Page 67 of Ghost in the Garden
“C-Caleb?” she whispered.
Solomon remembered the barrel by the door and found the candle and matches by feel. He struck a match and lit the waiting candle, before turning and facing their ghost.
Iris Fraser stared back, white and frightened. “Who are you? Where is Caleb?”
“Eating his dinner, I should think,” Constance replied. “I’m afraid we work for Mrs. Lambert.”
A faint moaning sound issued from her. “It isn’t what you think. It’s over. I won’t ever see him again. I came to tell him.Pleasego away!”
“You’re frightened of him,” Constance said. “I think you’d better tell us everything, so we can decide how to protect you.”
“You don’t understand! My best—myonly—protection is for you to bugger off. This’ll be hard enough without him finding you here. He’ll think I blabbed!”
“Then talk quickly,” Constance said. “You must know he has a house full of thugs.”
She moaned again. “At least they can’t come down here unless he calls ’em. Here, let me lock that door. You were too rough, you’ll have torn all the ivy…”
Brushing past both Constance and Solomon, she opened the door enough to reach her arm around it. Leaves rustled and the door closed silently. She locked it, leaving the key in the door.
Habit, thought Solomon. This was how Constance had got in before, turning the key from the other side of the lock. “What do you do here?”
She gave him an incredulous look, the candlelight exaggerating her expression almost grotesquely. “What d’you think? We have an arrangement. Twice a week. He gives me presents and Frank sells them.”
“Your husbandknowsabout this arrangement?” Solomon said with distaste.
“It’s the only way to escape,” Iris said defensively.
“And one gets used to little bits of luxury,” Constance said. Unlike Solomon, she wasn’t judging. She understood desperation, the doubtful pleasure of having more than your neighbors did. And yet she could never be Iris. “So you’re his lover and he gives you presents. Every Thursday and Saturday.”
“It’s a secret,” Iris said, her eyes darting about. “Don’t tell her nibs, or she’ll have a go at him and he’ll blame me.”
“He doesn’t want her to know,” Solomon said impatiently. Most men would keep such arrangements from their wives.
“She loves him.”
“And he loves her,” Constance murmured.
“Maybe.” Iris’s voice was less certain now. “Not sure he’s capable of that, but she means more than anyone else. If he can love anyone, it’s her. He relies on her. And she on him.”
“The perfect marriage,” Solomon said wryly. “Does she not forgive his peccadillos? Forgive me, but you can’t imagine you’re the first or the last.”
“She forgivesmostly,” Iris said.
Solomon lifted the candle high. “What happened to Huxley Gregg?”
“Got done in in Devil’s Acre, didn’t he?”
“Actually, he got done in here,” Constance said, pointing to the door on the left, now closed. “Through there, in fact. Why would Lambert kill Gregg?”
“Christ, I don’t know. Why does he do anything? Maybe Gregg made a pass at his wife. Maybe he looked at him wrong. Maybe he was stealing. How would I know?”
“Aren’t you afraid of your arrangement with such a man?” Constance asked.
“Yes,” Iris said. “Not that he ever hurt me, mind, and the presents were nice. But I don’t want people to find out. I want to be a respectable woman, a proper wife.”
Constance’s breath caught. It might have been laughter, though Solomon couldn’t tell for sure. “It’s not exactly a cozy love nest, is it? Couldn’t he do better than a grimy cellar? Or is that what arouses him?”
“You’ve got a filthy mind, you have,” Iris said contemptuously.
