Page 15 of Ghost in the Garden (Murder in Moonlight #3)

A ngela led them to her parlor, which was in semidarkness. She did not appear to notice, merely sat down. Solomon turned up the lamp and lit a few candles. Light flared across the severe bones of Angela’s face, and it struck Constance irrelevantly how beautiful she was, especially with this new vulnerability softening her usual appearance.

“How could this have happened?” Angela said hoarsely, although it was obvious she was not yet ready to listen to answers.

By way of silent comfort, which was all she could offer, Constance sat down close to her. Angela was not a woman who would appreciate being touched. Solomon took the stopper from a decanter and sniffed it, before pouring amber liquid into a glass and bringing it to Angela.

She took it mechanically, gazing into the glass. “Brandy. I kept it here for Caleb, for when he joined me here to talk.” Her lips twisted. “I prefer gin, myself—it’s low and common like me, eh, Mrs. Silver? Do I tell the policeman who you really are?”

“Yes, but not in front of your staff if you don’t want them to know.”

“A lot of things will come out now…things I would rather keep private.”

The humiliation of her beloved husband’s faithlessness, for one thing. There could be no misunderstanding that padded bedchamber.

Or did she mean Lambert’s connection to Gregg? Or evidence of other crimes that might be found at the house? Constance doubted the latter—apart from the blood on the cellar floor where Gregg had died.

Another shiver of acute discomfort shook her. Why would Lambert leave such evidence of that worst of all crimes, amongst all his efforts to keep the house and his future respectable? Or at least legal.

“Just tell the police the truth, Mrs. Lambert,” Solomon advised.

Angela swallowed some brandy. “I hired you for a quite different investigation. You found my answer, but just too late…”

Constance exchanged a quick, puzzled glance with Solomon.

“You don’t have to stay,” Angela said listlessly.

“We will,” Solomon said. “At least until the police have gone.”

Angela seemed both surprised and relieved by the speed with which she appeared to be about to get rid of the uniformed police constable whom Pat brought to the parlor. This individual stood to attention, his tall hat clutched under his arm. He had already been shown the body, and merely took a note of everyone’s name before warning severely that no one was to leave the house for the time being, and that his colleague would be guarding the dwelling.

“Is that it?” Angela said, incredulous and yet relieved. “You’re going now?”

“Not until the detectives get here, ma’am,” the constable said woodenly.

Angela’s gaze flew in alarm to Constance and Solomon. “Detectives?”

“They’re trained to find the evidence that will lead them to the culprit,” Constance said.

Angela swore beneath her breath, muttering, “I could tell them that.”

It was another long hour before the detective turned up in the shape of Inspector Harris and his sergeant, Flynn, whom Constance remembered well from the murder at Greenforth Manor in the summer.

Flynn cast them a surprised grin and took out his notebook, while Harris merely scowled at them before sitting down opposite the widow.

“My sincere condolences, Mrs. Lambert,” he said. “I’m sorry to annoy you at such a time, but I’m afraid there are some upsetting questions I must ask you.”

“Ask,” Angela said indifferently.

“Thank you. When did you last see your husband alive?”

“We’d just gone into the dining room, so I suppose it was about seven o’clock.”

“But he did not dine?”

Angela shook her head. “The servants had already served the first course, and we were about to sit down when Duggin said there was some difficulty with the wine my husband had chosen.”

A faint spasm crossed Harris’s face, perhaps at the idea of someone like Lambert possessing enough knowledge to choose wine. Or even, knowing the man’s criminal background, sheer annoyance that he could afford it.

“What difficulty?” he asked mildly.

Angela shrugged. “Duggin couldn’t find it, though Caleb swore it was there. He went to fetch it.”

“Did Duggin go with him?”

“No, he waited in the dining room to open the wine. Neither of us expected my husband to be more than a moment or two.”

“But he was.”

Angela nodded. “I presumed he’d been distracted by some matter of business, which happened quite often. So after about five minutes, I dismissed Duggin to warn the kitchen to hold back the next courses, and ate my soup.”

“So when did you suspect something was wrong?”

“When my maid came and told me.” Angela flicked one hand toward Constance.

Sergeant Flynn cast her a startled glance.

Harris sighed. “And what exactly did she tell you?”

“That Caleb was dead,” Angela whispered, covering her eyes with her hand. “In the wine cellar.”

“What did you do then?”

“I sent for Duggin—apart from my husband, only he has the keys to the cellar—and told him to let me in.”

Harris leaned forward in his chair. “Then Mr. Lambert had locked the door behind him again? Even though he only went in to collect a bottle of wine?”

It was a good point, and Constance could see it register on Angela’s face.

