Chapter Two
I f Constance harbored any secret doubts that Elizabeth’s manner might have changed toward her, they were swiftly put to rest as Lady Maule flew down the front steps of her home and embraced her friend.
“Constance! I am so glad you are here. How wonderful to see you.” Elizabeth drew back far enough to examine her and smiled even more broadly. “You are as beautiful as ever.”
Constance examined her friend in turn. Despite the unconventional enthusiasm of her welcome, Elizabeth wore the lady of the manor’s garb quite naturally. Though her eyes betrayed the knock her confidence had taken for some years, only a friend could discern it. To others it probably seemed an endearing shyness due to the fact she had so recently been promoted from governess to wife.
To Constance, her friend was healthy, if not quite glowing with bridal happiness. There were lines of worry and strain about her eyes, some shadows that betokened a lack of sleep. No, all was not well with the new Lady Maule.
“Ha,” Constance said, smiling. “You are being kind to an old lady. Come and meet my—”
“Husband,” Elizabeth interrupted nervously, casting a quick glance at her servants, who were hurrying to remove the baggage from the coach.
Releasing Constance altogether, she thrust out her hand at Solomon, who bowed over it punctiliously.
“Mr. Solomon Grey,” Constance murmured. “Solomon, my old friend, Lady Maule.”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened as she took in the sheer beauty and elegance of his person. Although those things were only part of his arsenal. Solomon had presence .
“Welcome to The Willows, Mr. Grey,” Elizabeth said formally. “I hope you will enjoy your stay with us. Come, let me show you to your room.”
Room . So they really were to be treated as a married couple. Perhaps there would be a dressing room, or even better, separate bedchambers with only a connecting door. Her mischief had come up against reality suddenly, and the idea of sharing a room—let alone a bed!—with Solomon made her unaccountably nervous.
The Willows was a comfortable manor house of indeterminate age and many styles. Full of odd staircases and passages and changes in ceiling heights and wall decoration, it looked as if each baronet had added something of his own over a period of several centuries. Constance rather liked its asymmetrical, slightly chaotic appearance. It seemed to suit Elizabeth and her wild changes in fortune.
“Did you bring servants with you?” Elizabeth asked, leading through the maze of passages and staircases.
“Oh, no,” Constance replied. “That would have been even more of an imposition.”
“How is Janey?” Elizabeth asked, her eyes dancing just for a moment.
“In good voice,” Constance replied. “But showing promise. Do you have other guests?”
“No, just you.”
Then perhaps there was space to arrange separate rooms…
Elizabeth threw open the door of a bright, spacious apartment containing a large four-poster bed with brocade curtains that matched the coverings on the chair and sofa before the hearth. The fire burning in the grate added cheerful warmth to an already pretty and gracious room. Like the house, the furniture was of various ages and did not match, but somehow this all added to its charm. A vase of late roses stood on the table before the window.
“This is lovely,” Constance said warmly. Solomon’s trunk and her bags stood beside the bed, as yet unpacked.
“I’m glad you like it,” Elizabeth replied. “And look, it has beautiful views over the park…” She trailed off as they joined her. Her expression had changed to one of anxiety and consternation.
Through the trees, Constance glimpsed an expanse of water—surely the lake where the neighbor had died.
“What happened, Lizzie?” she asked gently.
Elizabeth seized her hand, pressing it hard. “Oh, don’t call me that, Constance. I need all my dignity here…”
Trying not to wince, Constance stared at her. “You’re not saying that…? Elizabeth, does Sir Humphrey believe in your guilt?” How could any marital relationship come back from that?
But Elizabeth was shaking her head tiredly. “He says not. In fact, he is furious at the implication. But I cannot bear this festering between us.”
Solomon, who had been silent all this time, as he often was, turned from the window to look at her. “Will you tell us about this woman and how she died?”
“Her name is Frances Niall. She lives— lived —with her family, over at Fairfield Grange. Her father is a widower, a colonel in the Indian army, recently retired. The family came back to the Grange only a month after we were married.”
