Page 90 of Murder in Moonlight
“If that is what it takes,” Solomon said steadily. He glanced around the table. “Look, you don’t need to agree with me. If you don’t, speak to the inspector, who, I’m sure, will be here first thing in the morning. But I shall be in the library all night.”
“Aren’t you afraid?” Constance taunted him. “To invite a murderer there in the dead of night? A man—or woman—who has killed before and who has nothing to lose? I’m sure theywould rather murder you too than depend on the mercy of Mrs. Winsom.”
“No,” Solomon said, with a blind, naïve sort of arrogance that almost had her convinced, and she knew what he was about. “I have come to know you all during these last few difficult days, and I know that one of us is eaten with remorse and shame, even if they don’t yet know it. They will not hurt me, for if they do, they have lost their last chance of redemption. The rest of you will not remain silent, and the police will know to arrest their suspect. Then the matter is out of all our hands.”
“I for one will have nothing to do with this,” Bolton announced.
“Nor will I,” said Peter.
“You don’t need to decide now,” Solomon said. “You might change your mind overnight. Either way, I shall be in the library. No one has anything to lose by this proposal.”
“Except you,” Mrs. Winsom said hoarsely. “Mrs. Goldrich is right about the danger.”
Solomon smiled. “I can look after myself. But I won’t have to.”
It was supreme arrogance. Constance saw the contempt and the pity in the faces around the table. No one betrayed fear or determination. But then, she already knew their murderer was skilled in hiding.
In the early days, she had once had to winkle a thief out of her establishment. It had been one of the girls who was loudest in her praise of Constance. Constance had caught her by guile. She tried to tell herself that this was no more serious, but her stomach was clenching.
“Good luck, my friend,” Davidson murmured.
He will need it.
Chapter Nineteen
As far asSolomon could tell, they all believed he meant it, even Richards, who stood by the door, his lip curled at this proof of how the gentry regarded themselves as above the law. And Constance had played her part well, voicing derision and letting him brush it off to be all the more convincing.
No one lingered over the port. Solomon only entered the drawing room to bid everyone goodnight and announce that he would be in the library in five minutes. He then went upstairs to splash water on his face and fetch a blanket—and a small, accurate pistol—which he took with him to the library.
He hoped to meet Constance on the way, just to be sure she would take especial care around Bolton—in fact, around both Boltons if he was right about Alice being in league with Thomas, at least after the event in covering up the crime.
Deliberately, he turned up the lamps, left the curtains open, and chose a book to read before he settled in one of the armchairs and prepared for a long night.
The drawing room clock chimed the eleventh hour.
Solomon fully expected Bolton to come, although not until much later. It was, he reflected, a nice touch to have announced he would have nothing to do with the proposed scheme. It fitted the character Bolton portrayed, of slightly prissy, inflexible accountant who thought all of life was as disciplined as numbers. But the worm had turned.
He had probably known he could not kill Winsom face to face. He could only do it in the dark, from behind. And whatever nonsense had been spouted during dinner, Solomon had no intention of allowing the murderer to escape the law.
He tried to concentrate on his book, but thoughts of Constance distracted him. Worse, he didn’t mind. He liked thinking of her, liked the visions of her that danced behind his eyes. She had really feared the dog would harm him.
He was not used to people caring.
The clock struck midnight.
Solomon rose and turned down the lamps, leaving only the one beside him shining brightly. Moonlight streamed palely through the windows, not as strong as the night of the murder, but enough to make out any figure approaching the window or entering by the door.
He loosened his necktie, then sat back down and spread the blanket across his knees. Taking the pistol from his pocket, he laid it in his lap and placed his book over it to hide it. All he had to do now was stay awake. Which, normally, was easy.
Normally.
*
As they hadagreed, Constance retired to her bedchamber when everyone else went to theirs. Mrs. Winsom tottered off first, accompanied by Miriam, who did not return to the drawing room. No one discussed Solomon’s proposal, but everyone seemed to be thinking about it, for they were mostly silent, gazing at their hands or into the empty fireplace.
Everyone else went upstairs together, perhaps to prove they were not sloping off to the library to confess. As they said polite goodnights, Constance wondered if in just a couple of hours, they would really know the identity of Walter Winsom’s killer.
On reaching her own room, she did not undress, but stood gazing out at the moonlight for several minutes.