She blinked rapidly. “I suppose he must have, for Duggin had to unlock the door.”

“It’s a large cellar,” Harris observed. “With several rooms. How did you know he was in that particular room at the top of the cellar stairs?”

“The door to it was open,” Angela said, rubbing her forehead hard, as though to dislodge the memory of what she had seen.

“Did you know about that room?” Harris asked.

“No. I never went into the cellar. That was Caleb’s business, as the kitchen was mine.”

“I see.” Harris turned his gaze on Constance. “I hesitate to ask, but how did you know that Mr. Lambert was dead?”

“We found him,” Constance said. “You know Mrs. Lambert employed us to find out about the ghostly figure seen in the mist by herself and several of the servants. We had worked out that she came on regular days, so we lay in wait for her this evening, to confirm her identity and discover what she was doing here. We followed her into the cellar from the garden.”

“When, precisely?”

“About seven. Just after Bert the footman checked that the door to the mews at the bottom of the garden was locked.”

Harris frowned. “The same time Mr. Lambert went into the cellar. Did you see him? Hear him?”

“No,” Constance said. But Harris was right. They should have heard Lambert. Especially if he come for a bottle of wine—he would have come all the way down the cellar steps to where the racks of wine bottles stood, and where they had confronted Iris Fraser. They must have missed the murder by mere seconds .

“And how did she get into the cellar?” Harris demanded.

“With a key. She had it with her.”

Angela threw back her head and opened her suddenly burning eyes wide, glaring at Harris. “She had a key! She murdered my husband.”

Harris blinked. “I don’t see how or when. Who is this woman?”

“Iris Fraser,” Solomon said. “Her husband collected the rents at the tenement that collapsed in St. Giles.”

“Did he, by God?” Harris said.

“She was my husband’s mistress,” Angela said, a weird mixture of humiliation and triumph echoing through her voice. “He was done with her and she murdered him!”

Constance stared at the woman. The certainty in Angela’s voice was so convincing that, just for a moment, she believed her. Silence pressed around them.

“That isn’t actually possible,” Solomon said. “We watched her come through the door from the mews, and we followed her straight into the cellar, where she was never out of our sight, even for an instant.”

Angela turned away. “It was her,” she said stubbornly. “She had a key. She could have come in at any time. And out again. She could even have run out the front door and round to the mews just to fool you.”

“How would she even know to do that?” Solomon asked gently.

“Well, you’d questioned her already, hadn’t you?” Angela retorted. “She knew who you were. She fooled you into giving her an alibi.”

Harris said firmly, “You have to leave such deductions to us, ma’am. We’ll get to the truth of the matter, from the evidence. You won’t mind my speaking to your servants?”

Angela raised a weary hand. “Do what you must.”

Harris rose to his feet. “Thank you, ma’am. I won’t detain you any longer this evening.”

Angela, already lost in her own thoughts, seemed barely to hear him. He turned away, then abruptly spun back to face her.

“How long have you known about your husband’s affair with this Iris Fraser?”

“For sure? Only since he told me last night.”

“And what makes you think your husband ended the affair? Did he tell you that too?”

“Yes, he did.” Sudden color swept through her white face, but she looked Harris in the eye. “We were intimate last night. For the first time in many weeks. Believe me, I know it was over.” She jerked her head very slightly toward Constance. “ She knows it, too.”

To her annoyance, heat seeped into Constance’s face. The men in the room were all looking at her.

She lifted her chin. “I slept in the dressing room off Mrs. Lambert’s bedroom. I heard Mr. Lambert’s voice, so I know he was there last night. I have no idea what they talked about.”

They had most certainly made love, but she had no intention of confirming that, and she was fairly sure Inspector Harris would not ask her.

She was right.

Harris nodded curtly, said goodnight, and departed, Flynn at his heels.

“You can go,” Angela flung at her. “I don’t need you anymore.”

The suspicion that Constance was being manipulated surged forward and would have stuck, except there was something very like disappointment, even hurt, in Angela’s eyes. She had expected Constance to back up her accusation against Iris. Instead, Constance had let Solomon disprove it.

Solomon was already on his feet. Constance rose more slowly.

“Will you manage?” she asked Angela. “I can stay.”

Solomon’s arm twitched, but he said nothing. Was that a faint softening in Angela’s face?

“I know. But I need to be alone.”

Constance swallowed and nodded once before she walked toward the door.

“Come back tomorrow,” Angela said from her chair. “If you want to.”

“Goodnight,” Solomon said. Constance was not capable of speech.

They walked into the empty hall and across toward the front door, which she had never used before.

“Do you want to get your things?” Solomon murmured.

