Evidence of Evil (Murder in Moonlight #2)

Chapter Five

S olomon’s desire to speak to the vicar was driven more by hope than expectation of learning anything useful. For him, Frances Niall was still a very shadowy figure, eulogized as beautiful and charming and the light of everyone’s life, as the dead often were. And yet no one had told him in what way she was charming and clever. Mrs. Phelps had made some off-hand remark about her floating about but offered no real criticism of the dead lady.

In fact, even the Maules were reticent. They had given no clear picture of who Frances Niall was, even though they must have known her well.

Right now, Maule had clearly had enough of investigating his neighbors and was anxious to get back to his own life, but he paused long enough to greet the vicar, who had just emerged from his ancient carriage—an amiable-faced, slightly stooped man who might have been any age between fifty or sixty, clean shaven, with white, thinning hair.

“This is a friend of mine, staying at The Willows with us for a while,” Maule said. “Mr. Solomon Grey. Grey, Mr. Irvine, our vicar.”

“How do you do?” the vicar said civilly before turning back to Maule. “You have just come from our friend the colonel? How did you find him?”

“Oh, you know,” Maule said awkwardly. “Struggling and angry. Can’t blame him for that. You’ll forgive me if I rush off? I have neglected my duties of the day. Good day, Irvine. Grey, I’ll see you at luncheon, no doubt.”

“A terrible business,” Solomon said to keep the vicar with him as Maule dashed off, “the death of Miss Niall.”

“Terrible indeed,” Irvine said heavily. “I truly cannot credit that any of my parishioners could have committed such a heinous act. I am sure there has been some mistake and it was all a tragic accident.”

“I do plan to speak to the doctor about that.”

Irvine peered at him in surprise. “You do?”

“Yes. I should say that Sir Humphrey has asked me to look into the matter. He accounts me good at puzzles, which, on some level, this tragedy is. And as you know, Colonel Niall has made some rather hurtful accusations against Lady Maule.”

The vicar shook his head. “We all know that is the colonel’s grief talking. No one believes it for an instant.”

“No one who knows Lady Maule, perhaps. The detectives from London do not know her.”

For an instant, the vicar looked anxious. Then he said, “We must trust in God.”

“And in his poor tools upon the Earth,” Solomon said piously, very glad that Constance was not present to hear him. “You must have known Miss Niall from her childhood?”

Irvine beamed. “I baptized her myself.”

“I understand she grew up to be a beautiful and charming lady.”

“Indeed she did. Clever, too. Her mind was quick and she was more given to study than most young girls.”

“Indeed?” Solomon said with interest. “You mean she studied more than the usual ladylike accomplishments of her class?”

“Yes, and she was very able. The trouble was her chosen subject. Too scientific for her parents’ tastes. I blame myself, to be honest, for she used to visit the sick with me, and from that she developed a rather unfortunate ambition to become a physician.”

Unfortunate and impossible for a woman of any class… “Did she go on visiting the sick?”

“Not quite so much,” Irvine said carefully. “Her parents—very properly, of course—discouraged her from anything associated with medical ambitions. Medicine, you know, anatomy …!”

Solomon’s lip twitched. He wished Constance were here. Hastily, he changed the subject. “Did Miss Niall attend church regularly?”

“Oh yes. Even when the colonel does not—his attendance fell away somewhat after his wife died—she is there.”

“Before and after her stay in India?”

“Of course.”

Solomon tried another tack. “She must have been very popular in the neighborhood.”

“Oh, yes.”

It felt a little like bumping his head against a thick cushion. Apart from the surprise about Frances’s former medical ambitions, he still had no real knowledge of her as a person. “Why do you suppose she never married?”

“I can only suppose the right gentleman never asked her at the right time,” the vicar said vaguely. “But she was still young. Tragically young.” He shook his head.

“Bearing in mind,” Solomon said carefully, “how well you must know all your parishioners, can you think of anyone who might not have liked her? Who had any reason, however misguided, to harm her?”

“No,” Irvine replied without hesitation. “Not one.”

