Page 43 of Murder in Moonlight
“Hmm. Do you know anyone, anyone at all, who might have wanted to harm your father? Or had some kind of quarrel with him that just went too far?”
“A quarrel that went too far,” Randolph repeated, staring at him. “He was stabbed in the back with a kitchen knife! I call thatmuchtoo far.”
“So you don’t know of anyone who hated him that much?”
“I don’t know anyone who hated him at all!”
“Then there were no quarrels within the family? I expect you butted heads with him occasionally.”
Randolph’s eyes fell. “Never in a major way. He wanted me to settle down to the business, but I wasn’t ready to do that. I wanted to spread my wings a little. He understood. Mostly.”
Harris nodded, as though he hadn’t seen the tightening of Randolph’s fist on the table. “Exactly how much did he understand?”
“I had to put up with the odd lecture, but he never stopped my allowance,” Randolph snapped. “And I don’t see how that is relevant.”
“Oh, I think you will see it if you think about it. This is an unpleasant duty of mine, but I do have to ask. I’m told your father was well thought of in banking circles. Winsom and Bolton was pretty successful. Did Mr. Bolton and your father always agree?”
“You will have to ask Mr. Bolton,” Randolph said haughtily.
“I’m asking you.”
“Then yes, so far as I know, but I wasn’t involved in their business.”
If Randolph was this defensive of his father’s partner, Harris doubted he would react well to questions about his mother or his father’s affair. There were better ways to find out about that. Instead, he asked, “Who inherits your father’s estate?”
Randolph stiffened in his chair. For a moment he seemed about to refuse an answer, or perhaps direct him to the family solicitor, to whom Harris certainly intended to speak anyway.
“I get the bulk of it,” Randolph muttered at last. “The house and the business. But my mother and my sisters will all receive sizeable sums. Enough to make them wealthy women, I believe, but I don’t know the details. I never expected him to die so soon.”
There was a tragic, almost childish note of loss and regret in his voice. Harris encountered it all too often in his work, but he never got used to it. Nor did he let it weigh too much with him. Many killers regretted what they had done.
*
After breakfast, Constanceinvaded the kitchen in search of Owen the boot boy. Inspector Harris’s underling, Sergeant Flynn, was seated at the kitchen table, his notebook on his lap while he drank a cup of tea and ate biscuits with the cook and her assistant. Since he didn’t glance in Constance’s direction, she paused for a moment to observe him.
Although not a particularly handsome young man, he had the kind of face one noticed, strong and full of character. And he was clearly personable, for he had somehow overcome the servants’ prejudice against the police far enough to be fed biscuits with his tea. Moreover, the cook and her assistant looked perfectly at ease with him.
Constance walked unchallenged toward the doors off the far side of the kitchen. In one room, she found the laundry maid up to her elbows in steaming-hot water. Her mouth fell open at sight of Constance, who merely smiled and left her to it. In the next room, Owen sat on a high stool at a workbench between two rows of shoes, energetically polishing a large black boot that he dropped in alarm as she walked in. He almost fell off the stool onto his feet.
“Sorry, Owen,” she said with a smile. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I just wanted to make sure you were well after we disturbed you last night.”
“Oh yes, ma’am. Very well,” he said fervently.
Constance bent and picked up the fallen boot. “My, that’s a fine shine you achieved.”
“It’s Mr. Richards’s own recipe, ma’am. Brings leather up a treat.”
“I can see that. You must have learned your job very quickly.”
“I do all the shoes, ma’am,” he said proudly. “AndI keep the fire stoked.”
“You must be kept very busy. Please, don’t let me hold you up.”
Gratefully, he took the boot from her and hauled himself back onto the stool.
“How long have you been here at Greenforth?” she asked idly, eyeing the separate lines of dull and shiny footwear.
“Nearly a year now. I’m going to be a footman in a couple of years, and maybe learn to be a valet after that.”
