Page 18 of Ghost in the Garden (Murder in Moonlight #3)

“T o the office?” Solomon suggested.

“No.” Constance marched toward the hackney stand. “Back to the Lamberts’. And this time by the back door. You’re right. The servants are all lying to the police, but they might not lie to me. Not if Harris has left, at any rate.”

“Then let’s go and see.”

Though his words agreed, his tone was wary, and she knew he would insist on coming with her. In truth, though she might despise herself for it, she felt safer with him there. After all, she had no idea how far Angela had taken the others into her confidence. And Constance had refused a well-paid position with her. Did that make her suspicious?

Alighting from the hackney, they walked in at the front gates and around the side of the house to the back door.

Duggin opened it and stared at them without blinking. “Well, well, look what the cat’s dragged in.”

“Good day to you, too,” Constance murmured.

At least he stood back and let them enter, before turning back to the large table, where he appeared, incongruously, to be polishing silver cutlery.

“Thought you were leaving her in the lurch,” Duggin said, sitting down.

“We understand each other,” Constance said vaguely. “Where is everyone else?”

“About their own duties. Apart from Mrs. Feathers, who’s having a lie-down.”

Presumably the gin had got the better of her, which was unusual. Although she tippled all the time, she had never appeared to be drunk. Well, the situation in the house was considerably more stressful than usual.

“Is she well?” Constance asked.

Duggin grunted.

“How is Mrs. Lambert?” she asked brightly.

“Better since the peelers decamped.”

“Are they going to pin it on Iris Fraser?” Solomon asked.

Duggin sneered. “If the cap fits her.”

“I don’t think it does,” Constance argued, “and the inspector will know that too. He’s not a fool. Help me here, Mr. Duggin, so we can clear everything up quickly. When you went down to the cellar in the first place, looking for the wine Mr. Lambert had ordered, was anyone else in there?”

He shrugged. “Didn’t see anyone. But then, I didn’t look. My attention was all on bottles. She could have been there.”

“Was the key in the cellar door out to the garden?” Solomon asked.

“I didn’t notice.”

“Did you look inside that padded room?” Constance asked. There was no point in asking if he’d known about the room. Of course he had. He’d been covering for Lambert with his wife for months, if not years.

“It was closed,” Duggin said. “I went straight down the steps to the cellar.”

“How long were you there?”

“I don’t know. Five minutes? Ten? What does it matter?”

“It matters when you came back up,” Constance said mildly, “when you announced dinner and when Mr. Lambert went to look for the missing bottle.”

“Christ, I’ve been telling this to the police all bloody morning. I must’ve gone down to the cellar about half past six to look for the wine, come back about twenty minutes to seven, then seen to the places in the dining room. Dinner was at seven o’clock. It’s always at seven o’clock. So it must have been two minutes past when his nibs went down.”

“Then Iris can’t have done it, because at two minutes past she was with us.”

“Then she must have done it between twenty to seven and seven, mustn’t she? While you two lovebirds were otherwise engaged.”

Constance felt heat rise into her face, but Solomon leaned forward in his chair, saying, “Whom are you protecting? Why are you so determined to attribute this to Iris? How long have you known about her affair with Lambert?”

Duggin only smiled. It wasn’t pleasant, but Constance pursued the issue.

“You’ve always known, haven’t you? Nothing much happens in this house without your knowledge. You’ve got the key to the cellar. You can tell Mrs. Lambert, as I’m sure you have, that her husband is in his study when he’s actually trysting in his padded room.”

Duggin didn’t so much as glance at her.

“When did she find out?” Solomon asked conversationally.

Duggin actually laughed. “How would I know? She’s mistress of the house, isn’t she?”

Constance pounced. “Meaning that nothing much happens in this house without her knowledge either?”

That got Duggin’s attention, and his eyes were murderous. “ You are accusing her ?”

Of course. It had to be Angela he was protecting. She had always known that. So, it seemed, had Solomon.

“You think she isn’t capable of killing?” he asked. “Or of jealousy?”

Duggin had himself in hand again. “She knew her place was safe. She was his wife, had all his respect.”

“Not sure tumbling his mistress beneath his wife’s roof shows a lot of respect.”

Duggin turned his villain’s glare on Solomon this time. “Really? Not sure you’re going to fit in here, Mr. Lovebird.”

“I don’t intend to, Mr. Duggin.”

“Then you’d better stay away, hadn’t you?”

“You’re protecting her,” Constance said. “Everyone is, or trying to. But the thing is, you can’t protect her with lies. We need to know the truth to get justice for Mr. Lambert.”

