Evidence of Evil (Murder in Moonlight #2)

Chapter Fifteen

B elow stairs, in her sitting room, Mrs. Haslett sat fuming. She was barely able to contain herself, and in fact, the furious words had already erupted, though thankfully only to Manson, with whom she had been enjoying a cup of tea when the policemen were admitted to the kitchen.

“Never in my life have I had to tolerate officers of the law in this house!” she had burst out. “Not until she came!”

Manson, of course, had looked all quelling and disapproving. Worse, he had actually taken the policemen upstairs. Which made her very uneasy. Were they informing the master that they meant to arrest one of the staff? Who at The Willows could possibly be responsible for poor Miss Niall’s death?

No one, of course. The fools would be making a mistake, but that wouldn’t necessarily stop them, and another life would be destroyed…

Manson’s stately step sounded on the stairs. Mrs. Haslett jumped to her feet and opened her door. All the servants were staring toward the butler in dread.

“Don’t gawp,” he commanded. “Finish your work.”

He turned toward Mrs. Haslett, who stood aside to let him return to her sitting room, and closed the door on the whispers outside.

“Well,” Manson said heavily, “you finally have your wish to be rid of her ladyship. They’ve arrested her.”

The blood drained from her face so quickly she had to sit down. “Arrested Lady Maule? But that’s ridiculous!”

“It is.”

“Sir Humphrey won’t stand for it,” Mrs. Haslett declared.

“I don’t see what he can do,” Manson said.

“But…but that poor girl… He can’t just leave her to the wolves!”

Manson, who had been staring at the wall, turned his curious gaze upon her. “I thought you would be pleased. You’ve had it in for her from the moment Sir Humphrey told us he was going to marry her.”

A twinge of shame shook Mrs. Haslett, but most of what she felt was anger. Martial anger. Very different from her previous whining . She sprang to her feet, all but tearing off her apron and throwing it onto the chair.

“That may be. But I will not sit back and let those presumptuous fools take our mistress away! Stand aside, Mr. Manson, or at least bolt the back door. They’re taking her nowhere, and so I shall tell them!”

With that, she marched out of the room and up the stairs, ready for battle.

*

Sir Humphrey Maule felt his world crumble about his ears. This was his worst nightmare. It all made a horrible kind of sense. Frances’s accusations against Elizabeth, Elizabeth’s own reticence, Colonel Niall’s apparently not-so-bizarre accusations… Even the presence of the Greys in support of Elizabeth.

He wasn’t quite sure what Omand had implied in that passage with Constance, but the inspector clearly knew something about her, and it was not to her credit. No wonder she had thought nothing of helping an unwed mother, had known so much about how to arrange a respectable adoption…

And none of that mattered before the blinding truth that Elizabeth had lied to him, and repeatedly. The lost weeks that Omand spoke of seemed to burn into his soul, bringing vile, terrible visions that horrified him. Of his wife, whom he loved to distraction. Who was about to be exposed, arrested as a murderess. He would lose her. His children would lose her.

She was already lost…

He tugged at his collar, finding it hard to breathe. He could not bear the sympathy of the policeman, the agony of his wife, the lies …

“Arrest?” Constance said with surprising mildness. “Is that not somewhat hasty when this is based on mere speculation on your part?”

“I know Miss Niall was in correspondence with Mr. Dunne of—”

“But not why,” Constance interrupted. “You should have spoken to Mr. Dunne himself, but there, I expect that inpatient young man you sent outside was nagging at you to act. He, poor idiot, probably thinks that arresting the wife of a baronet and magistrate will be a feather in his cap.”

A spasm crossed Omand’s face. He was clearly well aware of the dangers of such an arrest and such an enemy. Maule began to pin his hopes— hopes for what, dear God? —on Constance Grey, or whoever she was.

