Page 54 of Murder in Moonlight
“Why else would he not have contacted me? He was a child, no older than me.” He glanced away from her. “He was my twin.”
She felt it then, the wave of bewildered grief and unbearable loneliness that never left him. Where there had been two, there was suddenly one. Still one. There was nothing she could say to ease that. Nothing she could do, not for him. Even an understanding touch of his hand would be intolerable. Especially, perhaps, from her.
And yet he had told her.
She walked along beside him in silent solidarity. After a while, he turned his head toward her once more.
At the narrow stream, easily crossed with a large step, he took her hand to help her. He didn’t like what she was, but he always treated her as a lady. At the other side, he placed her hand on his arm and they walked on to the house together. She felt almost…close to him.
*
Constance was tiredenough to fall asleep almost as soon as her head touched the pillow, but she woke up early, disturbed by dreams of moonlight, blood, and threatening shadows that lunged into life, straight at her.
She lay still in the darkness, the dreams fading, even as she tried to grasp them. Unpleasant or not, there could have been something buried there that she really needed to know.
The first hesitant chirps of waking birds brought the same relief they always had, the promise of daylight after another night survived. A door to lock was a gift beyond price. She had locked her bedroom door here since the murder. She suspected everyone did—except perhaps the murderer.
She had told Inspector Harris her money was on Ivor Davidson, as though he were some promising horse in the next race at Newmarket. And in truth, she had as little faith in her choice. She knew nothing against him except her dislike of a mature man flirting with a girl almost young enough to be his daughter, and the fact that his shoes had been muddy, which could have had any number of reasons.
Harris, who had more experience of murderers, thought it was Mrs. Bolton. Winsom had carried her handkerchief like an accusation, and she could have guessed long before their last meeting that he was going to end their affair. There could have been some slow buildup of pain and rage in her, culminating in that lethal lunge… Like Constance’s dream.
She shivered. The lovers had met in moonlight, in the garden where anyone could have seen them. The swing was not visible from most of the bedchamber windows, but the attic ones were probably high enough. Besides, anyone could have walked that way. Had someone else seen them? Mrs. Winsom, perhaps. What if she had mistaken a final parting for an assignation?
How did one conduct such an affair, in any case? Surely the two couples had met together often, frequently at Greenforth, from what she had gathered. So where did they tryst? None of them had separate bedchambers here, and she could not imagine the dignified Mrs. Bolton being tumbled in the barn or tussling in the woods.
She rose and pulled back the curtains, looking for outhouses that might be more comfortable than they appeared. But what caught her eye was to the left, the old, crumbling stone of thedisused wing, a place where the Winsom children had played before Randolph fell through the ceiling and it was blocked off.
Why had they never renovated it? The Winsoms were surely wealthy enough, although Grey had thought much of their money was tied up in the bank.
On impulse, Constance turned away, seized yesterday’s morning dress, and dropped it over her nightgown. She didn’t trouble to fasten it, merely whisked a shawl around her shoulders. Without the crinoline, she had to gather up the skirts over one arm. If she ran into anyone she would look damned odd, but it was still better than being caught in her nightgown. Although it was beginning to get light, she lit the lamp. After all, the old wing’s windows were boarded up.
With her feet in her soft slippers, she made little sound as she walked to the door. Unlocking it carefully produced only a slight click. She slipped out into the dark passage and crept swiftly to the end, past Grey’s room to the ancient door facing her that led to the old wing.
She found the old-fashioned latch more by feel than sight, but to her surprise, the door was not locked like the downstairs one. Nor did its hinges creak. It must have been recently oiled. Oh yes, thismusthave been where the lovers met…
Not quite sure what she was looking for, she slipped through the door and pulled it almost closed behind her.
She was glad of the lamp in this pitch darkness. Barely any dawn light found its way around the dusty window boards, but by the light of her lamp, she saw she was in a large, well-proportioned room that must once have been lovely once. Now it was bare and soulless.
She walked forward warily. On the left side of the apartment, she made out the rough floor repair—new boards nailed crosswise across the rotted patch to make an obvious warning. Presumably, this was where Randolph had fallen through.Though she peered carefully in front before every step, the floor beneath her felt solid enough.
The room was empty of all furniture, hardly an enticing love nest. It only had one door, and on her right, away from the rotted area, so she pushed it open.
Aha.
It was a different world. Even in the pale lamplight, she could see that the floor and the surfaces were clean. A dressing table with a mirror stood against one wall. A large mattress lay on the floor, made up like a bed with an embroidered coverlet and crisp cotton pillowcases. There was another door at the far end, leading perhaps to a passage or a landing. This must once have been a dressing room or a sitting room attached to the larger bedchamber.
She moved into the cozy space, noticing the comb and hairpins on the dressing table. Oh yes, this was where Walter and Alice had trysted. It almost looked romantic, until one considered the spouses on the other side of the latched door. Had that made it more exciting for them? Until Walter had been found out and was not prepared to defy convention and leave his wife. Or perhaps he had simply chosen his wife over his peccadillo. In his own way, he had probably loved her.
Constance knew only too well how men—some men—regarded their adulterous pleasures, as if they were entirely separate from the respectable lives they lived with their wives and children. This room was, essentially, Walter’s brothel.
She felt a twinge of distaste, which she never felt in her own establishment. Cut off from the rest of the house as it was, this was still Deborah Winsom’s home. For an instant, the dream figure who lunged across her mind’s eye was Deborah, hurt and furious beyond sanity, and wielding a long, sharp kitchen knife.
And Deborah had muddy shoes.
A loud creak jerked Constance out of her speculation.
Deborah, coming to torture herself, to assuage her guilt? Or did she somehow know Constance was here? Her heart hammered, because quite suddenly she had more to fear than the mere embarrassment of being caught where she had no business being.
