Page 1 of Ghost in the Garden (Murder in Moonlight #3)

O n a bright, cold November morning, Constance Silver left her discreet establishment just off Grosvenor Square and walked smartly through the gracious streets. It was a long enough walk to justify going by carriage, but she preferred the fresh air and exercise to clarify her mind concerning the problems of one business before facing the other.

She was aware as she did so of the eager excitement curling in her stomach. She chose to believe this was due to the possibilities of her new venture into the world of private investigations, and nothing to do with her partner. It could certainly not be the investigations themselves that occupied her, for despite their being open for consultations yesterday and three days the previous week, they had none.

Crossing St. Martin’s Lane with the aid of the same sweeper who had cleared her way yesterday, she dropped a generous coin into the boy’s chapped fingers and resolved to buy him decent gloves and a scarf for Christmas. She turned into Chandos Street and, at the corner of a narrow lane, paused to admire the polished brass plaque beside a newly painted black door. It bore the legend Silver & Grey .

Smiling, she let herself in with a key. The welcoming entrance hall might have been to a home rather than to an office. Constance took off her hat and bonnet and hung them on the coat stand beside a fur-trimmed, heavy wool overcoat. A tall silk hat adorned the shelf.

A small, empty waiting room opened to the right of the hall. To the left were two parlors that doubled as offices, furnished with comfortable chairs as well as desks. In the hope that her partner was with a client, she knocked before she entered the first parlor.

Solomon Grey was alone. He sat at the desk, reading through a pile of papers that she knew had nothing to do with this business, but with one of his many other ventures in the worlds of shipping, industry, and banking. He glanced up and rose as he always did, a dark, elegant man with a presence one could not ignore. Constance, who had been reading men with invariable accuracy for most of her life, had only ever begun to scratch the surface with Solomon, a walking puzzle that she could only enjoy.

“A cup of tea before we are besieged by clients?” she offered.

“Thank you,” he said politely.

Already, they had fallen into the habit that he lit the fire and the stove in the morning, and she made the tea. He went out at midday to buy their luncheon, while she completed what little cleaning was necessary. They had talked about taking on one of Constance’s girls to do the cleaning and the tea, and showing in clients, but since none of those had been forthcoming, there appeared to be no rush.

Ten minutes later, they sat drinking tea companionably by the fireside and talking about plays they had seen at Drury Lane. She had come to value those times of quiet companionship. It made up for their lack of clients.

A sharp knock brought about a sudden silence. They gazed at each other in surprise and hope.

“It will be the postman,” Constance said, trying not to bounce too eagerly to her feet. “Or Mrs. Higgs from the flat upstairs.”

While she walked to the door without too much hurry, Solomon swept the teacups and saucers from the small table to place them on the desk instead. Along with his pile of papers, it created an impression of industry.

Constance opened the front door to find an expensively dressed lady on the step. She held out a card between her gloved fingers. “Angela Lambert. I would like to see Mr. Silver or Mr. Grey,” she said in a surprisingly strong London accent, “if either is available. If not, I’ll make an appointment.”

“Please come in,” Constance said, her heart beating with excitement at this, their first prospective client. “May I take your coat?”

“I can see someone now?” the woman asked eagerly. She must have been around forty years old, a handsome woman who had probably been a beauty in her youth. Inclined now to stoutness, she was nevertheless attractive. Her station in life was harder to fix, since her wide crinoline and expensive garments contradicted her rough accents. She seemed a little shy, a little unsure of herself.

“It so happens we are both in the office at this moment,” Constance said, taking the woman’s fur-lined coat and hanging it on the third hook. She glanced at the card she had been given: Mrs. C. Lambert had been inscribed, above a Westminster address. “Please come this way, Mrs. Lambert, and tell us how we may help you.”

She opened the first parlor door, ushering her visitor inside, where, once again, Solomon arose from his desk and walked toward them.

“This is Mrs. Lambert,” Constance said. “Ma’am, allow me to introduce my partner, Mr. Grey. I am Mrs. Silver.”

Mrs. Lambert inclined her head in response to Solomon’s bow and cast a rather sharp look at Constance. However, she sat on the edge of the chair offered to her, her back straight and stiff.

