Chapter Thirteen
C onstance’s knees went weak with relief, and she almost staggered when Darby released her as suddenly as if she really had assaulted him. How’s that for the fillip of discovery?
But Darby was an old hand. He chose the attitude of haughty entitlement, looking Solomon over with contempt. “Who the devil are you?”
It was a mistake. She could see the realization dawning on Darby as Solomon strolled toward them. He ignored Darby, his hard gaze on Constance, assessing her. Many people misjudged Solomon for many different reasons, but one glance assured her that Darby would not make the same mistake twice.
Solomon loomed, lithe, dangerous, just waiting for the slightest reason…
“My husband, Mr. Grey,” she said mildly. “Solomon, this is Mr. Darby of Shelton Hall.”
“And you came here for…?” Obviously, Solomon was not about to let the question go in favor of polite introductions, and Darby hastily changed tack.
“To call on my old friend Maule, of course. As you see, I was just in time to prevent your wife from falling completely into the lake. She had a fright. But I require no thanks.”
“Then I shall merely escort you both to the house.” Taking Constance’s numb hand, Solomon threaded it through the crook of his arm, and she clung to his warmth, inhaling his scent for strength.
Quite suddenly, she was safe again.
“When did you get back?” she asked as they walked around the line of trees and down the path toward the front of the house.
“Just a few minutes ago. The servants told me you’d gone toward the lake, so I followed.”
She was glad he had, even though he would no doubt think the worst of her for encouraging the likes of Darby.
“Then you don’t know if Maule is at home?” Darby asked, as though looking for an excuse to leave as quickly as possible.
“I believe he just arrived and is with Lady Maule and Mr. Niall from Fairfield Grange.”
“Excellent,” she said, nodding to the footman who opened the front door. “Then I shall go and change my dress.”
Leaving Darby to the footman who clearly knew him, she forced herself not to dash to the staircase. Even so, it was some moments before she realized Solomon was climbing steadily beside her. He said nothing until he closed the bedchamber door beside them.
“What happened? Did that lecher assault you?”
He wasn’t blaming her.
The knowledge stunned her. Even so, she managed to say lightly, “Not quite, though I very nearly assaulted him. You rather saved his—”
“What was the ‘falling in the lake’ story?” he interrupted her before she could be indelicate. “You certainly look as if you fell into something, and your skirts are wet.”
She shivered and fumbled with the fastenings of her cloak. He walked over, brushing her hands aside and removing the cloak for her. He untied her hat too and cast them both on the bed without looking at them. His gaze remained fixed on her face.
She swallowed. “Someone pushed me.”
“Darby?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so, but it could have been. I was sure there was someone creeping among the trees while I was walking around the lake. Then I stopped where we think Frances went in. I was deep in thought and forgot to pay attention. I even dropped a stone into the water, trying to feel what could have happened. I saw a reflection behind me, just in time to twist away, but I couldn’t make out his features for the ripples. He was wearing a top hat.”
“Like Darby’s?”
“Yes, I suppose so. My foot slipped further down the bank—that’s why my skirts are wet—and I managed to pull myself back up the bank by that tree root. But whoever pushed me had vanished. I’m sure I heard him moving away from the lake before Darby appeared from the other direction. But I could be wrong. He seemed more bent on lustful pursuits than murder, though he was quite eager to get me to the boathouse.”
He released her gaze at last. “I’ll go and take a look around. There may be footprints.”
“Wait,” she said, unreasonably annoyed—she wanted to look around too, but if it wasn’t Darby, whoever had pushed her was long gone, and she had more urgent questions. “What did you learn in London?”
“Ah.” His face cleared, and he sat down on the bed. “Quite a lot. Frances was not looking for Elizabeth’s child. She was looking for her own.”
“Like any other mother forced to abandon her baby,” she said. “So when she told Humphrey about Elizabeth’s past, she was just stabbing in the dark. It makes a horrible sense, Solomon. It must always have been Humphrey she loved, Humphrey she waited for and probably even trysted with after she came home from India. I don’t want to believe that.”
“Neither do I,” Solomon said. There was a rueful twist to his mouth. “But that isn’t everything. Tracing her child was not the first task Dunne had performed for Frances. She also wanted information about the death of Humphrey’s first wife.”
Constance stared at him. “Oh no. Was there something suspicious about how she died?”
“She contracted fever after the birth—which is not unusual. But it was comparatively mild, and she appeared to recover. And then suddenly, she sickened once more and died. There seemed to be no other reason. A recurrence of the fever was assumed, and no further action was taken. There was no autopsy. Dr. Laing signed the death certificate.”
Constance lowered herself to the chaise longue. “Does that sound terribly familiar to you?”
“I’m afraid it does.”