Something flickered in his eyes then. Guilt? Shame? Acknowledgment that he’d almost forgotten his master in support of his mistress? “That needn’t trouble you or the peelers.”

“It’s a new world, Mr. Duggin. The peelers are everywhere. You know that, or you wouldn’t be setting Iris up for them.”

“I ain’t setting anyone up. If you can’t see the truth—which is none of your concern anyway—that ain’t my problem. That inspector’s round there now arresting Iris Fraser.”

Constance doubted that. Sergeant Flynn had said nothing about it. But either way, she would never budge Duggin from his story. He had been too well primed, and only one person could have done that. The woman who commanded his loyalty, even above what he had always owed her husband.

Or…who else could matter more to Duggin more than either of the Lamberts? His own flesh and blood.

Goldie.

Why on earth would Goldie have killed Lambert? Had he been having an affair with her too? More to the point, had Duggin found out and taken an axe to his master?

Melodrama. Speculation without any evidence whatsoever… No, Constance was clutching at straws, because she still didn’t want it to be Angela…

Duggin’s transfer of loyalty had more likely happened over years, without his daughter’s involvement, probably without any of them noticing. The staff were all afraid of Lambert, but Angela had their love. And she knew her husband’s business inside out. She had been grooming herself to take over, though no doubt her discovery of Lambert’s betrayal with Iris had been the last straw, determining the timing and the ruthlessness of his removal.

Lambert had been a frightening man with an unexpectedly vulnerable edge. Constance had caught a glimpse of that the night she walked in on him in Angela’s bedroom. Angela, on the other hand, was a vulnerable woman, bound in steel…and the fire of revenge.

Duggin had either murdered Lambert on her orders, or he had let her into the cellar to do it herself.

No blood on her clothes , she reminded herself. And none on Duggin’s. And yet they had to be in league. One of them had done it. She knew it but would never get Duggin to admit it. She needed to persuade or even trick one of the other servants into giving something away. The truth was so close that she could touch it…

She stood abruptly, blinking at the chair where Ida Feathers always sat. A cold dread twisted in her stomach.

“Why is Mrs. Feathers not cooking?” she asked.

Duggin gestured with his curled hand toward his mouth in the universal sign for drinking.

“And you’re allowing it?” Constance said in disbelief. “Now?”

“She’ll still rustle up something tasty in time,” Duggin said. “You’ll see.”

Ida knew everything, all her mistress’s business. And she was a drunk who talked too much. Though she’d never dropped any incriminating remarks in Constance’s hearing, she had been quite open with her, a stranger, over her gin-spiked tea… In her moment of triumph, would Angela allow that risk to continue? With policemen all over the house?

“I’d better make sure she is well,” Constance said firmly.

Duggin watched her as she walked toward Ida’s door, but he made no effort to stop her, only shrugged and turned to Solomon.

“So why don’t you think Iris did it, then?”

Oh yes, he was complacent, imagining he was toying with Solomon, who had seen the truth long before Constance had allowed herself to. No wonder he had tried to ger her to leave the house…

Her heart in her mouth, she knocked on the cook’s door. And heard nothing. She steeled herself, opened the door, and walked in.

The room was gloomy, but not dark, since a modicum of daylight drifted from a barred window that looked only onto the close-by boundary wall at the side of the house. It stank of old gin and new.

For an instant, Constance imagined she was gazing at pile of bedclothes. But she wasn’t.

Ida sat on the bed, her legs crossed like a child, a bottle halfway to her mouth—a moment frozen in time like a painting or a photograph.

When she lowered the bottle, Constance felt her breath rush out in relief. Had she really imagined the woman was dead in that position? A most unlikely rigor mortis.

“Hallo, my love,” Ida said in a surprised tone.

“I came to see if you were well,” Constance managed. “You’re usually cooking at this time of day.”

“She don’t have much appetite right now,” Ida said dreamily. “Truth to tell, ain’t got much meself. But there, life goes on, and you’re probably right.” She took a last swig of gin and shoved in the stopper she held clutched in her other hand. “You staying on with her, then?”

“Probably not,” Constance said. “But I wanted to help sort out the mess.”

“You leave it to her. She can sort out anything.” Ida smiled at nothing in particular and distractedly pulled the stopper out of her bottle again. Generously, she offered it to Constance, who sank down on the edge of the bed to take it from her.

“She is a strong woman,” Constance said. “One needs to be in this world.”

