Page 7 of Evidence of Evil
It was probably true, although he had given no sign of it. After the first hour in his extremely comfortable coach, they had lapsed easily back into their old companionship, a mixture of impersonal conversation, comfortable silences, and banter. They saw the world in different ways, but his were always interesting. Even the night they had spent at a slightly run-down coaching inn had been comfortable, with separate rooms and a private parlor in which to dine.
Certainly, he made no demur at her departure now.
“Come and see my own rooms first,” Elizabeth said eagerly. “You will love them.”
This suited Constance very well, since she was keen to see how her old friend lived in her private moments. One could learn much from bedchambers.
In this case, however, Constance caught only a glimpse through a door that was slightly ajar. What Elizabeth showed her was a pretty, private sitting room overlooking the gardens at the front of the house. She had some bookshelves, a large sewing basket, an elegant little bureau for letter writing, two comfortable chairs, and a chaise longue. The colors were light and pleasing and very Elizabeth, with a seascape on one wall and a landscape on the other, both in harmonious shades.
“How lovely,” Constance said genuinely. “You must be very happy here. Do you have a dressing room, too?”
“No. Humph has that.” Elizabeth waved her hand to the ajar connecting door. “That is our bedchamber, and beyond that, his dressing room. I like it this way.”
“I can see why.” Constance perched on the chaise longue, spreading her fingers over the luxurious fabric. It felt new. “You are truly happy as Lady Maule?”
Elizabeth sighed. “I was until all this happened. It has taken the edge off a bit. The thing is, I know Humphrey is remembering that I am not entirely respectable, though he doesn’t want me to guess, and so we are tiptoeing around each other with politeness. Politeness does not come naturally to Humph!”
Constance blinked. “It doesn’t?”
Elizabeth laughed, warmth in her eyes. “Oh, I don’t mean he isrude, but he is downright, says exactly what he thinks, and is inclined to irascibility. I call him Sir Grumphy when he’s like that…” The laughter faded from her eyes. “You see why I need your help?”
“Because finding out what truly happened to the dead lady in the lake will make your marriage more comfortable.” To say nothing of keeping her from the hangman’s rope.
“What of your Mr. Grey?” Elizabeth asked, sitting down beside Constance at last. “I’ve rarely come across so devastating a man. Is he serious about you?”
“Don’t be silly,” Constance said dryly. “I told you we were friends, not lovers.”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “Then he did not come to…the establishment?”
“God, no, he is not that way inclined.”
“He prefers men?”
“He might, for all I know—which is only that he does not frequent establishments like mine. We met at a country house party in the summer and together solved the nasty mystery of our murdered host. So you see why I wanted you to invite him.”
“But he has agreed to pretend to be your husband?” Elizabeth said in some alarm. “I’m so sorry, Constance! I thought my notion was perfect for both respectability and comfort. But is it not incredibly difficult for both of you?”
Yes. “No,” Constance replied. “We shall play our parts to perfection.” She hesitated, then added, “Though I think it’s a mistake, Elizabeth. Secrets rarely improve a marriage,”
“Our kind of secrets do,” Elizabeth said bleakly.
*
When Constance fledfrom their bedroom in Lady Maule’s wake, Solomon watched with sardonic amusement. He guessed that her little joke was no longer quite so amusing in the harsh light of a four-poster bed and no dressing room, nor even a sofa. For his part, Solomon was only too aware of those things, especially considering his own reactions to her nearness.
A man would have to be at death’s door not to desire Constance Silver. But she was not his lover, she was his friend. And that, as she had perceived several months ago, was the most important thing to both of them.
It didn’t stop her teasing him for staidness or puritanism or whatever else she imagined governed his life.
Having sent away the servant who offered to unpack their bags, Solomon unpacked his own, putting his things away neatly and taking up as little space as possible. Then, since Constance had not returned, he left the room with the intention of going to the lake to see what could possibly have caused someone to fall in there in the dark, killing them outright on the way.
As he descended the stairs, he was aware of men’s voices below, one of which was loud and angry. The front door all but slammed as he rounded the half landing in time to see a tall man with prominently furious eyebrows stride across the hall.
He must have been around forty years old, characterful rather than handsome, and confident to the point of arrogance. Catching sight of Solomon, he halted and glared at him.
“Damned jackanapes!” he growled.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” Solomon said calmly, continuing his descent.