“So, you did not speak to Mr. Dunne,” Constance said, locking eyes with the inspector. “Mr. Grey did. And he learned that Frances Niall was not inquiring about Lady Maule but about the adoption of her own illegitimate child. In short, Frances knew nothing to Lady Maule’s discredit. Which deprives your theory of any motive.”

It seemed Maule was right to rely on her. But it was up to him to play his part now, though he had no idea what he would do after that.

He stood. “I should take that scandal-loving constable of yours away before he manages to get you both dismissed for incompetence. Good evening, inspector.”

Omand was already on his feet and managed a jerky bow. “Good evening, sir, my lady. And my apologies for disturbing you, although the matter really did require our attention.”

Maule did not trouble to answer. He merely waited in silence until the door closed behind Omand, and then he regarded the stranger who was his wife.

The world was in chaos around him and he wished more than anything to display only dignity and distance. Like Grey. But it was not in his nature. Not when the fear in Elizabeth’s eyes maddened him.

“Well?” he exploded. “Who is she?” He jerked his head toward Constance with unforgivable rudeness.

Constance rose. “My name is Constance Silver. And I stand your wife’s friend. Yours, too, did you but know it.”

The name was vaguely familiar, though he could not place it. His brain was full of Elizabeth and unspeakable ugliness.

“You are my guest under false pretenses,” he snapped.

“They are my false pretenses,” Elizabeth said hoarsely. “I would not let Constance use her own name because I knew you would disapprove.”

His lips twisted in more pain than anger. “Did you? Perhaps you should go to bed, Elizabeth.”

For a moment, she looked as if she would defy him. Then she bowed her head in misery and left the room.

Sir Humphrey glowered at Constance Silver, who, however, did not look remotely intimidated. Once, Elizabeth had stood up to him too. It was what he had first liked about her.

“I think you had better leave my house, don’t you?” he said abruptly. “You and Mr. Grey, or whatever his name is.”

“We will if you wish, of course, but I should warn you, I will go only as far as the village inn, which might cause the kind of talk you would rather avoid. Not to spite you,” she added, raising one hand before he could accuse her of it, “but because I promised to help Elizabeth.”

He glared at her, mostly from habit, not because he was angry. In fact, he didn’t seem to be angry at all, though he wanted to be. He didn’t know what this feeling was. It might have been at least partly shame because Constance was determined to stand by his wife and he was considering…what? Abandoning her?

He rushed into speech, running from his unbearable thoughts. “Why do I know your name?”

“Perhaps because Elizabeth mentioned me—perhaps because we have mutual friends.”

“In Grosvenor Square,” he said slowly as bits of chatter in gentlemen’s clubs began to come back to him. “In the discreet establishment Omand spoke of. Dear God, did my wife work for you?”

“Of course she did not,” Constance snapped. For the first time since he had met her, she looked angry. “She was almost five months with child and in no condition to work for anyone.”

Inside, he cringed with shame and pity. He didn’t want to know, and yet he had to. “Then what was she doing in your…house?”

“Getting well and having her baby. In my house, she was safe.”

Safe? Dear God! “And where she came from was not,” he murmured, mostly to himself.

“Did her self-righteous father neglect to tell you that he sent her away with nothing but the clothes on her back? You are a large, fit man, used to taking care of yourself. Would you like to be alone, friendless, and penniless on the streets of London? She, a gently bred, sheltered young girl, had nowhere to go, nothing to eat, no roof over her head, no protection.”

He felt the blood drain from his face. He could not bear much more. And yet what had Elizabeth borne?

Why had she lied?

He stared blindly out of the window. “Where did you meet her?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I promised her my discretion.”

“That does not comfort me.”

“It wasn’t meant to.”

He caught his breath and met her gaze once more. “There were three weeks between her leaving her parents’ house and entering yours. Where was she?”

“I don’t know. Staying alive. Keeping her baby alive.”

He closed his eyes. Why did she keep this from me?

He knew the answer, of course. Because she thought he could not bear it. And it seemed he couldn’t. Or not yet.