Solomon’s eyes were drawn beyond him to two men marching up the drive. They had a certain look about them that marked them as strangers, city men in unfamiliar country. The London policemen, no doubt.

“Did she ever confide troubles to you?” Solomon asked, adding hastily, “I understand you could not tell me what those troubles might have been. It would merely help to know if she had any.”

“None that I know of. Not since her girlhood.”

“Then she was a contented kind of person?”

The vicar seemed doubtful. “I suppose she must have been.”

“But she did not seem so to you?” Solomon persisted.

Irvine began to look flustered. “I did not say so, sir. I have no reason to believe she was dis contented. Merely that she was… looking for something. For God, perhaps.”

“Perhaps,” Solomon agreed. He doubted he would get much more sense from the man, and the town gents were heading around the house toward the back door. He tipped his hat to the vicar. “Many thanks for your insights, sir. Good morning.”

“Good morning,” Irvine returned, looking slightly bemused as he continued his way to the front door.

Solomon sprinted after the visitors, catching up with them on the path before they reached the back door. They must have heard his quick footsteps, for they both turned sharply to face him.

“Good day, gentlemen,” he said politely, slowing to a halt and touching the brim of his hat. “My name is Grey. Am I correct in thinking I address members of the Metropolitan Police?”

“You are,” said the older man. He looked a little downtrodden in a worn overcoat, his expression lugubrious, although his eyes were bright with intelligence. Solomon guessed he was frequently underestimated, and resolved not to make the same mistake. “I’m Inspector Omand, and this is Constable Napier.”

“How do you do?” Solomon said. “I wonder if I might have a word? My wife and I are currently staying with the Maules, over at The Willows.”

My wife and I . It felt very odd saying those words, and not just because they were untrue.

“I heard there were visitors,” the constable said, looking him up and down. He was a very different specimen from his superior. Much younger, he was also better and more smartly dressed. He positively reeked of ambition and arrogance, even before he checked out every feature of Solomon’s face and allowed his twitch of contempt to be seen. “And you say you are a guest of Sir Humphrey? You’ll forgive me if I confirm that with his household.”

“There is nothing to forgive, constable,” Solomon said. He turned back to the inspector. “You will be aware of the rumors, the accusations against Lady Maule? I am trying to help my friends by finding out the truth of the matter.”

“With respect, sir,” Inspector Omand said as the constable opened his mouth once more, “that is our business, not yours. Do you have information for us?”

“I’m not sure,” Solomon said lightly, “being unaware of what you know already. Do you have any reason to suppose Lady Maule’s guilt?”

“Plenty.” Constable Napier smirked, earning a glance of irritation from his superior, which seemed to pass him by.

Solomon pursued the weakness. “But she has no possible motive.”

“No motive?” sneered Napier. “Against the woman who was once engaged to her husband?”

So that was it.

From old business habits, Solomon was used to keeping his expression neutral, whatever surprises were flung at him. “I could more easily understand that as a motive were the boot on the other foot. Miss Niall had more reason to be jealous of Lady Maule.”

“We work on evidence, Mr. Grey,” Inspector Omand said shortly. “Not supposition.”

“I’m very glad to hear it. According to Cranston, the head gardener at The Willows, there was a wheelbarrow track leading to the place where she went into the water. It strikes me she could well have been brought there by such means.”

Omand was scowling at his underling, who should, presumably, have found this information for himself, though he addressed Solomon. “And where did these tracks come from?”

“Cranston was too upset at the time to look, but they certainly came from the direction of the path to the road that leads here—and to the village if you turn left instead of right.”

“Cranston never mentioned tracks to me,” Napier said dismissively.

“Well, you got to give people time to talk,” Omand said. “Not bully them so that they only want to be rid of you as fast as possible. You’re a clever lad, Napier, but you’ve a lot to learn. Thank you, sir, for that information. If there’s nothing—Hello, who’s this?”

Constance had emerged from the kitchen door, easily managing her wide skirts through the narrow space. In her elegant dark-green gown and bonnet and black gloves, she still somehow dazzled like the sun.