“Humphrey just kills women who are inconvenient to him?” she said with horror. “He killed his first wife to be with Frances? Only then he changed his mind, or perhaps just forgot about her when her father took her to India, and then he met Elizabeth. So when Frances came home, threatening his peace and his happy marriage, he killed her too. It fits horribly.”
“Except we don’t know how he did it, or even if he did.”
“But he seems so…”
“People are rarely the same beneath the face they show the world.”
“You don’t have to tell me that.”
They sat in silence for several moments, both deep in thought, before Solomon rose. “You need to change your dress. I’ll leave you in peace.”
She blinked up at him as he brushed past her. “You really don’t blame me?”
He paused, frowning down at her. “For what?”
“For misleading Darby.”
“Did you?” He actually sounded surprised, which felt like a healing balm.
“I encouraged him to come and speak to us without his wife, to give us details of his affair with Frances.”
Solomon’s lip curled. “A man like that only ever sees women in one light. The problem is his, not yours.”
He had said something similar once before. It was a rare man who did not blame a woman for such misunderstandings. Especially a woman like her.
“Thank you,” she said hoarsely.
His brow twitched. “How much danger were you in?”
“None I could not have dealt with—somewhat less discreetly than you managed. And yet he doesn’t know me. To him, I am a respectable lady, and yet still fair game.”
“No one is fair game,” he snapped. “The man is a menace.”
Constance had spent years protecting women whom no one else believed were not “fair game” in one way or another. His words enchanted and distracted her.
“He is a menace,” she said slowly, “and I think Frances found him so in the end. Is he not a far more likely murderer than Sir Humphrey? Who is faithful to his wife and a basically kind man?”
“You want it to be Darby because you don’t like him.”
“Frances rejected him.”
“So he rode ten miles, poisoned her or whatever, dressed her in a nightgown, and dumped her in his neighbor’s lake? I won’t say it’s impossible, but it is unlikely.”
“And we have no evidence,” she admitted, jumping restlessly to her feet. “There must be some. We need to look for the place she met her lover, whoever that was. It must be within fifteen minutes’ walk from Fairfield Grange.”
Quickly, she told him about her conversation with Worcester, and then with Godden. He listened carefully, his eyes never leaving hers, which made her suddenly self-conscious. She stopped speaking. It came to her, with a strange little tingle in her stomach, that the light in his dark eyes was almost…admiration.
He raised his hand and touched her cheek, butterfly light. Then he strode to the door. “We’ll begin exploring this afternoon.”
*
The discovery of Darby’s assault—and it was already assault, however Constance chose to interpret it—unsettled Solomon profoundly. Not just in the general sense of anger against a bully and the need to protect the weak. This was something much more personal to Constance, connected to the dangers of the profession she would not leave. Such encounters upset her, and yet she never let them hold her back. He admired that spirit, that courage, even while it made him ever more anxious.
If she—to Darby’s knowledge, a respectable married lady—could face such insult here, what dangers did she face as the courtesan she was? Some men felt entitled to any woman, let alone one they considered bought and paid for.
He hated that she could be bought. He hated that she could be hurt and afraid. Somehow she had overturned all his preconceived ideas about her, personally. He should not allow his feelings to soften, and yet he did. There was danger in this fascination, and he was well aware of it. He always had been.
He should not have touched her. Even as a friend. And yet it was human nature, human comfort, and she did not object. Why would she? She was too used to the touch of men—men who did not assault her.
He strode along the passage from their room to the staircase, trying to calm the turbulence of his feelings so that he was fit for Lady Maule’s drawing room. And to deal properly with the various matters he had to.
He found both the Maules entertaining the unspeakable Darby—and John Niall, who stood to shake his hand.
“Welcome back,” Maule said affably. “How was your journey?”
“Quick and surprisingly smooth.” Deliberately, Solomon chose the chair next to Darby, who shifted away from him almost unconsciously. He was probably marshaling his defense in the event of any accusations Solomon might make. But then, they both knew the futility of any such accusations, which would only hurt the woman in question, not the man who assaulted her.
For the moment, Solomon contented himself with making Darby feel uncomfortable, and conversed with the company about the railway and London and the latest news.
Only when John rose to take his leave did Solomon grasp the opportunity for a private word with Darby.
Keeping the smile on his lips but nowhere near his eyes, he held Darby’s oddly defiant gaze. “Did you offer Frances Niall such violence, and did she threaten to tell your wife?” Is that why you killed her?
“I am not a violent man,” Darby said haughtily. He genuinely seemed to believe it. “It may be a fault that I love the ladies a little too much—I am a man of passion, after—”
“Then you did,” Solomon interrupted.
Darby blinked rapidly. “Did what?” His eyes widened in clear alarm. “Dear God, of course I did not kill her! She changed her mind, grew hysterical, and made threats, but they were no danger to me.”
