Page 38 of Ghost in the Garden
She took it and moved back the way she had come. That first closed door in the cellar had caught her attention. She took the precaution of putting her ear to the wood first, then, hearing nothing within, she pushed it. It was locked. And this time, when she thrust her finger and then a lockpick into it, there was no key on the other side. Only a faint whiff of dead rat that made her uneasy enough to raise her candle and glance around the walls and the floors for any signs of glaring eyes. Nothing scuttled.
She took the other pick from her pocket, considering that she might as well try. But her hand closed first around the key to the garden door. On impulse, she tried the key in the lock before her, and it turned smoothly.
Catching her breath, she rose to her feet, picked up her candle, and pushed open the door. The smell was strong enough here to make her gag, but no dead rodents were obvious, only a rolled-up carpet.
If the rats were living—or dying—in there, she didn’t want to know. She turned her back on the carpet, but there was nothing else to see except an axe propped up in the far corner.
Why keep one rolled-up carpet in a dank cellar behind a locked door?
Her mouth went dry.
Forcing herself, she put one foot in front of the other until she could reach out with the tip of her toe and touch the carpet. Something solid was wrapped in its depths. Most of the way along.
A slight movement in the corner of her eye made her jerk her head around in fright. Solomon stood there, filling the doorway, his nostrils wrinkling. Their eyes met.
He came in and crouched down, grasping the loose end of the carpet before raising his gaze to hers once more. He jerked his head toward the door.
Though she moved out of the way of whatever might roll out, she did not leave. Solomon tugged, hard, and the carpet rolled and unfurled until its innards were revealed.
A man with staring eyes and blood in his hair.
“Dear God,” she whispered, her hand over her mouth. It was what she had feared, but the smell… She raised her candle with one shaking hand. “Who is he?”
“Huxley Gregg,” Solomon said. “No wonder he’s never at home.”
He bent and turned the head. Constance did not want to see the wound. She had seen others in the past. Instead, she walked over to the axe in the far corner. Even in the dim candlelight, the brown, dried bloodstains were obvious. Fragments she didn’t want to think about clung to the blade.
“Time for you to come out,” Solomon said grimly. He no longer troubled to lower his voice. “We have to report this to the police. Inspector Harris?”
She licked her lips, unsure why this seemed wrong. “Not yet. We should tell Angela first. She’s our client.”
“And her husband probably did this.”
“Yes, but… Ten minutes, Sol. I owe her that much.”
He straightened, staring at her. “I don’t see why.”
“Please,” she said shakily.
He hesitated, his mouth tightening, and then he took her arm and walked briskly to the door. “You’re not going back into that house alone.”
“Come with me, then.”
She was almost surprised when he agreed. But then, he was determined she should leave in one way or another.
Ida opened the kitchen door to her knock. “What you doing out there?” she demanded. “And who the hell’s this?”
A quick glance showed Constance that the kitchen was otherwise empty. The servants must have been upstairs, clearing the dining room. “A friend. We need to speak to Mrs. Lambert. For her sake. Don’t tell the others, not yet.”
Ida stared at her, then stood back from the door to let them in. “Hurry up. She’s in the parlor. He’s in his office.”
As soon as she pushed back the baize door, Constance could hear the laughter and a certain amount of flirting coming from the dining room. Ignoring it, she hurried straight across the hall, past Lambert’s office to Angela’s parlor. She entered after only the most cursory of knocks, Solomon directly behind her.
Angela had been busily writing at her desk, but at the interruption, she jerked her head up, frowning sharply.
“We need to talk to you,” Constance said when Solomon had closed the door. “We saw your ghost. And we followed it into the cellar—at least, we think we did. But I’m afraid something else is more important. There’s a dead body in the cellar. We believe it’s Huxley Gregg.”
Angela shot to her feet. “What? Nonsense.”