He looked hastily away to discover Constable Napier’s none-too-friendly eyes upon him. “Has Sir Humphrey employed you?” he demanded. “And you think that entitles you to use the front door like—”

“Like what?” Solomon asked softly. “Like a gentleman?”

“Fancy clothes don’t change what you are,” Napier said with undisguised contempt that finally drew his superior’s alarmed attention.

“And what is that?” Solomon asked with interest.

“ Napier, ” Omand barked before his underling could speak the word so clearly on the tip of his tongue. “Forgive my lad, sir. He’s naturally suspicious, which comes from the job, but he doesn’t yet have the experience to spot a gentleman from a trickster out of twig, if you understand me. Kitchen, Napier—see if you can’t learn something this time instead of showing everyone how clever you are.”

Napier, his face burning with resentment, stalked away so quickly he almost forgot to tip his hat to Constance.

“Inspector Omand, my dear,” Solomon said. “Inspector, Mrs. Grey. I see you find it odd that she should use the back door and I the front.”

“No, I find the whole situation odd,” Omand said. “ Has Sir Humphrey employed you in any capacity?”

“Of course not. We are just trying to help.”

“I am an old friend of Lady Maule’s,” Constance said, taking Solomon’s arm in the familiar fashion of a wife. “I brought my husband to meet her and discovered this terrible tragedy on their doorstep.”

“I see.” Omand’s eyes were shrewd but not hostile.

“I suppose,” Solomon said, “there is no doubt in your mind that this is murder and not an accident?”

“We weren’t called in soon enough, sir,” Omand said regretfully. “Between you and me, there is nothing to prove one or the other. Both would appear to be impossible. Excuse me, sir, madam.”

“What on earth was all that about?” Constance asked, beginning to walk toward the drive.

Since she still had hold of his arm, Solomon had to either remove it or walk with her. He chose the latter for any number of reasons.

“Oh, just making myself known to Scotland Yard. He’s not much like Inspector Harris, is he?”

“It’s the young one who concerns me,” Constance said.

No doubt she had heard and understood everything, which annoyed him for some reason he could not fathom.

“He has a large chip on his shoulder,” he agreed.

She glanced up at him, frowning. “Does that happen to you often?”

“What?” he asked vaguely, for he didn’t want to talk about it. But she spoke again before he could change the subject.

“Reasonless insolence.”

He sighed. “It is not reasonless to them. They have been brought up to imagine the skin makes the man. To be fair, he had a dashed good look first.”

She curled her lip. “At least the inspector appears to have some sense. Does it happen often?”

He should have known better than to imagine he could put her off. “Not to me. I am not obviously European or African, so people tend to view me as they wish. I suspect Napier may have come off worse in some dockside raid or other and acquired another chip for his overburdened shoulder. Did you know that Frances was all but engaged to Maule before she went to India?”

“Rats,” said Constance, scowling. “I wanted to tell you that. I just learned it from John Niall.”

“Napier told me. And he was right about one thing—it does imply a real reason for Elizabeth to be jealous.”

“What worries me,” Constance said, “is why neither she nor Sir Humphrey troubled themselves to tell us. Why would they keep it from us?”

“To convince us of Elizabeth’s innocence.”

“I am already convinced. They can’t have imagined it would remain a secret once we started asking questions!”

“Maybe they didn’t realize we would. Perhaps they envisioned us sitting in contemplation of the few facts until the solution made itself clear.”

“Well, now they know. No wonder Sir Humphrey bolted. But if they didn’t even tell us that, what else are they keeping back?”

“I suggest we do our best to find out this afternoon. Or at least after we’ve bearded the doctor. What did you learn from the Grange servants?”

Constance wrinkled her nose. “Little enough. Bingham, Frances’s maid, confirmed the story of being sent home from the lake in the dark and never seeing her mistress again. Apparently, Frances was a kind mistress, though Bingham has only been employed since they returned to India. The other servants, some of whom had known her before India, said much the same sort of things. But then, I suppose they would with the dead woman’s brother breathing down their necks.”

“Did he?” Solomon asked, surprised.

