Page 51 of Murder in Moonlight
“Pity. Did Mrs. Bolton confess to her affair with Mr. Winsom?”
Harris stared through her.
Grey sighed. “You have Mrs. Silver to thank for that, you know. She sent her back to you when Mrs. Bolton confessed to her.”
Harris scowled. The sergeant grinned before composing his face more seriously in response to Harris’s glower.
“Do you know who committed the crime?” Grey asked.
Harris cleared his brow with apparent effort. “Not yet. They all seem to have a reason, and whatever their spouses say, they all had opportunity.”
“Except the youngest girl,” Flynn said. “I don’t see what her motive is.”
“Because you’re not looking beyond her pretty face,” Harris retorted, and Flynn blushed.
“Thank you for ruling us out,” Grey said.
“I haven’t,” said Harris. “I was just being polite.”
“I like you, inspector,” Constance said, smiling at him. He looked more alarmed than gratified, but before he could say anything, she asked, “Where are you going? Surely not back to London?”
“No, we have rooms at the village inn.”
“Excellent. Then we’ll walk with you and compare notes.”
“No, we won’t,” Harris said. “How many people do you think will talk to me if they know I’ll tell everyone else?”
“How many are talking to you now?” Grey inquired. “With any semblance of truth?”
“Oh, there’s truth in what most of them say. They just don’t tell me everything.”
Harris did not object any further to their presence. The brisk walk was pleasant, and as the sun came out, Constance realized she had no desire to return to Greenforth just yet. It was going to be a lovely evening. She liked the warmth on her face and the scent of grass and wild rosemary and a hint of roses on the breeze. And the gentle countryside was pretty. She felt oddly comfortable in this motley company.
It sounded like a joke one of her clients would tell:A gentleman, a policeman, and a madam walked into an inn…
“What happened at the inquest?” Constance asked. Grey hadn’t got around to telling her, although he had attended to give his evidence of the body’s discovery.
“Nothing unexpected,” Harris said. “Murder by person or persons unknown.”
“Seems pointless to go all that trouble to state the obvious.”
“Procedure must be followed,” Harris said sternly.
The path led into the village up the side of the inn. Flynn opened the gate, and Grey stood aside for Constance to precede them, just as though she were a lady.
“Back door,” Harris said abruptly. “Right.”
Constance could not help glancing left toward the front door. Randolph and Ivor Davidson sat together at the outside table, glasses of ale before them. Obediently she turned right. Harris led the way through the back to a pleasant coffee room where they were the only customers.
Grey ordered ale for three and a glass of rather good French wine for Constance.
“Well,Mrs. Goldrich,” Harris said with faint mockery, jerking his head in the general direction of Randolph and Davidson, “what do you make of those two? Plotting together?”
“Only up to a point,” she replied. “Davidson, you know, is young Ellen’s possible motive.”
This time it was Flynn who frowned.Interesting.
“How so?” Harris demanded.
