Page 11 of Ghost in the Garden (Murder in Moonlight #3)

L eaving Juliet in possession of Constance’s office, under instruction to answer the door in the unlikely event of anyone calling, Solomon went to visit one of his favored business associates.

Sir Nicholas Swan was an aristocratic rebel who had gone his own way and made his own fortune. Like Solomon, he lived in a large, old house near the river, quite outside the fashionable parts of town, and was on several of the same charitable boards. He also had an interest in commercial properties.

“A shop?” Sir Nicholas said in surprise when they sat comfortably in his home study. “This doesn’t sound like one of your ventures!”

“It isn’t. I’m inquiring for a friend.”

“I’ll send someone round this afternoon, if you like.”

“Thank you. If you could send him here…” Solomon passed over his Silver and Grey card, which made Sir Nicholas blink. “The other thing is…Huxley Gregg. Do you happen to know who his solicitor is?”

“Actually, yes. We had dealings before all this trouble.”

“I want to know who falls heir to Gregg’s estate.”

“Why?”

“I don’t believe he was the sole owner of that building or several others, and I need to know who owns them now.”

Swan frowned. He had a very alarming scowl when he chose. “Give me two minutes,” he said. “I’ll come with you. Oh, and you will come to our charity ball, won’t you? We’re raising money to rehouse the surviving victims of the disaster, to build some decent homes with proper plumbing and so on. I know, they need the help now, not in another year, but to be honest, people are more inclined to give after a disaster. My wife is arranging it. She’s bound to have sent you a card.”

“Of course,” said Solomon, who could not recall it. “May I bring a friend?”

Swan grinned. “As many as you like, as long as they—or you—cough up!”

An hour later they entered the offices of Granger, Granger, and Kemp, and were fortunate to discover a harassed-looking Mr. Kemp just arriving.

“Forgive me if I’ve forgotten our appointment,” he said. “I was called away urgently, and my clerk should have canceled everything until this afternoon.” He shuddered. “Mortuaries are not my favorite places.”

“Mortuaries?” Sir Nicholas repeated, startled.

“Yes, I was called away from the office by the police, who wanted me to identify the body of one of my clients. Come in, gentlemen.”

“I don’t suppose,” Solomon said, obligingly moving a heap of papers from one of the visitor’s chairs to a table, “that this dead client’s name is Gregg?”

Kemp froze in the act of hanging up his coat, his gaze fixed on Solomon. “Good God, is it in the newspapers already?”

“Not that I know of, but we came in the hope of discussing with you certain matters relating to Mr. Gregg, and no one has seen him for days.”

“The police found his body in Devil’s Acre,” Kemp said, hanging his coat on the hook and gesturing his guests to sit. “Not a pretty sight, I’m afraid. Dead for days, of course.”

“How many days?” Solomon asked.

“Four or five, they think.”

Solomon nodded thoughtfully. After a moment, he became aware that the other two were gazing at him, as though waiting for something.

“You didn’t ask how he died,” Kemp said.

“Violently, I would guess.”

“You guess correctly. What is your interest in the matter, Mr.”—Kemp glanced at the cards before him on the desk—“Mr. Grey?”

“I have been investigating the collapse of the tenement in St. Giles.”

“Grey and I represent a charity working for better housing,” Sir Nicholas intervened, by way of explanation. “We were eager for Gregg’s prosecution, along with anyone else associated with him in the ownership or upkeep of the building.”

“Well, you can’t prosecute him now,” Kemp said. Impossible to know if it was a matter of satisfaction or disappointment to him.

“But we could go after any partners,” Solomon said.

“He insisted he acted alone in that and certain other ventures,” Kemp said. “And only his name is on the title deeds.”

“Other ventures such as the building next door? Mr. Kemp, where do those rents go? Mr. Gregg’s people assured me they were paid into a bank account.”

“It will all be looked into now. He had several bank accounts, personal and business ones.”

“Do you happen to know who is his heir?” Solomon asked.

Kemp hesitated. “I have already told the police, so I suppose it doesn’t matter if you know. His brother does, after all.”

