Page 81 of Murder in Moonlight
“Someone else is to blame for that,” he said gently. “All of us, particularly you, need to know who that was.”
“You are right, of course. But somehow it seems less important than the fact he is dead.”
She was burying her head in the sand, and she knew it.
“You will live more easily, and keep yourself and your family safer, when you know.”
She did not answer or look at him, and with a sudden jolt he wondered if she did know. Or merely thought she did.
He must tread carefully here. One hint of interrogation and he would lose her.
“You know everyone at Greenforth better than anyone else,” he said carefully. “You could help Inspector Harris to find the truth, to end this awful uncertainty for you and your family.”
Unless itwasone of her family. Who else would she cover for?
She nodded slowly. “I will think,” she promised. “Seriously.” She walked on, taking a narrower, less-trodden path into a thicker part of the wood. There was no cornflower or meadowsweet here to distract her. She just seemed to be going as far away from the house as possible. He felt a stab of sympathy for that.
“The police inspector wants me to say it is Alice,” she confided. “But I know it is not. She is as grieved as I.” A mirthless smile dawned and vanished. “In her own way. It must be a stranger, and yet one he has annoyed.” She glanced up suddenly, catching his eye. “It must be either Mr. Davidson, because Walter refused to invest with him, or Mrs. Goldrich. I still don’tknow why she is here, but it is clearly not for Randolph. I think she came for Walter.”
“Then why would she stay?” Solomon was only half listening. As before in these woods, he had picked up the sounds of another presence, unseen but close enough to be alarming.
“I suppose she could have fled before the police arrived,” Mrs. Winsom allowed. “But surely the police would have suspected her more and found her anyway?”
Not if they hadn’t known her real name. Would Solomon have told them? “How well do you know Ivor Davidson?” he asked instead. “Did you know he is in financial difficulties?”
“No. But then, I would not normally hear such things.”
Solomon, his skin prickling all over with unease, turned her back the way they had come. “I think we should return to the house. This is far enough for your first outing in days.”
She accepted his dictate, clearly used to obeying the superior wisdom of men. Though after only one step, she halted, frowning. “Do you hear that?”
He did indeed hear the rustling in the undergrowth, and it was drawing nearer. Then he heard something else, an animal’s growl, and instinctively stepped in front of Mrs. Winsom, putting himself between her and whatever animal this was. Yet surely it could only be a dog…
“Keep walking,” he said quietly. “Don’t run.”
But she seemed rooted to the spot, resisting his urging, staring into the undergrowth. A huge bull mastiff loped out, its tread purposeful, its lips curled back in a snarl that showed his slavering fangs. Randolph’s pet, Monster.
“Oh, no, he’s got out!” Mrs. Winsom wailed in fright. She flapped her arms wildly at the dog. “Go home, Monster!” she all but squealed.
The animal tossed its head, not slowing in the slightest. Then it leaned back to spring, and Mrs. Winsom gave a squeal ofterror. “He goes for the throat!” she shrieked, her voice still high with fear. “Stay still! Don’t move a muscle! I’ll fetch Randolph—he’s the only one who can handle Monster!”
Before he could stop her, she snatched her hand from his arm and dashed along the path. The dog immediately swerved toward her, so Solomon, almost resigned to his fate, lunged into the beast’s path. Distracted again, it halted and stared at him from its muddy, malevolent eyes.
How long would it take Deborah Winsom to return to the house and bring Randolph back with her? Too long. It was up to Solomon to save himself. Or not.
“What are you doing out here?” he asked it conversationally. “Are you not supposed to be eating your head off in your kennel? Or did you bring Randolph with you?”
The dog cocked one ear. Its lip uncurled.
“Ah, you recognize your master’s name. That’s good.”I think. “What’s the matter? Are you hungry?” He’d never met a dog that wasn’t, but this one, by all accounts, including the gamekeeper’s, was seriously disturbed.
Solomon moved very slowly, lifting his hand to his pocket. The dog took a step nearer, growling deep in its throat. Just a warning. It wasn’t a snarl. So Solomon took the chance, curling his fingers around the horse treats in his pocket. He brought his hand out very slowly, hoping the food smell would appease Monster. Though how well slightly fluffy pieces of carrot and lumps of sugar went down with dogs, he had no idea.
Monster was still looking him in the eye.
“Sit,” Solomon said, firm but friendly, and with very low expectations he hoped the dog could not read.
Monster did not obey. But he dropped his eyes to Solomon’s open hand.