“You’re not wrong. It’s a blow, though. She loved him very hard, you know.”

“And yet she killed him in the end.”

Ida didn’t even look surprised. She just smiled and held out her hand for the bottle. Constance hung on to it.

“I just don’t understand the timing,” she said. “There were so few minutes she could have done it, and there was no blood on her clothes.”

“Oh, time’s whatever you want it to be. Some people call midday dinnertime. I was one of ’em till we had to learn nob ways. So seven o’clock is dinnertime now. No one even looks at the clock.”

Constance’s breath caught. “You made it early.”

“First course on the table by quarter to the hour.”

“And he was in the cellar two minutes later…” Then Duggin and Angela had both lied. They hadn’t lingered in the dining room together. One—or both—had followed Lambert into the cellar, distracted him into the padded room, and killed him. While Constance and Solomon had been talking, watching in the garden, at least ten minutes before Iris had arrived.

“Apron,” Constance blurted. “There must be a bloody apron or something in the laundry…”

“Don’t be daft,” Ida said. As if she couldn’t help it, her eyes strayed to the floor at the far side of the bed.

She’s got the bloodstained apron !

Her heart thundering, Constance held out the bottle to Ida, who took it. Hopefully it would distract her…

Constance rose, and those bright, red-tinged eyes followed her.

Ida smiled winningly. “Don’t be daft, girl. I’m just helping you understand, because I like you. She likes you. But it won’t do you no good to betray us. I’ll just deny it, and you can’t prove nothing without my testimony.”

“And a bloodstained apron,” Constance said. She could see it now, stained dark in streaks and crumpled into a ball, half under the bed.

“I’m the cook. I get animal blood on me all the time. That’s why I wear an apron. Leave it, love. You know he had it coming.”

Constance caught her gaze and held it fiercely. “You are covering up a murder !”

“So I am, dear, so I am,” Ida said comfortably.

And that was when Constance realized she had seen more than the apron on the floor. She glanced down again to be sure. A corked and labeled bottle of wine, still dusty from its stay in the cellar.

Her mind reeled. For the barest instant, she grasped blindly for the significance, and finally caught it. Ida wasn’t covering for Angela. She had taken the bottle and hidden it to trick Duggin and Lambert, and very probably Angela too. Constance couldn’t take her eyes off it.

“And Gregg?” she managed. “Why did Gregg have to die?”

“He knew too much. He threatened Angela as well as Lambert when he decided to spill his guts to the inquiry. He came round here specially to tell them that. Couldn’t let him do it. So I had a quick word when he was leaving.”

And now Constance knew too much too. That Solomon was only a few yards away on the other side of that door was not the comfort it should have been. She had to grab the evidence and get out of here…

Ida was edging toward the door side of the bed, stretching her feet toward the floor.

“It was you with Gregg’s body that we chased to the edge of Devil’s Acre,” Constance blurted. “How on earth did you get it from the cellar and onto the donkey’s back?”

“Angela helped me, of course. She knew what I’d done and why. We’re used to working quick, her and me. And you were obliging enough, you and your lovely man, to wait where she’d put you.”

“Did she always know the body was in the cellar?”

“Not till you told her.” Feet on the floor, Ida bent as though to tie her flapping shoelaces.

“Did she know about Caleb, too? Is she covering for you, or did you plan it tog—”

Contance ducked down and swiped up the bottle and the apron. In the same movement, she began to sprint back around the bed—and then skidded to a halt, for Ida lunged right at her, a bloody axe in both hands, wielded high above her head.

*

Solomon was not unaware of Duggin’s hostility. In truth, he returned it. He was just better at keeping his distaste in check. He wished Constance better luck with the cook. Mostly, he was relieved that she had opened her mind to the possibility that Angela was the guilty party. Guilty of more than reluctant complicity with her husband.

He knew it hurt Constance. She had felt some kind of bond with the woman, an understanding that may have been sincere on one level but not on any others. A shared background of crime and squalor, followed by a climb to riches, did not make them sisters. But Constance liked to see the best in people, and where Angela was concerned, the scales seemed to fall from her eyes very slowly.

They needed the servants’ testimony to get to Angela. The police would never get it from them, and clearly Constance carried no weight with Duggin, to whom she was still an outsider.

Solomon tried a different tactic.

“So is this it?”

“What?” Duggin asked.

“The rest of your life. From Lambert’s strongman to Mrs. Lambert’s butler. Is that really enough?”

Duggin smirked. “You really don’t know what you’re talking about. Mr. Lambert was a good man, a successful man, everything strictly legal.”

