Page 87 of Murder in Moonlight
Only he hadn’t, not yet. One mistake did not mean massive fraud. But it was a significant one, and any replication would surely prove it.
Bolton, the cold, insignificant man with the beautiful wife, constantly overshadowed by his larger-than-life partner, even in the eyes of said beautiful wife. Had he stolen to give her things? Status and more wealth? Or just because he could, because he reveled in deceiving his arrogant friend?
And Alice had covered for him. In the end, perhaps because Walter had ended their affair, she had sided with her husband. He knew the house and grounds better than any other guest. He could easily have let Monster out last night, perhaps knowing only that the dog would stalk threats in the woods and crossing his fingers.
Because he had overheard Constance and him talking of trapping the murderer? That conversation had happenedafterthe dog had been freed, though Bolton might have somehow frightened it into bolting again after it came home as usual. That would explain its odd behavior in staying out all night and the next day. Monster really was more fearful and less terrifying than everyone thought. Bolton, the frequent visitor, could have known that…
Of course, so could other people. It was no proof of Bolton’s guilt. He had not been worried by the police looking over his books. He thought they were impenetrable, and he was mostly right. But ifSolomonwas right—and this, finally,feltright—then Bolton had the best motive of anyone to murder Winsom.
He sprang to his feet, closed the ledgers, and shoved them into the desk drawer. He locked it with the keys Harris had given him, then blinked in surprise at his watch. It was almost dinnertime and he was desperate to talk to Constance, not because he thought they should change their plan, just because he wanted to share with her.
He locked the study door behind him again, then had a quick look in the library, the drawing room, and the garden room. Finding them all empty, he ran upstairs, taking two at a time. But as he raced along the passage to her bedroom, the Albrights emerged from theirs, and he had to greet them pleasantly and keep on walking to his own.
He changed quickly into evening garb, then stared at himself in the mirror, striving to lose the gleam of triumph in his eyes. To bait the trap effectively, he would need to strike just the right balance. Gloating would not help. He needed to look knowledgeable and just a little naïve, conscious of his own power, but not overstating it. Nor did he want to look too gullible, or assume that his audience was.
Constance would help there, of course. If she kept to the script they agreed. He realized that he was not sure she would.She went her own way, did Constance Silver, confident in her own judgment and courage.
His reflection smiled, not the faint amusement or cursory amiability of his social smiles, but one that took him by surprise. He realized he was excited by this chase, filled with anticipation and determination. How long since he had felt this way? Years. Since he had expanded his shipping empire and found success to be easy.
Right now, he was no longer bored.
Beyond that, he would not think. He had enough on his mind.
He twitched his necktie to perfection, as Constance had once done for him, and flexed his fingers. Then he strode confidently down to dinner to bait his trap.
*
Constance, uneasy abouther own meager part in Solomon’s plan, followed her own instincts that afternoon by sending for Owen the boot boy. She waited for him in the hall, just beyond the baize door. The other servants must have been teasing him that he was in trouble for poorly polished shoes, for he emerged very warily, an inch of him at a time.
“It’s only me, Owen,” Constance said. “I need your help.”
As she had intended, the lad was flattered, squaring his shoulders and marching rather than slithering the rest of the way over to her.
“And you need to keep it secret,” she added. She kept her voice very quiet, made sure they were not overheard from behind any door or staircase.
Owen’s eyes gleamed as he nodded.
“Can you stay awake into the night? Or, better, wake yourself up at a certain time?”
“Depends,” he said dubiously. “Whattime?”
“Midnight?”
“I can listen for the clock chiming. You can hear it in the kitchen. I don’t usually notice now, except when I need to get up, but I can tell myself to listen for the twelve chimes. I can count to twelve.”
“Good for you. You won’t be punished if you don’t wake up, but it would be a big help to Mr. Grey and me if you could come up at midnight and wait for me here, or at the library, which is behind that large door. Mr. Grey will be in there. You might need to wait a long time, but don’t let anyone except us see you.”
“Course not. What d’you want me to do?”
“Be an extra set of eyes. You might be the only one who can help us.”
“Really?” he said in the disbelieving tone of one who knew when his leg was being pulled.
“I’m serious. I think you see more than you know, even when you’re asleep in your cozy corner. Don’t you half wake sometimes when the other servants are still up and talking? Or when someone sneaks into the kitchen for a midnight snack?”
“I dream it sometimes. I’m not afraid,” he assured her quickly, “’cause I like to hear the others. I know I’m not alone.”
Her heart went out to the boy, though she knew he wouldn’t thank her for the sympathy. The other servants were probably the only family he’d ever known, the only people who’d ever been kind to him.