He was walking blindly toward the door. “You had better not go immediately. Not until I can work out whether or not I should truly thank you.”

He went out of the room without closing the door. Manson and Mrs. Haslett seemed to be arguing by the baize door to the servants’ quarters. Ignoring them, he strode straight to his study, where he could be sure of being left alone.

*

Elizabeth did not go straight to bed. She went blindly across the hall and almost bumped into Mrs. Haslett, whose eyes glittered with fury.

Go on, then, give notice, say what you like. I don’t care. In fact she had no intention of listening.

But the housekeeper’s voice was gentle enough to halt her with astonishment. “They didn’t do it. Thank God. We won’t let them, you know. Will I bring you a calming posset to your bedchamber?”

The unprecedented kindness almost undid Elizabeth. Later, perhaps, she would feel the warmth of it and be grateful. Right now, she could not bear it.

“Thank you, no,” she managed. “I am not yet ready to retire. Goodnight, Mrs. Haslett.”

She marched away to the dining room, where she found Solomon Grey sitting alone and brooding, twisting his empty wine glass in his fingers. But he glanced up as she entered and rose quickly to his feet.

“Trouble?”

“They tried to arrest me for Frances’s murder, but Constance saw them off.”

A smile flickered across his full lips. It struck her, irrelevantly, that he should smile more often.

“She is rather wonderful, isn’t she?” Elizabeth said shakily. “The trouble is, I’m not sure Humphrey will see it that way. Not once he knows who she is. I think the police know already. I thought I should warn you.”

He shrugged very slightly. “I believe the police have an understanding of some kind with Constance.”

“Humphrey doesn’t.” She sat down suddenly in the chair at the head of the table, the one Humphrey must have vacated in such a hurry less than half an hour ago. His half-empty glass stood in front of her. “What should I do?”

“Tell him the truth. He already knows the worst of it.”

“No, he doesn’t!” Elizabeth replied with more than a hint of desperation. “He might suspect, but he does not know .”

“Don’t you think suspicion is worse than knowledge? For both of you?”

“No,” Elizabeth said flatly. “Knowledge would require him to do something. I am his wife .”

“Exactly,” Solomon said. “And he is a good man who has already shown himself capable of understanding and kindness. Why should you believe his affection is so limited?”

A frown quirked her brow. “Why? Isn’t yours?”

He looked startled. “Mine?”

“For Constance. The kindest of gentlemen might forgive a single fall from grace, an advantage taken by the worst kind of man for purely selfish reasons of his own. But more than one man? For money? Isn’t that why you are not married to Constance? Because you can’t forgive her for all the men that came before you?”

A mask came down over his face like a shutter. “Constance and I are friends,” he said coldly. “There is no question of marriage between us.”

Elizabeth laughed, with more anger than mirth. The stupidity of men appalled her. “Oh, please . I’ve seen the way you look at her when you think no one is watching. She is beautiful, intelligent, fun, kind to a fault, devoted to you. And all you see is a courtesan .” She picked up Humph’s brandy glass and took a healthy swallow. “What if I were to tell you I have never seen her with a man? That no clients at her establishment ever have appointments with her? Not in the months I was there, not in the years some of the other girls have been with her. No one works there in that way if they don’t want to, and that includes Constance. Now do you look at her differently?”

His eyes were impossibly icy. “No.”

Her smile was twisted. “Because you don’t believe me.”

“Actually, I do believe you. It is you who doesn’t believe me when I tell you Constance and I are friends. But we are not the issue here. If you wish to keep your husband with any hope of happiness, tell him the truth.”

She pushed the glass away from her. “I can’t,” she whispered. “I love him and he’s all I have. He and the children. I would rather have doubt than outright contempt.”

“Would you?” Solomon rose to his feet. “Think about it,” he said gently, the compassion back in his melting, dark eyes. He walked behind her and on toward the door, where he paused and glanced back at her. “Why does she keep doing it? Why does she not walk away?”