“Is that why he was betrayed?”

“Ask the stupid little cow he was f—”

“Don’t bother,” Solomon said wearily. “Everyone knows Iris Fraser didn’t do it.”

Duggin regarded him with his pale, oddly inhuman eyes. “What’s it to you, anyway? Why d’you care? No one thinks it was you or your girl.”

“How do you know it wasn’t?” Solomon asked softly.

Duggin’s expression never changed. “How do you know what happens to people who ask too many questions?”

“Is that a threat, Mr. Duggin?”

“More questions,” Duggin mocked.

“The thing is,” Solomon taunted him, “you can’t expect me to be afraid of such threats, can you? Not when you couldn’t even protect the man who paid your wages.”

That got a reaction, at least, a tightening of the face but no more. Upstairs, someone knocked loudly on the front door. Duggin didn’t break eye contact.

“Which is oddest of all,” Solomon said. “All the elaborate security in this house. Patrolling the grounds as though it’s a royal palace, bodyguards for the master and mistress wherever they go, all under your supervision. And yet the master of the house is axed to death under his own roof, only a few feet away from you. What sort of message does that send to the denizens of your world?”

Duggin sprang to his feet, fists clenched, face ugly. Solomon, poised for possible attack, held his gaze without troubling to stand. At last, the man’s pride was rattled, though to Solomon’s annoyance, the timing was wrong.

Footsteps clattered down the stairs. One of the footmen, looking irritated, came first. Young and burly, he was a reinforcement for the enemy that Solomon could have done without. But ignoring Solomon, he addressed Duggin.

“Rozzers again, Mr. D.”

Duggin released Solomon’s gaze reluctantly and turned to face the footman and Sergeant Flynn. “Anyone’d think you worked here,” he sneered.

“Right now I do,” Flynn retorted. “Where’s Inspector Harris?”

“How would I know? He left here an hour ago.”

A frown of annoyance crossed Flynn’s face. “I don’t suppose he left a message for me or said where he was going?”

“To arrest Iris Fraser,” Duggin replied with a sly glance at Solomon.

Flynn swore under his breath, then frowned, appearing to become aware of Solomon’s presence for the first time. He opened his mouth, but Solomon never knew what he meant to say, for a sudden crash exploded across the kitchen.

Solomon sprang to his feet, shoving Duggin out of the way. The alarming noise had come from the cook’s bedroom on the other side of the kitchen, and it was quickly followed by a furious groan of pain.

Solomon, in sheer terror for Constance’s life, burst into the room with Flynn, Duggin, and the footman close on his heels.

The frail, gin-soaked old cook was wrestling an axe out of the wall with a cry of rage. A huge lump of plaster came with it as she staggered back with the force. Constance, who had clearly ducked out of the axe’s path, sprang upright once more, a dusty wine bottle and bundle of stained white calico clutched to her chest.

Ida, her back to the newcomers and apparently oblivious to their entrance, hefted the axe with both hands. Solomon lunged forward and wrenched it from her astonishingly powerful grip. She spun around to face him, her empty fingers reaching for his face like claws.

With a complete lack of chivalry, Solomon knocked her aside into Flynn’s hold so that he could get to Constance.

Wide-eyed and breathing rapidly, she didn’t waste time by collapsing onto his willing chest. Instead, she grasped his arm in a grip that hurt.

“Mrs. Feathers killed them both!” she gasped. “She hid the wine bottle to get Lambert into the cellar at the right time. Her apron’s covered in blood. So is the axe—I’m sure it’s the same one that killed Gregg.”

“Ida Feathers,” said Flynn, grasping the old woman’s suddenly limp arm, “I am arresting you for the attempted murder of Constance Silver. And on suspicion of the murder of Caleb Lambert.”

“And Huxley Gregg,” Constance insisted.

“I’m sure we’ll get to that,” Flynn said hastily.

“No, you won’t,” Duggin growled, advancing with menace, the footman poised at his side. “Let the poor old woman go.” He fixed Flynn with his basilisk stare. “Trust me, peeler, it ain’t worth it.”

Flynn, who was made of sterner stuff than Duggin imagined, merely stared back.

But they could not afford a fight in this constricting space, not with thugs who were probably armed, and certainly not with Constance in the room, clutching her bottled evidence like a swaddled baby.

Oh well.

Solomon shook off Constance’s hand and, uttering a wordless battle cry that could have come from any of his ancestors, charged past Flynn and Ida, wielding the axe before him.