Page 41 of Ghost in the Garden
It was a fair point, and one that made him uneasy. He had been so determined to keep Constance out of Devil’s Acre that he grasped at any excuse. Had he been on his own, without her to worry about and protect, what would he have done?
It was a question he kept coming back to over the next couple of hours. None of the characters they spoke to along the fog-shrouded riverbanks and stairs claimed to have seen an old woman with a donkey and a carpet.
“We’ve lost her,” Constance said, clearly as frustrated as he. “Even if she’s already dumped him in Devil’s Acre, we’ll have no proof it was her. No one there will speak to the police or to strangers. In fact, if the police even go there, it’s an excuse for a riot. Let’s hope the donkey was a false trail laid for our benefit. Shall we go back and break into the cellar again, as you suggested in the first place?”
Solomon had the feeling that even if the body had still been in the cellar when they left the garden, it would be gone by now. They had given Lambert a decent length of time to remove his evidence.
“Perhaps,” he said. “Though I don’t fancy running into Lambert’s thugs in the cellar.”
“I can go back into the house first and find out who is where. If we hurry, we’ll catch them before bedtime.”
He stared at her. She didn’t actually mean to go back there, did she? Not with a recent murder in the house and Angela Lambert making it clear where her first loyalties lay. He supposed Constance still had to collect her things, and bit back his rejection of her idea. She would have to be straight in and out again, though—would it be long enough to gather useful information? And would she be watched? If so, they couldn’t break into the cellar.
It was a lowering thought that they had made a mess of this between them. Their trivial ghost case had turned into a murder, and they had lost the evidence of the body, the weapon, and the scene of the crime.
Lambert had walked away from every crime he had ever committed. He must not be allowed to continue.
“Why would he kill Gregg?” Solomon said suddenly as they hurried back toward the Lamberts’ house. “Gregg was a useful public scapegoat and clearly hadn’t implicated him.”
“Maybe Gregg threatened to tell everything to the inquiry. Maybe Lambert was just afraid he would.”
“No crime has ever stuck to Lambert. Other people do his dirty work and pay the price while he continues on his way. Yet he killed Gregg on his own premises—or one of his minions did—and left the body there for days. Why would he risk that?”
“It wasn’t much of a risk,” Constance said. “No one goes into the wine cellar except Lambert and Duggin. And, possibly, our ghost.”
In spite of himself, Solomon shivered. “Gregg wasn’t married, was he? Did he have a sweetheart, a mistress who met the same fate?”
She turned her head to look at him. The mist was slightly less dense here, and her eyes glittered with both curiosity and doubt. “You’re giving serious thought to the supernatural explanation?”
“The Tizsas warned me not to rule it out. Apparently they had some sort of…encounter in Scotland.”
“Angela’s afraid it’s Cathy Knox,” Constance said. “She met her at the tenement before it fell, and Cathy begged for her help, to get Lambert to do something about the state of the building.”
“Did she?” Solomon said softly. “Then everyone knew how dangerous that place was. And everyone seems to know Lambert was involved. Perhaps I should speak to Knox again.”
The crossing sweeper had gone. A few people melted in and out of the mist, some of them the worse for drink. Solomon and Constance negotiated their way back to the mews behind Lambert’s house. His unease returned, more intense with every step.
He opened his mouth to say he would go with her, just as a familiar, ghostly figure glided through a high wall and into the lane.
Chapter Nine
For an instant,the blood froze in his veins. It seemed hewasseriously considering the supernatural explanation.
But of course she hadn’t wafted through a solid wall—she had surely walked out of Lambert’s garden door, where she paused a moment. Locking it?
Then she glided up the lane away from them, and his paralysis broke. Grabbing Constance’s hand, he broke into a run after the silvery figure.
The fog must indeed have been thinner, for they didn’t lose sight of her this time. She was slender and wispy and veiled, but she heard them. She glanced over her shoulder, as if with alarm, then broke into a run—much less smooth, much more human.
“Got her,” Constance gasped with some glee.
But ahead, just at the end of the lane, a carriage loomed out of the mist. The driver sat inhumanly still on his box. A horse stamped its foot. Solomon swore beneath his breath, and they ran faster. But the ghost wrenched open the carriage door, leapt up, and slammed it behind her as a whip cracked and the horse took off at the gallop.
Solomon and Constance ran around the corner after it, and as far as the main road, where they could no longer even hear it. They had no idea which direction it had taken, and there was no one around to ask.
Constance, still breathing raggedly, grasped his arm and turned back toward the lane. “Well. Whoever heard of a ghost traveling by hackney? At least we’ve proved she’s a real person. The question is, what the devil was she doing there?”
“At least she wasn’t carrying Gregg’s body,” Solomon said dryly.