“How might we help you, Mrs. Lambert?” Solomon asked, and sat down beside Constance.

“I don’t know if you can,” Mrs. Lambert said nervously. “I don’t know if you’ll even believe me, let alone be able to do anything about it.”

“We will tell you honestly if we think it beyond our skills,” Solomon assured her.

Mrs. Lambert regarded him with a shrewd glance. “You look like a man who has traveled. You must have seen a lot of unlikely things in your life.”

“A few,” Solomon admitted.

“Ever seen a ghost?”

Constance almost groaned. Just what they didn’t need to start off their new venture—a superstitious crank. She hoped she retained her expression of neutral interest. Solomon certainly did.

“Not to my knowledge,” he said smoothly.

“Well, I seen one.”

“And it troubles you?”

Mrs. Lambert nodded. “Wouldn’t have come here otherwise. Saw your flyer on a lamppost and thought, that’s who I need. Someone to tell me if it’s really a ghost, and either way, what the devil it wants with my house.”

Constance set the client’s card on the table, where Solomon could see it. At least there actually seemed to be some investigation required. Surely it would be a start, though she could not imagine the outcome of such a case.

“You saw this ghost in your own home?” she asked.

“Well, in my garden.”

“What was it doing?”

“Just gliding about,” Mrs. Lambert said impatiently. She must have read something in Constance’s face, for she frowned and added defensively, “I’m not the only one who’s seen it.”

“Who else has seen this ghost?” Solomon asked.

“One of the maids and two footmen.”

A substantial home , Constance noted, judging by the number of servants.

“Tell us what you saw,” Solomon said. “What did the ghost look like?”

“Like a girl. A young woman. Veiled and sort of wispy. Like mist. I know what you’re going to say! That it was mist, but it wasn’t. It had too much shape, and it came through the mist.”

“From where?” Constance asked.

“I don’t know. It just seemed to…materialize in the middle of the garden, and moved through it, then vanished into the mist.”

“And you just saw it once?”

Mrs. Lambert nodded. “Night before last. Before that, I told the servants to stop being stupid and scaring each other, ’cause there’s no such thing as ghosts. Only when I saw it, I weren’t so sure.”

“So it might have been a real person moving about your garden without your authority,” Solomon said.

“It might have been,” she said. “It just didn’t look like anyone I ever seen before, and the servants don’t know her neither.”

“When was this ghostly figure first seen?” Constance asked.

“A couple of weeks ago. Goldie—the maid—saw her first through the kitchen window and squealed, but no one believed her until Bert and Pat saw her a week later, and then Goldie saw it again from her bedroom window.”

“And where were you when you saw it?” Solomon asked.

“In the back parlor. I’d just come in and went to close the curtains when I saw her clear as day. Well,” she amended, “not quite as clear as that. But she was like an apparition, floating through the mist.”

“Did she make any threatening gestures?” Solomon asked.

Mrs. Lambert shook her head. “No, she just seemed in a hurry.”

Constance met Solomon’s gaze briefly. It was not the serious case they had hoped for, but beggars could not be choosers, and they had to start somewhere.

“What exactly is it you want us to do?” Solomon asked.

“I don’t expect you to lay a ghost, if that’s what you’re asking. I just want to know if it is a ghost or if it’s a person. If the latter…I want to know who she is and what she’s doing on my husband’s property, because he won’t like it.”

Constance, who had for some reason imagined Mrs. Lambert was a widow, said quickly, “Is your husband aware of the ghost?”

“He’s aware what’s been said about it, but he’s never seen it and certainly doesn’t believe it’s a ghost. His footmen, Robin and Pat, are supposed to keep the place secure, and they do, to be fair, which inclines me to the supernatural explanation, though it ain’t in my nature.”

“If it is a person rather than a ghost,” Constance said, “who do you think it is?”

Mrs. Lambert shrugged. “Someone trying to scare us, maybe.”

“Who would want to do that?” Solomon asked.

Mrs. Lambert’s gaze slid down to her hands clasped together in her lap. “I don’t know. Someone who don’t like my husband, maybe. He’s made some enemies over the years, and some of ’em bear grudges. Only I can’t see them getting so close as to get caught.” She shrugged. “Brings me back to ghosts again.”