“Are there other family members?” Constance asked.
“Her brother John. He is younger, only just twenty-one.” Elizabeth moved restlessly away from the window. “We see— saw —rather a lot of the Nialls. But Frances and I never really liked each other. She thought I was a jumped-up governess, and I thought she was spoiled and sly. We had…words.”
“The night she died?” Solomon asked, resting his hip on the window seat and watching Elizabeth’s perambulations.
“No, a few days before that, when they dined here. But on Wednesday she sent me a note of apology, saying she regretted her hasty words, and would I like to go for a walk to clear the air between us. I agreed, and she came over that evening. Which was not entirely convenient, for it was already dusk. However, I felt I should appear willing, so we walked around the lake for a little, said pleasant and forgiving things to each other, and then parted.”
“Where did she go?” Constance asked.
Elizabeth shrugged. “Home to Fairfield Grange, I suppose. It’s an easy twenty-minute walk. The path is well trodden, and she had a lantern.”
“Was she alone?” Solomon asked mildly.
“Yes. Well, she arrived with her maid, then once we were both outdoors, she sent Bingham back to the Grange and said she would follow in just a little. So she left the lakeside alone.”
“In the direction of Fairfield Grange?” Constance pursued.
“Yes.”
“Then what happened to her?”
“I don’t know. But apparently she never reached home. Neither her family nor her maid, nor any other servant, saw her alive again. Our gardener pulled her body out of the lake in the morning.” Elizabeth shuddered, swallowing hard.
“That must have been awful,” Constance said sympathetically, although, like her, Elizabeth had probably seen her share of bodies in London’s less salubrious back streets.
“It wasn’t pleasant. So terrible for her family. Colonel Niall is devastated. So is John. And the servants. Humph is still quite shocked.”
Despite the seriousness of the discussion, Constance almost smiled to hear the endearment of a pet name on Elizabeth’s lips. It seemed there was hope for their marriage.
“Did you see her body?” Solomon asked.
Elizabeth blinked rapidly. “No, thank God. My husband did. He helped the gardener drag her out, but she had clearly been dead for hours. The doctor came and confirmed that she had drowned, and by then Colonel Niall was here… It was dreadful.”
“Was the magistrate informed?”
Elizabeth gave a watery smile. “Humphrey is the magistrate. Like everyone else, he thought it was a tragic accident and Frances drowned by falling in the lake in the dark. Although we have no idea what she was doing back there…”
“I thought she had a lantern with her,” Solomon said.
“She did when she left me,” Elizabeth confirmed, “but there was no sign of it when they found her body.”
“So she might well have fallen into the lake in the dark,” Constance said. “I doubt lights from the house, if there were any, would reach through these trees.”
“That’s what we thought. What we all wanted to think, I suppose, because the only real alternative was suicide, and no one wants to believe such a thing.”
“So why has opinion changed to murder?” Solomon asked.
“Because Colonel Niall insisted on an autopsy. He seemed to blame me even then. And Dr. Laing discovered…” Elizabeth swallowed hard, and Constance pressed her hand encouragingly. “He discovered that she had not breathed in any water. She was dead before she entered the lake.”
“Couldn’t she have hit her head on the way in?” Constance suggested.
“Or on a tree branch or something earlier,” Solomon agreed. “Head wounds are strange. She might have keeled over quite suddenly some time after taking a knock.”
“Apparently there were no injuries to her body, no signs of heart disease or any other illness, no poison in her stomach. Yet still she is dead, and not by drowning.”
“How very strange,” Constance said slowly. “But…why would Colonel Niall blame you?”
“Because I am the stranger here. Because I quarreled with her. Because I saw her last. And because he is grief-stricken and lashing out.” Elizabeth drew in a breath and smiled with false brightness. “So that is my trouble, and one reason I am so pleased to see friendly faces! You will meet Humphrey and the children at tea, so I will leave you for now to settle in. Tea is in the drawing room.”
