Page 70 of Murder in Moonlight
Richards shifted impatiently. “More than that. I know she seems cold and haughty, but she isn’t. She’s clever and controlling and she’s always been besotted with him, with Mr. Winsom. Believe me, she’s too proud to take rejection well, and I know he ended their affair that evening. She killed him.”
*
“What do youthink?” Constance asked Solomon as they returned to the main part of the house. Without either of them suggesting it, they both turned toward the side door. “Is Richards right about Alice Bolton?”
“I don’t know. He still has the best motive out of everyone, and he has a history of trying to blame others for things they didn’t necessarily do.”
Constance pounced. “Does he, though?”
Solomon opened the door, and she sailed through, impatient to talk without being overheard. Randolph was striding down the path from the stables, so she turned toward the garden instead. No one else was around at this time, since the gardener had finished for the day and the household would be changing for dinner. Even in a crisis like this, formalities were rigidly observed. They seemed to be all that held these people together.
“Does he blame others falsely?” Solomon said. “He admitted it.”
“No, his proof might have been false, but his accusations weren’t. Alice and Walterwerehaving an affair. And he believes she killed him.”
“Randolph didn’t steal the coins.”
“No, but it could be argued he is living off his father and contributing nothing. Not uncommon among the upper classes, where work is a dirty word, but among normal people, it is not admired.”
Solomon cast her a curious glance. “And Walter worked for the money they all lived off. You see Richards as some kind of moral arbiter?”
“Hardly. But he has his own code. You saw that, too. I don’t think he’s a murderer, just an angry, grieving, misguided man.”
“A generous interpretation. So you believe his accusation against Alice Bolton?”
“Emotions run high when people are intimate. What may begin as casual, transactional, need not remain that way for either party. And I think she loved Walter for years before their affair began.”
“Servants do see a different side of people,” he allowed. “They can bear the brunt of bad moods and ill nature and see private moments because their masters get so used to their presence that they are not noticed.”
“Exactly. I could imagine Alice hurt and humiliated, angry to have her excitement, her joy in life taken away. Beside Walter, her husband is a somewhat…colorless man.”
“Do you find him so?” Solomon sounded surprised.
“Don’t you?”
“No, but then, I prefer subtle people.”
Her insides twisted.I have to stop taking his every remark as personal.
“We’re no nearer a solution, are we?” she said lightly. “It could still be any of them. They all have a motive of some kind, and the garden seems to have been so full of people around the time of his death that I’m surprised we didn’t fall over each other.”
Chapter Fifteen
Coming back fromthe kennels, Randolph saw Constance emerge from the side door. His heart lifted because she looked so lovely in the late afternoon sunshine, hatless and carefree. The troubles weighing him down began to lift at the very sight of her, even though he had twice now offended her by saying the wrong thing or asking the wrong questions.
He had recognized her handwriting on the letter earlier that day. He should never have looked, let alone admitted it, but the address had shocked him.
Not that he had ever been to Constance Silver’s discreet establishment in Mayfair. It was as difficult to get into as the most exclusive London club. But a friend had once promised to get him a card, and described the wonders of her salons and her girls. Randolph had been undeniably shocked that his Mrs. Goldrich should be writing to someone there. And then came the stunning realization of the same Christian name. Constance Silver. Constance Goldrich. It had felt like a connection, and he had blurted something stupid and offensive that allowed Grey to tell him off in front of her.
Now, at least, he had the opportunity to apologize and make everything right again… Only Grey was behind her again. Irritation threatened to surge into anger, especially when he was sure she saw him and yet turned away toward the formal garden, apparently deep in conversation with Grey.
What is he to her? She ismyguest, inmyhouse. There was an insidious, guilty pleasure in those words. My house. My bank.
He strode into his house, seething.
Mrs. Goldrich had once seemed so immeasurably out of his reach that he had been amazed she actually accepted his invitation to Greenforth. Now at least he was a man of substance. And yet she had hardly paid him any attention since she had arrived, preferring the company of his father, his sister, even Davidson, and now Solomon Grey.
Wealth-wise, of course, Grey was in a different class. But was he even a gentleman? Randolph had never met him during the Season, nor at any of his clubs. He only knew the man’s name through overheard business conversations. Surely Constance would not be influenced by mere wealth?
