Page 49 of Murder in Moonlight
She walked along beside her in silence.
“Insufferable man!” Alice burst out.
“Who, the inspector?”
“Wicked little man, poking and prying, making everythinggrubby…”
“I suppose they see a lot of grubbiness in their line of work. They don’t always understand.”
A strange sound escaped Alice’s lips, half savage laugh, half sob. “Neither do I!” She stopped in the middle of the path and closed her eyes. “And dear God, I’ve made it worse. I should never…”
“What on earth did you say to them?” Constance asked.
“I denied it, of course…” Alice swung on Constance, the words bursting out of her as if they could no longer be contained. “He accused me of an adulterous affair with Walter!”
Constance touched her arm. “It was bound to come out sooner or later.”
Alice stared at her, color rising and fading from her cheeks.
“I don’t judge,” Constance said, finding her way. “We all fall in love.”
Alice dashed her hand across her face. “I didn’t mean to. I suppose I always did, though. He was so different from Thomas, so…alive.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t intend anything to come of these feelings. I merely harbored them for more than a decade. But I knew he was not always faithful to Deborah, and I would not be one of many… Yetsomehow it happened, once we were both old enough to know better.”
“And now you grieve as his wife does.”
“Worse,” Alice whispered. “Because in the end, he chose her.”
Understanding washed over Constance, along with pity for the strong, flawed woman brought low.
“Mrs. Winsom found out,” Constance said slowly. “And he ended the affair. The night he died?”
Alice nodded miserably.
“You met him in the garden, at the swing…”
Alice nodded again, then her eyes widened. “How do you—”
“What time was that?” Constance asked urgently.
“What does it matter?” Alice demanded with a spurt of more characteristic impatience.
“You must see, it all depends on time.”
Alice looked frightened. “You mean, he will thinkIkilled Walter? Stabbed him in the back with a kitchen knife? Dear God!” But already the calculation was back, the careful mask. The moment of weakness and honesty had gone. “I met him not long after eleven. A quarter past the hour, perhaps. Not long after we all went upstairs to bed. We must have parted before half past. I’m not sure. I was upset.”
Upset. Not angry. She was choosing her words much more carefully now.
“Did you walk back to the house together?” Constance asked.
“No. I left him in the garden and went to bed.”
“Did you walk over the flowerbed to the house?”
Alice frowned. “Of course not. Why would I do that? I went along the paths.”