“Why not?”
“My wife would not have believed them,” he said with rather monstrous complacency.
Solomon stretched his lips once more. “Oh, I think Frances would have found a way to convince her. It was what she did best. However, from your reaction, I doubt she got the chance. She had bigger fish to fry. However,” he added as Darby opened his mouth once more, “there are dangers in what you do. Dangers to you—I mean, since it’s clear you don’t pay attention to anyone else. If you ever come near my wife again, I will show you exactly what those are. In fact, if I hear of your going near any woman who is not your wife, I will have you so tangled up in court cases that your life will not be worth living. I expect your wife will divorce you.”
Darby’s facial expressions were almost ludicrous. His mouth worked without any sound coming out. Finally, after glancing around to assure himself that his hosts were temporarily absent, he exploded into bluster.
“How dare you address me in such a manner? How dare you threaten me? Who do you think you are, you—”
“I am Solomon Grey, and I am the man who will kill you if you ever lay a finger—or a whisper of scandal—on my wife again. Is that clear?”
“You jumped-up… Your wife—”
“ Is that clear? ”
Humphrey’s voice drifted in from the hall, growing closer.
Darby closed his mouth and swallowed. “Quite clear.”
“All of it?” Solomon said softly.
“All of it,” Darby said between his teeth.
It was the best Solomon could do without beating the man to a pulp. The strength of the itch in his fists to do just that surprised him. It was almost as if Constance really were his wife.
“I don’t think he killed Frances, though,” he said reluctantly to her after luncheon, when they went upstairs to fetch coats and hats for their walk.
“Don’t you think he’s just the sort of man to dump her in someone else’s lake once she’s no more use to him?”
“No, I think he’s the sort of man to simply walk away if he killed her, and that would only have been an accident. He doesn’t care enough to kill.”
“He cares for himself enough,” Constance said contemptuously. “If Frances threatened him, as she was prone to do…”
“He genuinely thinks his wife could believe no ill of him. He would just find another woman to bother. Like you. And by the way, I doubt he will trouble you again.”
She searched his face, a faint smile lurking on her lips. “Did you threaten him, Solomon?”
He grimaced. “I think I promised him. We are none of us so different, are we?”
She took his arm. “Oh, I think we are.”
And just like that, his spirits lifted. She knew he was her champion, and she liked it. So did he.
Almost embarrassed, he seized his hat. “I’ll have a quick word with Sir Humphrey and then meet you in the front hall.”
He found Maule in his study poring over estate ledgers, which he shoved aside with clear relief when Solomon entered. He was obviously a conscientious man, but the business side of things did not come easily to him.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” Solomon said, “but I need your help on a delicate matter. The more we discover about Frances Niall, the more questions it throws up. We know she lied for malicious reasons when she felt the urge, but she also sought the truth. Did you know she had inquired into the death of your first wife?”
Maule’s bushy eyebrows flew up. “Gillian? Why?”
“I don’t know. She may just have been shaking the tree to see what fell out, but—forgive me—was there any reason to imagine your wife died from any cause but the one given by Dr. Laing?”
“None that I know of.” He looked genuinely bewildered. An old pain drifted back into his eyes.
“Was she taking any medicine at the time?”
“Not then, no. Her fever had abated several days before, and her appetite was returning. She really seemed to be on the mend.”
“Did Frances ever imply to you that she was suspicious of your wife’s death in any way?”
“Never. But maybe there was talk in the village. It wouldn’t necessarily reach my ears.”
He spoke bitterly, and Solomon was not surprised. After all, the man was dealing with gossip against his second wife.
“People do talk,” Solomon said with vague sympathy. “It isn’t always malicious. Again, I apologize, but I’m going to ask you something else indelicate. The trouble is, to get at the truth that will exonerate Elizabeth, I need to know exactly what that is. Did you ever meet Frances clandestinely, either before she went to India or after she came home?”
“Never,” Maule said stiffly.
“Then it was truly impossible that she could ever have carried your child?”
Maule looked ready to explode, which was answer enough in itself. The trouble was, could he believe that answer?
“Did she ever inveigle—or try to inveigle—you into an assignation?”
“Only to go for walks. I told you, she would follow me sometimes. Before India.”
“And were you never tempted to—”
“No.” Maule’s glower was thunderous. “What in the world are you getting at, Grey? Do you suspect me of killing her? How am I supposed to have done it?”
As it happened, Solomon had an idea about that. It had come to him when he thought of the first Lady Maule in her sickbed, recovering from fever. Frances Niall, in her nightgown, had probably also been in bed. Someone’s bed. A bed.
He sighed. It was a pity to end a burgeoning friendship. He rather liked Maule. And his wife. But he had to know.