“Well, we could certainly keep watch on your garden for a few nights,” Solomon said.

“No, that wouldn’t work,” Mrs. Lambert said quickly. “Pat and Robin’d get you, and Caleb—my husband—would know I’d been interfering.” She shifted uncomfortably and said, “I thought you might come and pretend to be a servant for a week or so. I’d pay you for that as well as any other fee required for your services. I already told Caleb I wanted another footman.” She looked Solomon up and down. “But you wouldn’t do.”

Solomon raised one eyebrow.

“I don’t care what color your skin is,” Mrs. Lambert said bluntly. “But no one’d ever believe you’re a servant.” Her gaze shifted to Constance. “I don’t have a proper lady’s maid either, but you talk too posh to work for the likes of me.”

“I don’t have to talk posh,” Constance said. “I’ll speak any way you like and stick to it.”

Mrs. Lambert smiled. “You been on the stage?”

“As good as,” Constance said, sustaining a critical inspection.

“You can’t wear that kind of dress, neither.”

“Of course not. I have a plain back dress I can wear—with an apron, if you like. And pin my hair more suitably.”

“Done,” said Mrs. Lambert as though closing a deal.

“Here is a list of our charges,” Solomon said, placing the relevant piece of paper on the table in front of her.

She barely glanced at it. “Fine. When can you begin?”

“Tomorrow morning?” Constance said. “Mr. Grey can deal with matters here.”

“Good,” Mrs. Lambert said, standing up. “Don’t forget to use the back door.”

“I won’t,” Constance assured her.

“Allow me to see you out,” Solomon said politely, conducting her to the door.

Constance paced with excitement until he came back. “Well? What do you think?” she demanded. “Not what I was hoping for, but at least it’s something .”

“I think it’s strange,” he said. He was frowning as he sat down again. “Why is it something for us? She has a husband, a house full of servants—including at least three manservants. Yet the first thing she thinks of is not to send them to lay hold of this ghost, but to come to us at vast expense.”

“She doesn’t appear to be short of money,” Constance said. “But she does seem afraid of her husband. She doesn’t want him to notice she’s been interfering, which is why I have to pretend to be a servant. Who is this Caleb Lambert?”

“I have no idea.” Solomon picked up Mrs. Lambert’s card again. “What’s more, I’m not exactly sure where that is. We should go and look this evening. And find out a bit more about the Lamberts. I don’t like the idea of your being in there alone.”

“I won’t be alone. I’ll have Mrs. Lambert on my side at the very least.”

“Mrs. Lambert, who’s afraid of her husband and doesn’t trust her servants.”

Constance grimaced. “Put like that… You and I will need to be able to communicate. In fact… Why don’t we begin this afternoon? I’ll get Janey to stay here just in case someone calls with an inquiry.”

“Janey?” he said at once. “Of the foul mouth and aggressive manner?”

“That’s the one. She’ll be polite enough taking messages and making appointments, and if anyone causes trouble, they won’t know what hit them. We can send a boy with a note…”

“Write it. I’ll find a messenger to send to your house in Grosvenor Square.”

*

Angela Lambert walked smartly along Chandos Street, wondering if she’d done the right thing. Silver and Grey weren’t exactly who and what she’d expected them to be. For one thing, one of them was a woman, although now she thought about it, she rather liked the idea. A woman going her own way, making her own decisions.

But both of them were too refined, and too liable to stand out. Mrs. Silver was too pretty not to cause trouble in the house. And Grey… She didn’t know if he was dark-skinned European or African, though he talked the Queen’s English better than most people Angela had ever met. He wasn’t exactly the seedy, unnoticeable type. He wouldn’t blend easily into any background. In fact, he was the sort of man people always noticed.

Angela had certainly noticed him. And it had been a long time since she’d noticed men other than her husband. What would Caleb do if I indulged the attraction?

Kill us both, probably.

No, perhaps Silver was better, on the whole, to have in the house. But Angela would need to be careful now. Damned careful.

*

Janey breezed in just over an hour later, bearing hot pies she’d bought from a street seller on the way.

