she whisked into the room, in a teasing mood. “Are we having an assignation, Mr. Grey?”
“In front of the servants?” he said in shocked tones, and was curiously warmed by the glimmer of laughter in her eyes. Annoyed with himself, he immediately told her about his conversation with Bolton.
She listened without interruption until he stopped. “Do you believe him about Davidson?”
“That Winsom would have changed his mind? He did invite Davidson here. Why would he do that if he did not mean to invest with him? I don’t know. My feeling is that Bolton is suspicious of the state of Davidson’s business, even if he won’t say so. Perhaps that was what he quarreled with Winsom about.”
“And Davidson knew it and was desperate…” She met his gaze. “Desperate enough to kill Winsom and marry his daughter?”
“It seems a large leap,” Solomon replied.
“Also, Davidson seems to be leaving Ellen alone,” Constance pointed out. “Though I suppose that could be to make his plan less obvious. He has certainly incurred her notice, and could probably pick up where he left off once things have settled. Or imagines he could.”
“Is he that brutal?”
“I suspect he is ruthless. But a cold-blooded, premeditated murder…?”