“His brother is his heir?” Solomon said, disappointed at the disproving of his theory.

“No. His elder brother, Mr. Alfred Gregg, knows he is not the heir. Huxley Gregg changed his will a year ago to leave everything to his ‘friend and associate of many years,’ Mr. Caleb Lambert. I imagine the elder Mr. Gregg is grateful for the distance between them since the scandal of St. Giles. He resides mostly in the country, which is why I was called upon to identify the body.”

Got you , thought Solomon savagely.

Only he hadn’t. The inheritance was an undoubted motive for murder. But it was not proof. The body in the cellar had been that.

Constance had been right last night. They should have followed the donkey into the Devil’s Acre.

*

Constance did not stay long at home, only enough to sort out a couple of minor squabbles and speak to everyone. They were managing perfectly well without her—they always did, which was somewhat lowering when she liked to think she was necessary to the whole business. She approved a prospective new girl—a very young one given to theft whom they would have to watch carefully, though at the moment she was too sick and too grateful for a bed to give them any trouble.

Besides that, there was the small matter of a load of furniture and boxes that had been delivered to the establishment and which clearly belonged to her mother. At least she had taken the threat of Boggie seriously, which was such a relief that Constance bade her people store it all in the cellar. After all, she had a discreet arrangement with the local police.

“Evenings are good,” Maggie reported. “But all the gentlemen are asking after you. You’ll have to put in an appearance soon.”

“I will,” Constance said vaguely, and set off for the Silver and Grey office.

As she opened the front door with her key, her mother emerged into the hall. “Afternoon, Con.”

“Good God. What are you doing here?”

“Minding your shop. Himself is out, and so’s the girl.”

Constance closed the door, removed her hat and coat, and walked purposefully into her own office, where she all but fell over a trunk and a carpetbag.

She stared at her mother. “Have you moved in?”

“Nah, moved out. Your Mr. Grey told me he had premises.”

“Yes, but you own that house,” Constance said. “You said it was your security.”

“Well, it’s a roof,” Juliet said. “But you always told me I’d never get rich in Seven Dials. I’d get bugger all for selling it and all.”

“You can’t fence on Solomon’s turf. He’s a law-abiding man.”

“He’s a good man. Not necessarily the same thing.”

“In this case, it is. I mean it, Ma, you’ll have to be straight.”

Juliet stared at her. “You run a house of ill repute. How is that legal?”

“Solomon does not own my house. Are you going to sell the place in Seven Dials?”

“Not to Boggie, I’m not. Solomon thinks your Lambert’s behind him. I don’t make enough to interest a man like Lambert. If he’s going straight as everyone thinks, what’s he want with a fence?”

“But you own a building with lots of rooms,” Constance said slowly. “Solomon is probably right.”

Discontentedly, she threw herself into one of the armchairs. Although relieved to find her mother away from Boggie, she did not want any witness between herself and Solomon when they met again. Her stomach still twisted with anxiety. Had they just argued? Or was their partnership truly broken?

He was looking after her mother…who was indirectly associated with the case. She had nothing to contribute except…

The sound of his key turning in the front door latch had her springing up before she could think. Would he be cold and angry? Or apologetic? Which should she be?

Foolish panic overtook her. Would he assume her presence meant she had left the Lamberts’ house? Would they quarrel about her going back? Again? How far should she dig in her heels and how much would he resent it? She had been silly to allow friendship with a man to become so important, and yet if she no longer had it…

The door was pushed open.

“Constance,” Solomon said in surprise. He carried a rolled-up newspaper in one hand. “Is everything well?”

His unreadable mask was back in place, but just before it came down, she was sure she glimpsed a storm of emotion.

“Perfectly,” she replied, as carelessly as she could. “Angela has given me the afternoon off, while Janey and Lenny Knox, of all people, follow her about her business.”

“It seemed a good idea at the time. So long as no one recognizes Knox. Lambert ruined him quite deliberately for fighting for a decent wage. It wasn’t even for him.”

