Page 56 of Murder in Moonlight
Deborah’s gaze clung to them. Were theyherletters? Should she have looked before the police got here? “Indulgent? No, he was a strict father. Kind but fair.”
“Was it not indulgence to your son to let him waste his time and allowance in London?”
“He was looking about him,” Deborah said with dignity, watching with difficulty as Harris skimmed his eyes over one epistle and flipped to the next. “Finding his feet in the world.”
“That is not a privilege most of us are granted.”
Deborah curled her lip. “Well, you are a policeman.”
“Much to my father’s regret. But at least I was earning. Did Mr. Winsom approve your daughters’ suitors?”
“Peter, obviously. Of course he did.”
“And Miss Ellen’s suitors?”
“She is sixteen years old!”
“Yet I understand Mr. Davidson is quite assiduous in his attentions.”
“Nonsense, he is just being friendly.”
“Did your husband think so?”
“My husband entrusted such matters to me. He had many other things on his mind.”
“Such as Mrs. Bolton?”
The blood left her face in such a rush that she felt dizzy and had to lean back against the wall. Even before a nobody like this, the humiliation was profound.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes you do, ma’am. If Mrs. Bolton had not already told us of her affair with your husband, these letters would have. According to her, you learned of it some weeks ago, and he ended the affair the night he died. Would you like to sit down?”
“What I would like—” She gasped and broke off, shuddering. “I find you impertinent. Our private affairs remain just that.”
“Then you do not believe Mrs. Bolton took her rejection badly enough to kill him?”
Deborah stared at him.What rejection? “I cannot imagine what goes on in your life to make you imagine such a thing.”
“It is other people’s lives I am obliged to look into. Were you angry with your husband, Mrs. Winsom?”
What on earth did she reply to that? That she was? Would he then think her capable of murder? If she said he was not, did it make her an uncaring or complacent wife?
“Yes,” she whispered, opting for truth.
“Did your children know?”
“Of course not! They thought the world of their father. It would have broken their hearts.” She dropped her gaze again. “I might have hinted to Miriam. Mrs. Albright.”
“And Mrs. Bolton? According to her and to all your family and guests, you bear her no ill will, nor she you. I find that hard to believe.”
“I do not care what you believe,” Deborah said. “Alice Bolton and I have been friends for years.”
“And shared your husband for years?”
“How dare you?” she uttered.
“Then tell me the truth. When did it begin? When did you find out?”