“Did he what?”

“Breathe down their necks,” he said patiently. “Was he paying close attention? Coercing them in any way?”

She sighed. “No, not that I could see. But I still doubt they would say anything bad about her in front of him.”

“Do you think there is any bad?”

“She does seem a bit too good to be true, doesn’t she? Except, I suppose, that the night she died, she sent the maid home without a light. Which makes her thoughtless, rather than bad. Beyond that and Elizabeth’s now-understandable antipathy, I see only good.”

“She went to church regularly, too.”

“Anyone can go to church,” Constance said dismissively. “Was she involved in good works?”

“Visiting the sick, at least when she was young, long before she went to India. It gave her a notion to be a doctor, and her horrified parents largely put a stop to it.”

Constance showed a spark of interest. “I wonder if Elizabeth knows that?” But her mind had jumped back to more personal matters. “If she was almost engaged to Sir Humphrey before they went to India…why did she go? Obviously, Colonel Niall had no choice but to go where he was posted, but Frances was of age. Why didn’t she marry Humphrey and stay here?”

“Was he still in mourning for his first wife?”

“It must have been more than two years since her death. And in any case, if things had progressed so far, would a proud papa, on the verge of making an excellent match for his daughter, take her to the other side of the world at precisely the wrong time? Why wouldn’t he have arranged for her to stay with a relative or family friend?”

“I don’t know,” Solomon confessed. “Such matters are beyond me. But does the breaking of such an understanding not reflect poorly on Maule’s honor?”

“You would certainly expect it to cause coolness between the families,” Constance agreed. “But it didn’t, did it? They saw a great deal of each other, more than Elizabeth was comfortable with. In fact, there seems have been no ill feeling at all until Frances died.”

“Perhaps they were just being terribly polite to each other, but the ill feeling rankled and that is what is now causing Niall’s wild accusations against Elizabeth.”

“Maybe,” Constance said.

“No, I don’t believe it either. In any case, it hardly explains the murder.”

“I can’t help hoping that everyone was right the first time and there was no murder. We need to talk to this Dr. Laing.”

*

When Mrs. Grey left the kitchen, using the back door, John Niall gazed after her uneasily. She was somebody well beyond his experience. She had absolutely no right to be interviewing his father’s servants, but in the circumstances, the whole household had to appear to be doing everything in its collective power to reach the truth of who had murdered Frances.

It was not the who that bothered John so much. It was the why .

Blinking rapidly, he became aware that the eyes of all the servants were upon him. Bingham, Frances’s maid, had a resentful look about her. Inevitably, she was looking for a new position, with Frances gone. She did not have the ties to the family that most of the other servants did. On the other hand, she was dependent on them for a character to take to her next employer. It was a hold that made him uncomfortable, not least because it could easily expire once she was in her new position.

“Thank you,” he said to the gathered servants. “You have been very helpful once more. Let us hope all these unsettling disruptions will stop soon. I’ll leave you to go back to your duties.”

Bingham went immediately to the stairs, without waiting for the housekeeper’s dismissal. Mrs. Lennard—who, with Worcester the butler, had kept the house running with a minimum of staff during the time the family was in India, receiving John for school holidays occasionally—met his gaze with raised brows. Clearly, she felt Bingham was getting above herself. Well, perhaps the girl was owed that much.

Worcester bowed, allowing John to precede him up the stairs.

“You’ll forgive me, sir, if I point out that it is not right if our people are required to answer the questions of strangers. Not even neighbors, but the mere guests of neighbors.”

“You are right, of course,” John agreed. “I don’t like the prying any more than you do. But my sister was murdered, Worcester. That is more wrong than anything else.”

A thundering on the back door made them both turn back. A chill swept over John that felt almost like despair. The kitchen maid opened the door to the two London policemen, and John almost groaned aloud. Would this never end?

“The truth will out, Mr. John,” Worcester said ominously. “One way or another.”

“Some truths we need to out,” John said, passing through the baize door to the main part of the house. “The rest, for my father’s sake—for all our sakes—we need to keep amongst ourselves.”