“Tomorrow will do.” Suddenly, she just wanted out of there. The whole building and everyone in it oppressed her. Though Solomon stopped to speak to the constable at the door, she kept on walking and let herself out.

The cold air was a relief. She lifted her face into it, and a moment later, Solomon swung his overcoat around her shoulders.

“Thank you,” she whispered, taking his arm. “Let’s find a hackney.”

“This is wrong,” Solomon said abruptly. “All wrong.”

“It’s certainly not what we expected when we set out so smugly to catch our ghost. Do you think Iris could have done it, Solomon? In the way Angela suggested?”

“It’s possible, I suppose, but I don’t believe it.”

“Why not?” she asked, because she really wanted to know.

He shrugged. “It’s just about possible for her to have entered the house before we started watching, and then run out again in time to come back in while we were watching. I just don’t see why she would go back in.”

“So that we would give her an alibi. Which we did.”

“And Angela didn’t like it,” Solomon pointed out.

“She wants it to be Iris. That’s jealousy and grief talking. A desire for revenge. When she thinks about it, I’m sure she’d rather know who really killed him.”

“And it might even be Iris.”

“In a fit of pique because her stream of presents had ended?” Constance said doubtfully.

“It must have been powerful pique.” He glanced down at her. “I just asked the constable how Lambert died. An axe through his head.”

“Jesus,” she whispered. “Just like Gregg. Could she have killed them both?”

“I don’t think she could have killed either of them, physically speaking. She’s agile, but she’s not strong—never had to do the kind of work that gives you the muscle to swing an axe with such force.”

Constance caught her breath. “No, but Frank Fraser could. He knows about the affair. The key’s been in Iris’s possession for weeks. He could have taken it at any time and had it copied. He can’t have liked the arrangement.”

“Or its ending?” Solomon said thoughtfully. “Well, if he did it, I expect he’s already scarpered.”

“But we have the same problem. We didn’t see him go in or out.”

“The police might yet find him hiding in one of the cellar rooms.”

She shivered. “I hope they do, and then this whole case will be over. But I’m not convinced, are you? But it seems to me the only other person who could have done it is Duggin, and he’s devoted to Lambert. Was devoted to Lambert.”

Solomon considered. “He was the one who sent Lambert to the wine cellar in search of the missing bottle. He waited a few minutes with Angela and then she dismissed him with a message for the kitchen. He could have gone into the cellar then, whacked his master, and emerged again, locking the door behind him and meaning, presumably, to get rid of the body at some later date.”

“It works, except… Wouldn’t we have heard him? If by some miracle we just missed Lambert coming into the cellar from the house, surely we weren’t late enough to have missed Duggin murdering him? Everything was quiet, and we can’t have been that distracted by Iris’s sordid little tale.”

“It makes no sense,” Solomon agreed. “Though I suppose Duggin might have killed Gregg for Lambert’s sake, only without telling him? It would explain why the body wasn’t moved immediately.”

“But not why Duggin would have killed Gregg without Lambert’s specific instructions. Maybe Gregg assaulted his daughter?”

“Guesswork, with absolutely no evidence,” Solomon said dismissively. “Could one of the other servants have stolen Duggin’s cellar key temporarily and copied it?”

“I suppose so, though I don’t see why. Or how, to be honest. They’re pretty much in awe of him. And Lambert.”

“And Mrs. Lambert?”

Constance thought about it. “I thought at first they didn’t respect her. The day I arrived, Bert took me to her parlor without even knocking. But they’re just not proper servants. They don’t know how to behave. I think they do respect her, though they’re not scared of her the way they are of Lambert and Duggin. In fact, they like her. Mrs. Feathers, the cook, will do anything for her.”

“Even kill her husband?”

“Oh yes,” Constance said. “But she’d poison his food, not hit him with an axe. She wouldn’t have the…” She trailed off, then drew in a breath. “Wouldn’t have the strength? She took Gregg’s body on a donkey through the streets at some speed and dumped it in Devil’s Acre. Maybe she does have the strength.”

“Or maybe someone helped her get Gregg onto the donkey and she really doesn’t have the strength. Hopefully the police will be able to get the truth out of the servants.”

“They’re not the sort of people who’ll ever talk to the police.”

Solomon grimaced. “And if they do, it will only be exactly what Angela told them to say. Would they tell you the truth?”

“I doubt it. I’m still the outsider. But I’ll try. If they think Angela trusts me, they might talk to me.” She glanced up at Solomon, who was waving down a hackney. “Do you think she does trust me?”

The hackney stopped behind them.

“Grosvenor Square, please,” Solomon told the jarvey, before opening the door and handing her inside. He climbed up and sat beside her. “The question is, really, do you trust her ?”