Page 88 of Murder in Moonlight
“But you remember those dreams,” she guessed. “And I’ll bet Mr. Randolph is one who sneaks into the kitchen in the middle of the night.”
Owen grinned. “Middle of the day, too. I know him.”
“Then I expect it’s not really a dream when you see him at night, helping himself from Cook’s larder.”
“Well, it’s a bit hazy-like. Misty. So I don’t know. In any case, he don’t do it so much now.”
“Who does?”
“Don’t know. I don’t see the family, except the mistress, or the guests much, so I don’t know ’em.”
Her pulse quickened. “Then you have seen—or dreamed—someone else in the kitchen, someone who’s not Mr. Randolph, taking food, perhaps?”
“Don’t know. I think it’s just a dream.”
“Would you know them again? This person from your dream?”
“Maybe.”
She gave him a little nudge with her elbow because he was looking worried. “It doesn’t matter if you can’t. Anyway, do your best to meet me here again at midnight and wait, will you?”
“Course I will,” Owen said. “Can I go now? Cook wants me to wash them pots…”
“Until later, then,” she said conspiratorially, and he grinned as he swaggered back off to the kitchen.
Constance, feeling one step closer to success, returned to her room to change for dinner.
She went downstairs early, in the hope of a last-minute discussion with Solomon. But she found the Albrights already in the drawing room, and, in fact, Solomon was the last to enter, just before dinner was announced.
He looked so splendid that her breath vanished. It felt almost like the first time she had seen him, when he saved her life. Only this time, he had everyone’s attention. The hum of somewhat strained conversation dropped suddenly as he drew all eyes.
That was when she realized it was deliberate. He could blend in or dazzle as he chose. And tonight, he meant to make his presence felt. Judging by his reception, he had begun well. She could almost see everyone watching him with fresh appreciation.He was not the kind of man who needed a billiard cue to inspire awe. He was every subtle inch a powerful man.
“Forgive me,” he said, bowing to Mrs. Winsom. “I appear to be late.”
“Not at all,” said the widow, slightly flustered as she went forward and took his arm. “In any case, after your heroism of this morning, we are all inclined to be lenient.” She seemed oddly energized after her earlier adventure, perhaps because she regarded Solomon as having saved her life. She certainly seemed inclined to cling to him, which was annoying when Constance wanted a private word.
“Policemen are not gentlemen, are they?” Ellen said to Constance, who turned to her in some surprise.
“I expect they are commanded by gentlemen,” she replied cautiously. “Why?”
“Oh, I was just wondering about ours. They don’t seem common to me.”
“Nor to me,” Constance said. If the policemen were “common,” what would they call her? Criminal?
But it was a curious subject for discussion, and Ellen’s color had heightened. “They are different, though.”
“Does that bother you?” Constance asked. “Do you mind them being in the house so much?”
Ellen shook her head. “Actually, no. I thought I would mind, but I don’t. I think he—they—are good men.”
Over Ellen’s shoulder, Constance met Solomon’s gaze for the briefest instant. He wanted to speak to her, too. But Richards announced dinner, and Mrs. Winsom, still on Solomon’s arm, led the way to the dining room. Constance sat between Randolph and Thomas Bolton, so there was no opportunity to speak during dinner either. She would just have to comply with their agreement, follow his lead, and observe.
Strict table formality had fallen by the wayside since Winsom’s murder, so conversation tended to be general.
Ivor Davidson said, “Where have our gallant police detectives gone today? Dare we hope they are leaving us in peace?”
“I doubt it,” Bolton said with distaste. “They were at the bank today, poking around and asking questions. Or so Blackford, our manager, informed me.”
