Page 89 of Ghost in the Garden
Duggin watched her as she walked toward Ida’s door, but he made no effort to stop her, only shrugged and turned to Solomon.
“So why don’t you think Iris did it, then?”
Oh yes, he was complacent, imagining he was toying with Solomon, who had seen the truth long before Constance had allowed herself to. No wonder he had tried to ger her to leave the house…
Her heart in her mouth, she knocked on the cook’s door. And heard nothing. She steeled herself, opened the door, and walked in.
The room was gloomy, but not dark, since a modicum of daylight drifted from a barred window that looked only onto the close-by boundary wall at the side of the house. It stank of old gin and new.
For an instant, Constance imagined she was gazing at pile of bedclothes. But she wasn’t.
Ida sat on the bed, her legs crossed like a child, a bottle halfway to her mouth—a moment frozen in time like a painting or a photograph.
When she lowered the bottle, Constance felt her breath rush out in relief. Had she really imagined the woman was dead inthatposition? A most unlikely rigor mortis.
“Hallo, my love,” Ida said in a surprised tone.
“I came to see if you were well,” Constance managed. “You’re usually cooking at this time of day.”
“She don’t have much appetite right now,” Ida said dreamily. “Truth to tell, ain’t got much meself. But there, life goes on, and you’re probably right.” She took a last swig of gin and shoved in the stopper she held clutched in her other hand. “You staying on with her, then?”
“Probably not,” Constance said. “But I wanted to help sort out the mess.”
“You leave it to her. She can sort out anything.” Ida smiled at nothing in particular and distractedly pulled the stopper out of her bottle again. Generously, she offered it to Constance, who sank down on the edge of the bed to take it from her.
“She is a strong woman,” Constance said. “One needs to be in this world.”
“You’re not wrong. It’s a blow, though. She loved him very hard, you know.”
“And yet she killed him in the end.”
Ida didn’t even look surprised. She just smiled and held out her hand for the bottle. Constance hung on to it.
“I just don’t understand the timing,” she said. “There were so few minutes she could have done it, and there was no blood on her clothes.”
“Oh, time’s whatever you want it to be. Some people call midday dinnertime. I was one of ’em till we had to learn nob ways. So seven o’clock is dinnertime now. No one even looks at the clock.”
Constance’s breath caught. “You made it early.”
“First course on the table by quarter to the hour.”
“And he was in the cellar two minutes later…” Then Duggin and Angela had both lied. They hadn’t lingered in the dining room together. One—or both—had followed Lambert into the cellar, distracted him into the padded room, and killed him. While Constance and Solomon had been talking, watching in the garden, at least ten minutes before Iris had arrived.
“Apron,” Constance blurted. “There must be a bloody apron or something in the laundry…”
“Don’t be daft,” Ida said. As if she couldn’t help it, her eyes strayed to the floor at the far side of the bed.
She’sgot the bloodstained apron!
Her heart thundering, Constance held out the bottle to Ida, who took it. Hopefully it would distract her…
Constance rose, and those bright, red-tinged eyes followed her.
Ida smiled winningly. “Don’t be daft, girl. I’m just helping you understand, because I like you. She likes you. But it won’t do you no good to betray us. I’ll just deny it, and you can’t prove nothing without my testimony.”
“And a bloodstained apron,” Constance said. She could see it now, stained dark in streaks and crumpled into a ball, half under the bed.
“I’m the cook. I get animal blood on me all the time. That’s why I wear an apron. Leave it, love. You know he had it coming.”