“Because she is needed. And she makes a difference. I am far from the only one.”

His lips quirked. It might have been a smile, but she still could not read his eyes. He turned and quietly left the room.

Further along the hall, a door closed. Humphrey, seeking solitude in his study. He had sent her to bed like a naughty schoolgirl because he could not bear the sight of her. Solomon’s footsteps moved steadily on to the drawing room.

Tomorrow, probably, she would be ashamed of throwing Constance in his face. In fact, their relationship baffled her, though it was none of her business and she should not have interfered. But she was tired of women being blamed for men’s failings, of being reviled for doing their best, for falling and failing… Whatever Constance’s past—and Elizabeth knew very little about it—Solomon should understand that she was the best person Elizabeth knew.

Apart from Humph.

Tears prickled. Would she be proving her innocence of murder at the expense of her marriage, her happiness with the funny, kind, grumpy bear of a man who was her husband? She put her head in her hands and closed her eyes, squeezing them tight.

Then, slowly, she opened them again, let her hands fall, and rose to her feet. She left the dining room and walked down the hall to Humph’s study, a silent, wordless prayer in her head.

She opened the door and went in. He too was sitting with his head in his hands, although he raised it at once, looking more disoriented than irritated.

“Humph,” she said, “will you hear the truth and still believe I love you?”

He was unusually pale, even in the dim candlelight, and almost haggard. The pain in his eyes devastated her, drowning her last hope in despair.

“I don’t know,” he whispered. Then, blindly, he took her hand and drew her on to his lap. Burying his face in her neck, he said in muffled tones, “Tell me it all this time. If you can bear it, so can I.”

*

“It’s not Humphrey,” Constance said as soon as Solomon entered the drawing room. She was pacing the floor like a caged if graceful animal, not even pausing as she flung the words at him over her shoulder. Her wide skirts rustled expensively. The glow of the candles caught glints of red and gold in her hair, enhancing the flawless beauty of her skin.

It hurt to look at Constance sometimes. He had assumed that was because she could never be his. But now, suddenly, it was as if some glass wall between them had shattered. Only illusion, misunderstanding, had kept him from acknowledging his attraction to her.

Even attraction was a poor, weak word for intense feelings that rocked him in utter confusion.

Just because Constance did not lie with men for money? Was Elizabeth right about that?

Partly. A man wanted to be the only one…or this man did. But there was more. In some ways, Constance’s profession had been a crutch to him, preventing him from falling, and he had grasped it like a weapon. Because he was afraid of the depths.

Solomon had known women before. Charming, witty, soft, sweet or fierce, each had fascinated and soothed him for a while. But he had always been in control. With Constance…

He reminded himself sharply that he was not with Constance. What the devil had she just said to him?

“It’s not Humphrey.”

“Why?” he managed. “What did you learn from him? Or from the police?”

She shook her head impatiently, whirling to face him. “Nothing we did not already know. But he is too honest, Solomon, too hurt and soft inside. He loves Elizabeth, but he could no more kill another woman who threatened her than she could. Nor could he conduct an affair behind her back, on his own doorstep, not from lust and not from blackmail.”

“And his first wife? Could he have killed her?”

She gazed at him. “Do you think he could have?”

“We have no evidence either way. But…no, I don’t see it.”

“We have no physical evidence at all,” Constance said. “And if there is none to be had, then we have only what we do know or feel to solve the puzzle.” She swung abruptly toward the door. “Let’s go up to our room.”

Cynically, Solomon supposed there were any number of men who would have given their right arms to hear such an invitation from Constance Silver. If only for the bragging opportunities. Unforgivable …

He followed her out of the drawing room. At the top of the stairs, he heard Elizabeth cross the hall below and enter the study. Metaphorically, he crossed his fingers for them.

The maids had not yet lit the bedroom lamps, so he and Constance did, before she grasped all the letter paper from their desk and a sharpened pencil from the drawer, then sank to the floor in a flurry of skirts that folded around her like a pretty, silken nest.

