Page 77 of Murder in Moonlight
“Don’t be deceived, inspector. Some of the young women who leave her establishment emerge as cooks, secretaries, shop assistants, maids, and housekeepers. An accountant would not surprise me. However, if you will allow me a glance…”
Constance rose, and was about to leave them to it when a thought struck her. “Does Mr. Bolton know you have these?”
“Yes,” Flynn said at once. “If I hadn’t told him, the manager at the bank certainly would. He was very reluctant to let me take anything at all. Mr. Bolton never batted an eyelid. He seemed quite happy for us to look.”
Not the behavior of a guilty man. But perhaps that of a man who had other things on his mind—like the guilt of his wife? Did he really not know about her affair with his partner? Would he even care? Most men regarded women, particularly wives, as their possessions…
As she wandered along the hall toward the breakfast parlor, she thought that Solomon, who had after all been born into a society that kept slaves, did not appear to think that way. As faras she knew. But how interesting that he was aware of her girls going into other work… Had he asked Elizabeth? Or come across one of them in his own employment? Was that why he was so surprised she did not abandon her profession herself?
And why did every line of speculation come back to Solomon? Her mind should be on the mystery and finding the murderer. She needed to get back to her own life soon. Even though she still didn’t know if the Winsoms were her family. Even if she wanted them to be. She did not care for what she knew of Walter, however warm and charming he had been. His children were a different matter. They seemed to need looking after, somehow. That was Constance’s forte.
Her other forte, of course, was that she understood people. She had seen the good and bad in most. Moreover, the livelihoods and the very lives of herself and her employees depended very largely on her judgment. These people were not so very different from the men who spilled through her establishment doors every night, or the women they came for.
She had been too diffident, too wary in her judgments at Greenforth. Because somewhere she wanted to be one of them. Because she knew she wasn’t. She had imagined she didn’t understand them, but she did. They had the same weaknesses, the same emotions and ambitions as anyone else. It was she who had hampered herself from looking, from relying on all the instincts and experience that had kept her alive and made her rich.
The tension in the breakfast parlor was palpable. The longer the uncertainty dragged on, with its inevitable suspicions and fears and doubts, the more powerful the strain on nerves, relationships, even sanity. Was the murderer just hoping it would all die down with no culprit ever found? After all, it was Richards who had sought to blame Alice Bolton, not whoever had actually done the killing.
It was possible Richards would still be charged with the crime, but Constance didn’t believe he’d done it. The first pain and rage at his brother’s death hadn’t made him start killing Winsoms and Boltons. Instead, he had begun a much subtler revenge. He was no killer.
Harris’s best guest was Alice Bolton, who stood beside her now at the sideboard, helping herself to kedgeree. Constance didn’t believe that either. But then, she had some sympathy for a strong, passionate woman tied to a weak, cold man whose entire focus was his work.
“The scrambled egg is cold,” Alice told her with distaste as she was about to take some. “If you want it, ring for more.”
“I’ll just have toast,” Constance said. “I’m not really hungry.”
The table was unusually crowded this morning, with everyone present at once, except for Solomon and Mrs. Winsom. Perhaps no one had slept well. Strain and tiredness showed in everyone’s face—except Peter Albright, who looked even more tranquil than normal, despite what Solomon had overheard last night. Perhaps, in the end, he had talked Bolton into a favorable loan. Or perhaps Randolph had helped.
With her revived confidence in her own instincts, Constance chose to take the vacant chair next to Ivor Davidson. Had it been him skulking outside her door last night, listening? Certainly, his eyes were veiled as he wished her a pleasant good morning. And there might have been significance in his amiable question, “Did you sleep well?”
“As well as could be expected in these difficult circumstances,” she replied. Across the table, Randolph was watching her. It could so easily have been him at her door, as he had been the night of the murder. Only he knew now her suspicions about their relationship… She turned back to Davidson. “Did you?”
“Like a baby,” he said lightly.
He was lying. There were deep shadows under his eyes. The man was exhausted. And scared.
“Excellent,” she said, “then you will be ready for that long-threatened game of billiards this morning.”
“Is that quite appropriate?” Alice said, sounding genuinely shocked.
“I doubt my father would object to his guests playing billiards,” Miriam said with unexpected shortness.
“I was thinking more of your mother,” Alice said.
Miriam stared at her. “Were you?”
It was the first sign of hostility to Alice that Constance had seen from any of the family. Ellen dropped her fork in surprise. Thomas Bolton stared studiously into his teacup.
“I was,” Alice managed. Her face had paled, her lips stiff as she spoke. “But you are right to point out that this is not my house or my concern. I beg your pardon.” She rose and left the room.
Randolph frowned at his sister. “Was that necessary? Do we have to be at each other’s throats?”
Miriam met his gaze. “You decide, Randolph. You are head of the family.”
Everyone else finished breakfast in an uncomfortable silence. Constance, considering everyone with new dispassion, found it interesting that Mr. Albright did not censure his wife by as much as a look. In fact, when she was finished, he held her chair for her to rise, and left with her.
Constance left shortly afterward and found Davidson at her heels.
“Now?” he suggested.