“People tend to die for opposing Lambert,” Juliet remarked. “Looks like we’re all in the same boat. If you’re right that he’s behind Boggie.”

“They’ve found Gregg,” Solomon said, spreading his newspaper on Constance’s desk. “In Devil’s Acre. You were right.”

Constance looked at him quickly. It was his only acknowledgement of last night’s disagreements, though it was hardly the main one. Because her mother was there, watching them like some curious if overfed bird, she hastily dropped her gaze to the newspaper.

The murder of Gregg, after the outcry of the collapsed building and before the inquiry could apportion blame, was big news. The police had said little, but the reporter’s speculation was rife, concluding that some angry survivor, or a family member of someone who died in the disaster, had taken the law into their own hands. The tone of the article was decidedly sympathetic to such a motive, and foretold that the killer would never be found.

“Understandable,” Solomon murmured. “But not entirely fair. I’ve been speaking to his solicitor and to Sir Nicholas Swan, who knew Gregg years ago. He was born a gentleman and did not always associate with the likes of Lambert. Until about a year or so ago, he was just a decent man trying to make an honest living. He cut a few corners, always in pursuit of the quick profit, trying to outdo his brother, who inherited the family’s estates. Then he began to invest in slum properties because they cost little and turned a quick profit. The first time he partnered with Lambert, and after that it was on his own, officially, but Kemp—the solicitor—believes Lambert was pointing him toward properties, including the one that collapsed, and kept some sort of unofficial finger in the pie.”

“He was just Lambert’s tool?” Constance asked.

“Not just. He clearly made no effort to walk away, but Kemp suspects there was an agreement. That Gregg’s bank accounts will show that he made comparatively little, considering the flow of rent.”

“He was paying a percentage to Lambert?”

“To whom he leaves everything in his will. There is some evidence that Gregg was trying to move out of slums into Belgravia and the like, but so was Lambert. They were partners in those ventures.”

“And now Lambert has everything,” Constance murmured, “slums and mansions, all respectably inherited, with no blame attached for the disaster. Why would he kill Gregg, though? He was the perfect scapegoat and clearly useful in introducing him to better Society and the business of the wealthy. Which, according to Angela, is his goal.”

Solomon shrugged. “Perhaps Gregg had had enough and threatened to tell everything to the inquiry. Perhaps Lambert just needed an influx of money for some other venture.”

“Cold,” Juliet commented. “And bad for business.”

“You’re right,” Constance said to her. “Anyone moving from one world to another needs to avoid the law or buy it off. Solomon, I think we should speak to the police, at least to Inspector Harris.”

Only as she said it did she realize that both of them were talking as if their partnership was still intact, that they were still pursuing this case together.

“I agree,” he said.

He didn’t point out that he’d wanted to do so last night. They really needed to listen to each other…

Solomon passed a card to Constance’s mother. “Mrs. Silver, this man will call to show you around some likely premises for your shop.”

“Where?” Juliet asked eagerly.

“Covent Garden, I think. And further west. You might also want to think of selling your old house to me, just to avoid further trouble.”

“That just moves the trouble to you,” Juliet pointed out. “Besides, what do you want with a house in Seven Dials?”

“I might renovate it, an alternative to building new houses. If you choose to sell.” He picked up his hat and transferred his attention to Constance. “Shall we?”

Constance, after a doubtful glance at her innocent-looking mother, preceded him out of the office. Since they appeared to be working together, she was happy to ignore last night’s quarrel.

It was Solomon who brought it up.

“I know you are capable,” he said, with no warning, without even offering his arm or looking at her. “And I know this is more your world we are dealing with than mine. But I don’t have so many friends that I can afford to lose them. I am overprotective, not unappreciative of your talents.”

She was not untouched, though she reacted with humor. “Your view of my talents is so different to other men’s.” She took his arm without invitation. “I said some things I should not, things I did not mean.”

“I have never betrayed you and never will,” he said quietly.

“I know.”

He looked at her at last. “Are you safe in that house?”

“For now, yes. Though I am happier when Lambert is not at home. One of us, if not both of us, needs to be in the cellar when the ghost comes back on Saturday.”

