Page 73 of Murder in Moonlight
“If the work is only just completed, then you have a little time,” Bolton said. “At least—”
“That is the problem,” Albright interrupted, all the stiffness back. “It was completed months ago, and he kept forgetting to give me the bank draught.”
“Forgetting?” Bolton said with undisguised disbelief. “Walter?”
“I cannot otherwise account for it,” Albright said coldly.
“Sadly, I can,” Bolton said. “He never intended to give you the extra money. I think you know that.”
“How dare you, sir? I am not in the habit of lying! Nor was my father-in-law.”
“And yet you have said yourself there is no record of this arrangement. I cannot act without it, and nor can Randolph. You must reapply for the extra money in the usual way.”
“Sir, I am family! Randolph would never wish his sister to be in such a position!”
“Then you should not have put her there.”
A cue bumped against the door, and Solomon quietly retreated before he was discovered. But the odd conversation gave him considerable food for thought.
He lit a candle from the lamp at the foot of the stairs and went up to his room. Apart from the billiard room, the house appeared to be silent. In order to get to his own room, he had to pass the door he knew was Constance’s. A light shone beneath it.
The temptation was too great.
He paused, looked back and forth along the passage, then scratched softly at the door. It opened at once, taking him by surprise. The sight of him clearly surprised her too, for he could have sworn even in the flickering candlelight that color suffused her face. Even fully dressed as she was, she could not afford to linger with him in this position, so he stepped forward into the room, causing her to back away.
He closed the door softly behind him, and by the time he turned to face her, she had recovered fully enough to mock him.
“Why, Solomon. You are indeed a man of many surprises.”
“No, I’m not,” he said. Her room was surprisingly neat and tidy, the bed still made, no clothes left lying about. Even her cloak and bonnet hung on a hook on the door, next to the rather delicious robe he had seen her wearing in the kitchen. He brought his attention back to her face. “You wanted to talk to me.”
“I had thought the garden when everyone was asleep.”
He blinked. “Because that turned out so well the first time?”
“Someone had to find the body. And now I’m already on thin ice. If you’re found here—”
“On thin ice how?” he interrupted.
“I had to tell Randolph why I came to Greenforth.”
“Does he know?”
“My name? I expect it won’t take him long to work it out. You might find me gone at any time.” She frowned, which somehow never marred her looks. “It is inevitable, of course, but I am loath not to finish this.”
“Whatever their outrage, I can’t see Harris letting you go until itisfinished.”
“There is that.” She lifted her chin. “Will you still speak to me, Solomon Grey, once I am exposed as the notorious Constance Silver?”
“Yes. I’ll go to the garden and wait for you.”
She reached to stop him, then dropped her hand without touching him. He found himself curiously disappointed. He liked her to take his arm, pat his hand, even in jest. “You’re here now. Any fresh information, or insights to offer? What should be our next move?”
She sat down sideways at her desk, casual and graceful, leaving the nearby armchair for him.
He sat, trying not to see the bed at the corner of his vision and to concentrate on the ideas that had been spinning around his head.
“Peter Albright borrowed money from Walter to extend his vicarage. Apparently he was promised more and did not receive it. As a result, he is now in debt. From what I overheard, Walter kept putting Albright off. Either that or Albright is trying to pull the wool over Bolton’s eyes—which is what Bolton clearly thinks, because he’s refusing to do anything about it or treat him any differently to any other customer of the bank. He is a harder man than he looks.”