“What d’you want me to do, then?” she asked Constance, who had just let her into the hall. “And where’s this gorgeous man of yours?”

Solomon’s tall, elegant figure filled the parlor doorway. Janey stared at him with frank appreciation.

“Cor. No wonder she don’t talk about you. They’d be fighting over you in our establishment.”

“Not if they wanted to remain there,” Constance said. “This is Janey, my maid. Janey, Mr. Grey.”

“Wotcha, Mr. Grey,” Janey said cheerfully. “Want a pie?”

“Thank you,” Solomon said gravely, accepting the parcel.

Constance hauled Janey to the office and showed her the appointment book. “Don’t make any appointments for me this week or next, and try not to make it sound that Mr. Grey is too available, even though he is from tomorrow morning. Don’t swear at anyone—unless they deserve it—and help yourself to tea in the kitchen. You can leave when Mr. Grey returns.”

“Do I have to?” Janey asked.

“I thought men revolted you these days.”

“I ain’t touching ’em again, bastards, but I could just look at him for a bit.”

“No you couldn’t,” Constance said firmly. “He’s not an exhibit.”

“He’s a gentleman, ain’t he? With an edge.”

There was definitely an edge to Solomon. Cool, self-contained, observant, with just that hint of danger that lurked in men who could always take care of themselves.

“Are you clear what you have to do?” Constance asked hastily.

“Of course I am. I ain’t stupid. You and him bugger off. I’ll be fine.”

“Just don’t tell clients to bugger off,” Constance said as they emerged from the office to find Solomon looking amused. Already wearing his overcoat, he assisted Constance into hers and picked up his hat.

“Thank you, Miss Janey,” he said, and opened the door, quite unaware that he’d made a rare conquest with four words.

*

The hackney set them down in Victoria Street, within sight of the Houses of Parliament and Westminster Abbey. Constance, however, paused to gaze in the other direction.

“Over there,” she said, nodding across the road, “is Devil’s Acre. A maze of slums built on marshland, all muck, rookeries, poverty, and thieves.”

Even Solomon, it seemed, had heard of Devil’s Acre. Well, Mr. Dickens had written an alarming article about it a year or so ago, which had raised its level of notoriety.

“You are telling me that the Lamberts live in Devil’s Acre?”

“Lord, no,” Constance said. “Their address is in the opposite direction. Interesting, though, that they live so close. I wonder if they came from there?” She took Solomon’s proffered arm and they began to walk. “I found her an odd mixture, didn’t you? Uncertain to the point of shyness one moment, and very sure of herself the next.”

“Aren’t we all a little like that?”

“Perhaps.”

They almost missed the Lamberts’ house, for it was set off the road, in one of those unexpectedly quiet corners one occasionally came across in London, where the city’s noise and bustle did not seem to reach. The house was tall and dark, its stone grimy with the years. Iron gates at the front guarded a short path with a tree on either side to the front door. It almost looked unoccupied.

A lane led around the side of a walled garden with no obvious way in, until, at the back, they came to a stout wooden door in the wall. Casually, Solomon tried it and found it locked.

They went back the way they had come toward Victoria Street.

Solomon murmured, “Unless you can get a key to that garden door, we’ll have to meet at the front, maybe just at the corner of Tothill Street.”

“We should certainly do that the first time. Shall we say eight o’clock? You might have to hang around a bit until I can escape.”

Solomon was silent for some time. “You’ll be too isolated in there. I don’t like it.”

“Less so once I get in and see the lie of the land. There’s nothing much we can do here until tomorrow. The house has an air of secrecy, though, does it not?”

“Yes. While you are inside, I think I need to make urgent inquiries into this Lambert, if only for your safety.”

“I’ve faced worse than him with fewer weapons,” Constance said carelessly, her mind on the ghostly sightings. “Let’s find another hackney. I can drop you back at the office on my way.”

“On your way where?”

“To make my own inquiries.”

“Where?” he repeated.

She had to remind herself that they were partners now, that they each had to know what the other was doing and why. Trust was something that had to be constant.

“Seven Dials,” she said reluctantly.

He blinked. “Then I will come with you.”

She took a deep breath. “Don’t be daft. I’m going to see my mother.”