She marched so decisively toward the door that Constance panicked. She was not ready to be left alone with Solomon in the apparently marital bedchamber.
“Oh, can’t you give me a tour of your house, first?” she suggested, hurrying after her friend. “Solomon will be glad of five minutes’ peace after my chattering in his ear for two days…”
It was probably true, although he had given no sign of it. After the first hour in his extremely comfortable coach, they had lapsed easily back into their old companionship, a mixture of impersonal conversation, comfortable silences, and banter. They saw the world in different ways, but his were always interesting. Even the night they had spent at a slightly run-down coaching inn had been comfortable, with separate rooms and a private parlor in which to dine.
Certainly, he made no demur at her departure now.
“Come and see my own rooms first,” Elizabeth said eagerly. “You will love them.”
This suited Constance very well, since she was keen to see how her old friend lived in her private moments. One could learn much from bedchambers.
In this case, however, Constance caught only a glimpse through a door that was slightly ajar. What Elizabeth showed her was a pretty, private sitting room overlooking the gardens at the front of the house. She had some bookshelves, a large sewing basket, an elegant little bureau for letter writing, two comfortable chairs, and a chaise longue. The colors were light and pleasing and very Elizabeth, with a seascape on one wall and a landscape on the other, both in harmonious shades.
“How lovely,” Constance said genuinely. “You must be very happy here. Do you have a dressing room, too?”
“No. Humph has that.” Elizabeth waved her hand to the ajar connecting door. “That is our bedchamber, and beyond that, his dressing room. I like it this way.”
“I can see why.” Constance perched on the chaise longue, spreading her fingers over the luxurious fabric. It felt new. “You are truly happy as Lady Maule?”
Elizabeth sighed. “I was until all this happened. It has taken the edge off a bit. The thing is, I know Humphrey is remembering that I am not entirely respectable, though he doesn’t want me to guess, and so we are tiptoeing around each other with politeness. Politeness does not come naturally to Humph!”
Constance blinked. “It doesn’t?”
Elizabeth laughed, warmth in her eyes. “Oh, I don’t mean he is rude , but he is downright, says exactly what he thinks, and is inclined to irascibility. I call him Sir Grumphy when he’s like that…” The laughter faded from her eyes. “You see why I need your help?”
“Because finding out what truly happened to the dead lady in the lake will make your marriage more comfortable.” To say nothing of keeping her from the hangman’s rope.
“What of your Mr. Grey?” Elizabeth asked, sitting down beside Constance at last. “I’ve rarely come across so devastating a man. Is he serious about you?”
“Don’t be silly,” Constance said dryly. “I told you we were friends, not lovers.”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “Then he did not come to…the establishment?”
“God, no, he is not that way inclined.”
“He prefers men?”
“He might, for all I know—which is only that he does not frequent establishments like mine. We met at a country house party in the summer and together solved the nasty mystery of our murdered host. So you see why I wanted you to invite him.”
“But he has agreed to pretend to be your husband?” Elizabeth said in some alarm. “I’m so sorry, Constance! I thought my notion was perfect for both respectability and comfort. But is it not incredibly difficult for both of you?”
Yes . “No,” Constance replied. “We shall play our parts to perfection.” She hesitated, then added, “Though I think it’s a mistake, Elizabeth. Secrets rarely improve a marriage,”
“Our kind of secrets do,” Elizabeth said bleakly.
*
When Constance fled from their bedroom in Lady Maule’s wake, Solomon watched with sardonic amusement. He guessed that her little joke was no longer quite so amusing in the harsh light of a four-poster bed and no dressing room, nor even a sofa. For his part, Solomon was only too aware of those things, especially considering his own reactions to her nearness.
A man would have to be at death’s door not to desire Constance Silver. But she was not his lover, she was his friend. And that, as she had perceived several months ago, was the most important thing to both of them.