“Would Elizabeth kill to protect you?”
Maule stared at him, apparently deprived of words. Solomon didn’t speak either, though he began to suspect he should have mentioned this idea to Constance first.
“From what?” Maule demanded. “From accusations of killing my first wife? You think Frances put the idea in her head, so she killed Frances?”
“It crossed my mind. Women can be unexpectedly fierce when protecting those they love.”
“So can I,” Maule growled.
“For the record,” Solomon said, standing up, “I don’t really believe it. Constance certainly doesn’t. These things have to be eliminated, preferably by proof of some kind. In its absence, I’m merely looking for opinions. And I think you have doubts of your own concerning your wife.”
“Not about murder!” Maule exclaimed. “And they’re not doubts, just things I can’t get out of my head.”
“What Frances said about her.”
He nodded curtly. “Doubt is worse than anger sometimes. Wouldn’t it bother you, Grey? If such things were said about your wife?”
Solomon almost laughed, although it wasn’t really funny. “Trust what you know,” he said with a quick, lopsided smile, and walked out in search of Constance.
She was in the hall, in low-voiced conversation with Elizabeth, although both smiled brightly at him as he approached.
“Have a pleasant walk,” Elizabeth said lightly.
*
By the time he had told Constance about his conversation with Sir Humphrey, they were almost at Sarah Phelps’s cottage. Her lips tightened when he talked of Elizabeth killing to protect her husband, but she did him the courtesy of considering the theory.
“Do you believe him?” she asked.
“Yes, I think I do. But…”
Mrs. Phelps was glaring at them from the opening into her yard. Without warning, Constance veered across the road to speak to her. Solomon trailed after.
“Good day, Mrs. Phelps,” Constance said cheerfully. “How are you?”
The old woman grunted in a discouraging kind of way, which Constance ignored.
“You make up herbal remedies for people in the village, don’t you?” Constance said.
“Makes me a penny or two.”
“Did you ever make any for the first Lady Maule?”
Mrs. Phelps curled her lip. Her eyes were watery today, but still fierce. “Don’t be daft. The likes of her don’t trust anything not prescribed by physicians at vast expense.”
“Did Frances Niall ever ask you for any herbal remedies?”
“No, and I wouldn’t have given her any if she had,” Mrs. Phelps said rudely, and stomped off, coughing rather horribly into her shawl as she went, then vanishing through a gate in the back of her yard.
“I think she was smothered with a pillow,” Solomon blurted.
Constance stared at him as he began to walk on up the road, though she caught up with him quickly. “Why?”
He shrugged. “It would leave no marks of a struggle. She was wearing her nightgown. There probably are medical signs of smothering, but no one would have looked for them when they thought she had drowned.”
“We could call on Dr. Laing, but I think I might have annoyed him enough for one day.”
“Let’s keep to our original plan for now,” Solomon said. “If we can discover where Frances met her lover, it might tell us all we need to know.”
It proved to be a long and frustrating afternoon in many ways. Having walked a brisk fifteen minutes beyond the Grange gates, they turned onto narrower tracks, examining every cottage, farmhouse, barn, and hut they saw. With the aid of the map Constance had consulted at The Willows, they cut across country where necessary, keeping to around the same distance around the Grange estate.
“It seems John Niall told me the truth,” Constance said. “There don’t seem to be any unoccupied buildings remotely suitable for a lovers’ tryst. Perhaps the short meetings were merely to pass notes or plans to meet elsewhere at a greater distance.”
“Perhaps, though I doubt her body could have been easily carried from a much greater distance,” Solomon argued. “Besides…was she that giddy a girl? She liked excitement, liked to break the rules. But if you are right, she was not devoted to this lover but to Humphrey. Unless her lover was Humphrey.”
Constance sighed, pausing to glance around at the drainage ditch below them and the open fields beyond, then back up to the woodland behind that they had just passed through. “I don’t believe it was him. Certainly, he is away from Elizabeth a good deal during the day, about estate business and so on, but he never leaves her alone at night.”
Solomon glanced at her in surprise. “You asked her?”
“How else were we to know?”
“How do you know she told you the truth? We have already agreed she is protective of him. The truth is, we don’t want to believe it.”
“Elizabeth asked for my help. She doesn’t believe it. Solomon—”
But Solomon was distracted by the distant sound of hoofbeats. They came from the bridle path that formed the boundary between Fairfield Grange and The Willows land. Solomon did not particularly want to be discovered on the wrong side of it by anyone more influential than the tenant farmers and servants they had encountered already. A horseman surely meant Colonel Niall or his son. Still, it was more curiosity than embarrassment that caused him to throw his arm around Constance’s waist, sweep her forward, and jump into the ditch.