Page 92 of Ghost in the Garden
“The back door!” Duggin yelled at Bert, who immediately ran there, snatching something out of his pocket that sprang open into a wicked-looking knife.
But Solomon, who’d stopped his bloodcurdling yell, clearly had no intention of leaving by the back door. After all, they had no key to escape by the garden door. Having driven Duggin in that direction, he said, “Constance. Up.”
She tugged Flynn’s sleeve with her free hand and obeyed, speeding up the stairs to the baize door. Anxiously, she glanced back at the kitchen. Duggin, armed with a carving knife, was circling Solomon. Bert moved toward him from the back door.
With startling suddenness, Solomon turned tail and ran, and abruptly, Constance wanted to laugh. The mirth bubbled up, joyous and no doubt hysterical as she burst through the baize door. She led the charge down the hall toward the front door, knowing Solomon was at her heels, and the evidence with them—the bottle, the apron, the axe, Ida, and Flynn, the policeman, the reliable witness to all. It was exhilarating, wonderful, the culminating triumph of Silver and Grey’s first case…
Until two men emerged from doors on opposite sides of the hall. Pat and Robin. And Robin held a large black pistol, which he cocked and aimed at Constance’s heart.
She stopped so fast, the carpet slid beneath her feet and she struggled for balance. She lowered the bottle, gripping it at her side instead. The apron was crushed under the same arm.
The pistol remained steady. Robin was not interested in the evidence. He neither knew nor cared what it was.
“Yes, far enough I think,” came Duggin’s sneering voice as he and Bert caught up behind them. “Now, we’ll be having that stolen axe, and our cook.”
“Your cook murdered your master,” Constance said loudly. “She’ll face justice.”
“We got our own justice,” Duggin said. “Drop the axe.”
“Come and take it,” Solomon invited him.
“I don’t need to. How about Robin there takes your girl’s face with a single shot?”
“In front of the police?” Solomon sounded amused, though Constance heard the tension behind it. He would give up the axe, force her to give up the evidence… And then they’d be murdered anyway, for police and the law mattered nothing to these people. No doubt their bodies would vanish into the swamp of the Devil’s Acre. The murderers could lose themselves there too if necessary.
“No one’s taking off anyone’s face in this house,” said Angela Lambert, her voice sharp with authority, causing all heads to snap around toward the staircase, which she descended dressed in deep mourning, all black bombazine and lace. Widowhood seemed to have lent her physical grace, for she all but glided down. “Put the gun away, Robin, before the police come in force and arrest us all.”
Very reluctantly—and slowly—Robin lowered the pistol. Constance was afraid to breathe in case his finger twitched on the trigger and he fired in apparent “mistake.”
“Whatisall this?” Angela asked.
Had she always possessed this tone of command? Had Constance just been deaf to it? Or had Lambert’s death drawn it to the fore?
“Ida Feathers is under arrest for the murder of your husband, ma’am,” Flynn announced, at his most wooden.
Growling and derisive hoots immediately issued from the servants. Angela stilled them with one raised hand, which then closed over the newel post at the foot of the stairs.
“Look at her,” she snapped. “Have you ever met my late husband, sergeant? He was tall and strong, and yet you believe a little old woman addicted to her gin murdered him with an axe?” Her gaze swept from Flynn to Solomon to Constance. “Why are you letting this nonsense stand?”
Because it was true. The only question left was how much Angela had known, how much had been under her orders.
Constance raised the bottle. “Is this not the wine your husband went to look for in the cellar, minutes before he was killed? I’ve got her blood-soaked apron. The axe was under her bed! Are you telling us someone else just put those things in her room? They weren’t even hidden.”
“Is it not possible?” Angela said steadily. “Lots of people pass through the kitchen. And you know the woman drinks. Someone has taken advantage.”
“There is also the small matter of her attacking Mrs. Silver with said axe,” Flynn said dryly.
Angela’s gaze flew back to Constance, who met it steadily.
“She knew exactly where it was,” Constance said. “She told me everything.”
Angela’s eyes did not waver. But Constance could almost see the calculation going on behind them. Angela had a choice to make that would affect all her people and her own future. One word, one gesture from her would see violence done and her devoted cook probably freed, at least for now.
But Angela would never go back, only forward.
“It will prove to be a mistake,” she said dismissively. “A laughable one. But if you’re so determined, take her. For now.”
Her own people were staring at her, baffled, suspicious, and not best pleased.
