Page 60 of Murder in Moonlight
“Sir, I—” He stopped and inclined his head to Constance and Solomon.
“Well met, sergeant,” Constance said winningly. “What have you learned?”
Flynn glanced at Harris, who, glowering at his visitors, merely pointed to the door.
Constance, accepting defeat, laughed, curtsied with some style, and glided out of the room.
Solomon, afraid she would seek out Richards herself, steered her across the empty hall to the door that led to the old wing. While she kept watch, he tried the door and found it locked.
“Surely it must usually be locked,” Solomon murmured. “Too big a risk of discovery, otherwise.”
“Then perhaps Alice has a key.” She frowned. “But I got in easily upstairs this morning.”
“Richards must have gone in that way, not meaning to be long.” He met Constance’s gaze. “So what was he doing downstairs? There must be something else there. How do we get hold of the key?”
As one, they moved apart, as Randolph prowled out of the morning room, a pile of letters in his hand. Constance walked directly toward him. Solomon wandered in the direction of the stairs, wondering if he could induce Mrs. Winsom to let him into the old wing. But something about Randolph’s stance at the post table distracted him, so he paused, one hand on the newel post.
Randolph had picked up a letter from the posting tray and was gazing at it while he slowly lowered his own letters into the tray. His eyes lifted to Constance, who was walking up to him.
Before she could speak, he said clearly, “Why are you writing to the house of a notorious courtesan?”
Chapter Thirteen
Uh-oh. Solomon’s chivalricurge to rescue her took him by surprise. Yet he waited, curious to see what she would do or say, and well aware she was used to looking after herself.
She had gone very still. “If I am writing to anyone, it must be because I have something to say. Though I fail to see that my correspondence is any business of yours.”
Randolph waved the letter almost in her face. “This is your handwriting. You cannot deny it.”
“I haven’t.” She held out her hand. “My letter, if you please. Since you are making such a fuss, I shall post it myself.”
Randolph twitched it out of her reach. Solomon released the newel post and strolled toward them.
“Why?” Randolph asked tightly. “Who are you, Constance?Whatare you?”
“Aren’t you making something of an assumption?” Solomon said quietly. “For instance, Mrs. Goldrich and I might wonder how it is you recognize the address of—er…a notorious courtesan. We would not mention such a thing, of course, since that would be rude.” Casually, he removed the letter from Randolph’s apparently nerveless fingers and presented it to Constance.
Randolph flushed hotly. “I have never—”
“Mrs. Goldrich does not questionyourcharities,” Solomon interrupted.
Constance cast him a glance of considerable respect, which for some reason meant more to him than the knowledge that he was not being strictly honest. Damn the woman, she was a bad influence on him.
The sound of the baize door to the servants’ quarters seemed to remind Randolph the conversation could be overheard. He stepped back from Constance, and they all glanced down the hallway. Richards made his stately way toward the study and entered without knocking.
“Wretched policemen,” Randolph muttered. “What do they want with Richards? They’re disrupting the whole running of the house. This is too hard on my mother. Does she not have enough to bear?”
“I think you all do,” Constance said with unexpected kindness. She even touched Randolph’s arm in quick sympathy. “But you need to know, don’t you?”
He met her gaze in silence. He looked suddenly very young, very lost. “I’m not sure I want to. Nothing will ever be the same.”
The boy was having to grow up, not before time, perhaps, but before he was ready. Solomon could not imagine his doing this to himself, even in a fit of rage. And the stealing of the knife rather pointed away from rage to planning.
“Why the kitchen knife?” Solomon said aloud.
A spasm crossed Randolph’s face, but he was listening. So was Constance.
“There must surely be better weapons in the house. Shotguns? Pistols? Hunting knives?”