It didn’t stop her teasing him for staidness or puritanism or whatever else she imagined governed his life.
Having sent away the servant who offered to unpack their bags, Solomon unpacked his own, putting his things away neatly and taking up as little space as possible. Then, since Constance had not returned, he left the room with the intention of going to the lake to see what could possibly have caused someone to fall in there in the dark, killing them outright on the way.
As he descended the stairs, he was aware of men’s voices below, one of which was loud and angry. The front door all but slammed as he rounded the half landing in time to see a tall man with prominently furious eyebrows stride across the hall.
He must have been around forty years old, characterful rather than handsome, and confident to the point of arrogance. Catching sight of Solomon, he halted and glared at him.
“Damned jackanapes!” he growled.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” Solomon said calmly, continuing his descent.
A crack of unexpected laughter greeted this. “Not you! Sorry, damned snooping policemen put me in a filthy temper.” He walked toward Solomon, thrusting out his hand. “Humphrey Maule. You must be my wife’s Mr. Grey.”
They shook hands. “I am, of course, at her ladyship’s feet, although I confess it is the first time I have met her. Solomon Grey. Thank you for your hospitality under what I gather are difficult circumstances.”
“It’s a damnable mess,” Maule said frankly. “But I’m very glad Elizabeth has a friend to be with her. Very unpleasant for her, you know.”
“Did you say you had the police here?”
“Bloody Scotland Yard,” Maule snarled.
“Truly? Who called them in?”
“I did,” Maule said bitterly. “I’m the magistrate. Niall is accusing my wife. I need unbiased investigators. But the fools don’t know their own place.”
“I see.”
Maule raised one of his beetling brows. “Elizabeth tells me you and your wife are good at puzzles like these. I must say, I don’t envy your familiarity with such matters.”
“No,” Solomon agreed. “But if our past experience helps, we are glad to share it. Constance is very observant of human nature, sees things the rest of us often do not. And my mind cannot help but worry at puzzles till they’re solved.”
“Chess player, are you?”
“I enjoy the game.”
“Then we’ll play later. What do you think of this mess, then?”
“I think I don’t yet know all the facts,” Solomon said, for he was sure Lady Maule was keeping things back. If she wasn’t telling downright lies. “Would you mind showing me the lake? And where the poor woman’s body was found?”
Maule shrugged. “Why not?”
It was a pleasant September afternoon, although the heat had gone from the sun. Some of the trees were already beginning to change color, though few leaves were falling. Maule, who seemed to do everything in a hurry, strode around the house to a path that led in the direction Solomon had earlier glimpsed the water from his bedroom window.
“These are the willows the place is named for,” Maule said, waving one hand around him. “Some of them are hundreds of years old. Makes it a lovely spot in the summer.”
“Or any time, I should think.”
The lake was indeed beautiful. Scattered with bright water lilies of such an intense pink they were almost red, it was overhung in places by willow branches, in others open to the sunlight. With dappled shadows and reflected colors, the place had an air of magic that made Solomon think of Arthurian legends and the tales of mischievous spirits his mother had told in his boyhood.
Maule set off around the lake, dodging beneath willow branches. “Cranston, my head gardener, was tidying up the paths first thing in the morning when he saw her floating among the lilies. Just about there .” He pointed two or three yards away from the bank. “She can’t have moved much, so I think she must have gone into the water around there, too.”
It was possible. There was a gap between the trees, and the bank was a little loose. A large tree root poked out of the ground.
“What if she tripped on that, hit her head unluckily hard, and slid into the water?” Solomon suggested.
“That’s what I thought, even before the autopsy proved she was dead before she went in. It fits either way, except there is no wound to her head. There should be something to show such a serious injury.”
“True. Was she dressed?”
“In her nightgown,” Maule said, blushing with unexpected bashfulness. “Which was why I thought but never mentioned suicide. Why do you ask?”
“Could she have gone in swimming? Could she swim?”