“We know character,” she said. “So we know neither Elizabeth nor Humphrey are guilty.”

“Very well.”

“They both saw Frances walking away from the lake by the path that leads to the road, just after ten o’clock the night she died.” She seemed to merely scribble on the paper, and yet what appeared was the small, neat lettering he had seen before.

“Where did you learn to read and write?” he asked, because he had wondered for months. “At school?”

“My mother taught me.” She paused, casting him a quick glance as though, belatedly, she wondered if she had given away too much.

He kept his gaze bland. “Who was your mother?”

“Who is my mother,” she corrected him. “Pray you never find out. We don’t think Frances went home. If she did, she entered the house secretly, probably by the window as we did. If she didn’t, where did she go?”

Solomon sat astride the desk chair, resting his arms along its back so that he could see what she was writing. “Somewhere she kept the nightgown she was found in, which her maid had not seen for months. Presumably the place she met her lover. Though would you need a nightgown for such a tryst?”

To his surprise, color seeped along the delicate lines of her cheekbones. “Perhaps it depends on the nightgown. Or how warm the trysting place. Which we believe to be no more than fifteen minutes’ walk from Fairfield Grange.”

“And we found no such likely place. No abandoned cottages or even derelict huts or hidden caves or empty potting sheds. Apart from Sarah Phelps’s barn. If Frances ran, she could probably have got to the lake boathouse in fifteen minutes, but there’s hardly room to swing a cat in there, let alone lie down in acute discomfort.”

“Then we’re left with occupied houses,” Constance said thoughtfully. She sighed. “Which is hardly feasible. No such affair could have been conducted in secret. But for the sake of it, which occupied houses could she have reached? The Fairfield gardener’s cottage, Waterside Farmhouse…”

“The cow byre at Waterside, which is hardly salubrious,” Solomon added. “And the large barn at the Grange, which is constantly busy and has nowhere to hide. The same with the stables and the carriage house, both of which have servants living above them.”

Constance wrote it all down, adding quick notes. “Where else? Dr. Laing’s cottage, which is constantly full of people, and his shed is full of pots and herbs.”

“Sarah Phelps’s house, and The Willows,” Solomon finished. “Also constantly full of people—or person—in their own ways, with nowhere to hide. Even if her lover were a servant—and we think she had grown out of that particular taste—how could they have met at The Willows with no one knowing?”

Constance met his gaze. “Someone could know. She could have blackmailed them to silence. We know she used such tricks to get her own way. What if it were Darby? He could run rings around his wife, ride over here whenever he chose.”

“Hiding his horse where?” Solomon asked. “Making love to her where? Even supposing Frances could have found a secret way into The Willows—and I admit I wouldn’t put it past her, not least to punish Humphrey and Elizabeth—surely any of the staff here could and should have seen the signs. Mrs. Haslett might not like Elizabeth, but she would never keep such an outrage from Maule.”

Constance threw down her pencil with frustration. “It’s the secrecy that is so impossible! She could never have rushed down here so often without someone noticing! She might have forced poor Worcester to silence, but think of everyone who must have seen her rushing—and she would need to have rushed to get here within fifteen minutes—and for what? A quick kiss before she turned and ran back? It makes no sense.”

“You’re right,” Solomon said slowly. “It has to be the Grange. With someone who had every right to be there.”

Her breath caught. Incest was not as unheard of as decent people thought, even among the most vocally righteous. And Frances had been undeniably troubled… But John had been a child when they left for India, and the colonel had had her watched in the subcontinent if not at home. Surely he would not have done so with such a gross secret to hide. But still, the Grange was a distinct possibility for other assignations.

“Locked doors,” she said. “Attics. Frances ruled the roost at Fairfield. She could keep the servants away from wherever she chose. She might even have pretended to go out, to stop people looking for her, when in reality she crept straight back in again. Oh, the devil, Sol, we have to go back to that house!”