“We don’t know that she will. She might consider herself rumbled and stay away.”

“What is she doing there?” Constance asked. “Laying gunpowder like Guy Fawkes?”

“We saw no sign of it. Though several of the doors were locked. They are so careful of safety, why does no one patrol down there as they do the grounds?”

“Maybe they think the only way in is through the house,” Constance said. “That door is pretty well hidden.”

“So how does our ghost know about it?”

“Because she found it for herself?” Constance said. “Or because she has an ally inside. A lover, though I can’t think who. None of the servants vanish for long periods of time, unless they’re out with Lambert or Angela. Even Duggin is usually in his own pantry and mostly visible.”

“Which leaves Lambert himself,” Solomon said. “Where was he during our ghost’s visit?”

“At dinner with Angela,” Constance replied, frowning. “For part of the time. But they didn’t sit together in the drawing room last night, as they did the night before. Angela was already in her own parlor by the time we told her about the body. The servants thought he was in his office, but I don’t know…”

“It would explain how furtive he is, keeping out of Angela’s way, and the servants’.”

Constance wrinkled her nose. “Would he bring another woman into his wife’s home?”

“Winsom did,” Solomon said, reminding her of their first mystery at Greenforth Manor.

“But Lambert relies on her!” Still, he had wandering eyes, if not hands.

“Hence his secrecy,” Solomon said. “Is that the real reason Angela hired us? To find out her rival’s identity?”

Constance closed her mouth. It made an unpleasant kind of sense. “Perhaps. But she did seem genuinely… afraid that it truly was a ghost, in particular the ghost of a St. Giles victim, such as Lenny Knox’s wife. There is genuine guilt in her, Solomon.”

He did not discount what she said. “I wonder if Lambert feels guilty, too, in his own way. Perhaps the ghost is to do with his making amends somehow? Or trying to. Have you time to come to St. Giles before you go back to Angela?”

“Well, she’s not going to dismiss me,” Constance said wryly. “Though the other servants are already looking at me askance.”

They went directly to Scotland Yard, since they were sure this was where Inspector Harris could be found.

Ten minutes later, he stood glowering at them across his small office. “Are you two going to start plaguing me like the Tizsas?” he demanded.

Solomon presented him with a card. “Our new venture for those who cannot or will not involve the police. We are looking into matters that concern a ghost, Caleb Lambert, and the murder of Huxley Gregg. Are you involved in the case?”

Harris continued to stare at them. Then he sighed, indicated the chairs opposite his chaotic desk, and commanded them, “Cough it up.”

Solomon blinked, uncomprehending. So Constance told him about hunting Angela’s ghost, the discovery and disappearance of Gregg’s body, and how they thought they had pursued it as far as the invisible boundary of Devil’s Acre.

“I assumed they were going to dump it in the river,” Solomon confessed. “But when we tried to pick up the scent again, we had lost it. Then we saw in the newspaper that Gregg’s body had been found in Devil’s Acre.”

Harris had listened without interrupting, though his sharp, intelligent eyes were gleaming.

“I will enjoy Lambert’s face when we arrive with a warrant to search his fine house and arrest him,” he said dreamily.

Contance exchanged a glance with Solomon.

“The thing is,” she said, “it would be more satisfying yet to prove Lambert was as much to blame for the St. Giles disaster as Gregg, and stop him from inheriting if we can.”

Harris’s eyes went cold again. His lips tightened. Undoubtedly, he could see the point. “I can’t not investigate a murder on the strength of your intuition,” he snapped.

“No, but there are plenty other avenues to investigate,” Solomon argued, “evidence to collect that does not involve raiding his home—for example, Gregg’s bank accounts to match against the rents he gathered, and Lambert’s also. Find out who sees him on Thursday and Saturday evenings. The ghost is connected somehow. Give us until tomorrow night before you arrest him.”

Harris scowled, drumming his fingers on his desk.

“It would be a shame to jump in too quickly when you might be able to tie him into so many other things,” Constance wheedled. “You could close down his whole organization with a little patience…”