Page 8 of Evidence of Evil
A crack of unexpected laughter greeted this. “Not you! Sorry, damned snooping policemen put me in a filthy temper.” He walked toward Solomon, thrusting out his hand. “Humphrey Maule. You must be my wife’s Mr. Grey.”
They shook hands. “I am, of course, at her ladyship’s feet, although I confess it is the first time I have met her. Solomon Grey. Thank you for your hospitality under what I gather are difficult circumstances.”
“It’s a damnable mess,” Maule said frankly. “But I’m very glad Elizabeth has a friend to be with her. Very unpleasant for her, you know.”
“Did you say you had the police here?”
“Bloody Scotland Yard,” Maule snarled.
“Truly? Who called them in?”
“I did,” Maule said bitterly. “I’m the magistrate. Niall is accusing my wife. I need unbiased investigators. But the fools don’t know their own place.”
“I see.”
Maule raised one of his beetling brows. “Elizabeth tells me you and your wife are good at puzzles like these. I must say, I don’t envy your familiarity with such matters.”
“No,” Solomon agreed. “But if our past experience helps, we are glad to share it. Constance is very observant of human nature, sees things the rest of us often do not. And my mind cannot help but worry at puzzles till they’re solved.”
“Chess player, are you?”
“I enjoy the game.”
“Then we’ll play later. What do you think of this mess, then?”
“I think I don’t yet know all the facts,” Solomon said, for he was sure Lady Maule was keeping things back. If she wasn’t telling downright lies. “Would you mind showing me the lake? And where the poor woman’s body was found?”
Maule shrugged. “Why not?”
It was a pleasant September afternoon, although the heat had gone from the sun. Some of the trees were already beginning to change color, though few leaves were falling. Maule, who seemed to do everything in a hurry, strode around the house to a path that led in the direction Solomon had earlier glimpsed the water from his bedroom window.
“These are the willows the place is named for,” Maule said, waving one hand around him. “Some of them are hundreds of years old. Makes it a lovely spot in the summer.”
“Or any time, I should think.”
The lake was indeed beautiful. Scattered with bright water lilies of such an intense pink they were almost red, it was overhung in places by willow branches, in others open to the sunlight. With dappled shadows and reflected colors, the place had an air of magic that made Solomon think of Arthurian legends and the tales of mischievous spirits his mother had told in his boyhood.
Maule set off around the lake, dodging beneath willow branches. “Cranston, my head gardener, was tidying up the paths first thing in the morning when he saw her floating among the lilies. Just aboutthere.” He pointed two or three yards away from the bank. “She can’t have moved much, so I think she must have gone into the water around there, too.”
It was possible. There was a gap between the trees, and the bank was a little loose. A large tree root poked out of the ground.
“What if she tripped on that, hit her head unluckily hard, and slid into the water?” Solomon suggested.
“That’s what I thought, even before the autopsy proved she was dead before she went in. It fits either way, except there is no wound to her head. There should besomethingto show such a serious injury.”
“True. Was she dressed?”
“In her nightgown,” Maule said, blushing with unexpected bashfulness. “Which was why I thought but never mentioned suicide. Why do you ask?”
“Could she have gone in swimming?Couldshe swim?”
Maule’s bushy eyebrows flew up. “I’ve no idea. Never entered my head. Can’t think it likely in her nightgown!”
Solomon shrugged. “It might have seemed amusing to her, then the cold of the water made her heart fail.”
“You’re clutching at straws. Like me.”
“Just thinking aloud. What was she like, this woman?”
