Page 71 of Ghost in the Garden
Angela swore beneath her breath, muttering, “I could tell them that.”
It was another long hour before the detective turned up in the shape of Inspector Harris and his sergeant, Flynn, whom Constance remembered well from the murder at Greenforth Manor in the summer.
Flynn cast them a surprised grin and took out his notebook, while Harris merely scowled at them before sitting down opposite the widow.
“My sincere condolences, Mrs. Lambert,” he said. “I’m sorry to annoy you at such a time, but I’m afraid there are some upsetting questions I must ask you.”
“Ask,” Angela said indifferently.
“Thank you. When did you last see your husband alive?”
“We’d just gone into the dining room, so I suppose it was about seven o’clock.”
“But he did not dine?”
Angela shook her head. “The servants had already served the first course, and we were about to sit down when Duggin said there was some difficulty with the wine my husband had chosen.”
A faint spasm crossed Harris’s face, perhaps at the idea of someone like Lambert possessing enough knowledge to choose wine. Or even, knowing the man’s criminal background, sheer annoyance that he could afford it.
“What difficulty?” he asked mildly.
Angela shrugged. “Duggin couldn’t find it, though Caleb swore it was there. He went to fetch it.”
“Did Duggin go with him?”
“No, he waited in the dining room to open the wine. Neither of us expected my husband to be more than a moment or two.”
“But he was.”
Angela nodded. “I presumed he’d been distracted by some matter of business, which happened quite often. So after about five minutes, I dismissed Duggin to warn the kitchen to hold back the next courses, and ate my soup.”
“So when did you suspect something was wrong?”
“When my maid came and told me.” Angela flicked one hand toward Constance.
Sergeant Flynn cast her a startled glance.
Harris sighed. “And what exactly did she tell you?”
“That Caleb was dead,” Angela whispered, covering her eyes with her hand. “In the wine cellar.”
“What did you do then?”
“I sent for Duggin—apart from my husband, only he has the keys to the cellar—and told him to let me in.”
Harris leaned forward in his chair. “Then Mr. Lambert had locked the door behind him again? Even though he only went in to collect a bottle of wine?”
It was a good point, and Constance could see it register on Angela’s face.
She blinked rapidly. “I suppose he must have, for Duggin had to unlock the door.”
“It’s a large cellar,” Harris observed. “With several rooms. How did you know he was in that particular room at the top of the cellar stairs?”
“The door to it was open,” Angela said, rubbing her forehead hard, as though to dislodge the memory of what she had seen.
“Did you know about that room?” Harris asked.
“No. I never went into the cellar. That was Caleb’s business, as the kitchen was mine.”