Maule’s bushy eyebrows flew up. “I’ve no idea. Never entered my head. Can’t think it likely in her nightgown!”
Solomon shrugged. “It might have seemed amusing to her, then the cold of the water made her heart fail.”
“You’re clutching at straws. Like me.”
“Just thinking aloud. What was she like, this woman?”
“Frances? Charming girl. Or young woman, I should say. She must have been twenty-six or seven.”
“But never married?”
“Spent the last five years in India. I daresay her choices were limited.”
Solomon nodded, looking up through the trees to gauge how much of the area could have been seen from the house. Only the rooftop was visible. “What was her quarrel with your wife about?”
“Lord, I don’t know. Foolish women’s stuff. Don’t think they took to each other, if you know what I mean, but the idea of Elizabeth lifting a hand to any living creature, let alone killing a neighbor and family friend, is utterly preposterous.”
“That’s what Constance said.”
Those piercing blue eyes met his. “You don’t believe us?”
“I don’t think any of us are incapable of violence if the circumstances are right. And those are different for all of us. Did you know Lady Maule was going for a walk with Miss Niall that evening?”
“Yes, she called to me in the library when they went out.”
“Did you see her return?”
“Yes, she came back about twenty minutes later and said friendship was restored and Frances had gone home.”
“Did Lady Maule seem content? Her usual self?”
Maule bristled. “Entirely,” he said stiffly.
“I’m not asking to catch you—or her—out,” Solomon assured him. “It’s the sort of thing the investigation will need to know, either to prosecute or defend your wife.” He looked at the ground and the various paths that led away from the lake and began to walk on. “Did you happen to notice any footprints or other marks when you first discovered the body?”
Maule scowled. “No, I’m afraid I was too appalled, concentrating on getting poor Frances out of there.”
“Of course… How did you get her out? Could you reach her from the bank?”
“No. Poor Cranston went in and pulled her over so that I could catch her and drag her up. Wasn’t easy.” His voice had gone hoarse, and his scowl almost consumed his face before he straightened it out again.
They walked on. “Can you think of any reason why anyone might have killed her?”
“None,” Maule said flatly, without hesitation, and yet for the first time, Solomon wondered if he was lying.
“She was well liked, then? Miss Niall?”
“I would say so. I never heard a word against her, not even from Elizabeth. She was beautiful, spirited, charming. Which might have caused a little envy among the ladies of the neighborhood, but hardly of the kind that leads to violence. In any case, there was no sign of violence of any kind on her body, so how Niall came to believe it was murder is beyond me.”
“Then you didn’t summon Scotland Yard because you were suspicious?”
“No, more to prove the point to Niall. The inquest was adjourned because no cause of death could be agreed.”
“Perhaps the opinion of another doctor…?”
“No need. There were two physicians present. Laing and his apprentice Harry Murray.”
“Ah.” Around the next bend, Solomon caught sight of a shed. “Do you keep boats there?”
“A couple of small rowing boats.” Maule seemed to see his point at once. “If the murderer had taken the trouble to use a boat to move the body, would he not have dropped her farther in to the middle?”
“I expect so. But I was thinking more of a boat hook. From the position you indicated, her body couldn’t have been dropped in from the bank unless it was deliberately pushed farther out.”
“We certainly have a boat hook,” Maule said, increasing his pace even more.
The hook was easily located in the first left-hand corner of the shed.
“Is that where you normally keep it?” Solomon asked.
“Yes, I think so. What do you expect to learn from it?”
“Nothing much,” Solomon admitted. “Mainly I wanted to see if it was clean enough to have been in the water recently.”
“Looks it to me,” Maule said, picking it up to examine it more closely. “But then, I used it quite recently myself.”
“When was that?”
“A couple of days before we found Frances. Must have been about nine or ten days ago.”
Something caught Solomon’s eye, and he reached out to the iron hook.
“Oh God, what’s that?” Maule asked with dread. “It’s not her hair, is it?”