Page 19 of Ghost in the Garden (Murder in Moonlight #3)

H er jaw dropping at Solomon’s bizarre behavior, Constance still followed him blindly. So did Flynn with the now-cowering Ida in his grasp. Duggin and Bert, taken by equal surprise, fell back before the onslaught, falling over each other to spill back into the kitchen.

“The back door!” Duggin yelled at Bert, who immediately ran there, snatching something out of his pocket that sprang open into a wicked-looking knife.

But Solomon, who’d stopped his bloodcurdling yell, clearly had no intention of leaving by the back door. After all, they had no key to escape by the garden door. Having driven Duggin in that direction, he said, “Constance. Up.”

She tugged Flynn’s sleeve with her free hand and obeyed, speeding up the stairs to the baize door. Anxiously, she glanced back at the kitchen. Duggin, armed with a carving knife, was circling Solomon. Bert moved toward him from the back door.

With startling suddenness, Solomon turned tail and ran, and abruptly, Constance wanted to laugh. The mirth bubbled up, joyous and no doubt hysterical as she burst through the baize door. She led the charge down the hall toward the front door, knowing Solomon was at her heels, and the evidence with them—the bottle, the apron, the axe, Ida, and Flynn, the policeman, the reliable witness to all. It was exhilarating, wonderful, the culminating triumph of Silver and Grey’s first case…

Until two men emerged from doors on opposite sides of the hall. Pat and Robin. And Robin held a large black pistol, which he cocked and aimed at Constance’s heart.

She stopped so fast, the carpet slid beneath her feet and she struggled for balance. She lowered the bottle, gripping it at her side instead. The apron was crushed under the same arm.

The pistol remained steady. Robin was not interested in the evidence. He neither knew nor cared what it was.

“Yes, far enough I think,” came Duggin’s sneering voice as he and Bert caught up behind them. “Now, we’ll be having that stolen axe, and our cook.”

“Your cook murdered your master,” Constance said loudly. “She’ll face justice.”

“We got our own justice,” Duggin said. “Drop the axe.”

“Come and take it,” Solomon invited him.

“I don’t need to. How about Robin there takes your girl’s face with a single shot?”

“In front of the police?” Solomon sounded amused, though Constance heard the tension behind it. He would give up the axe, force her to give up the evidence… And then they’d be murdered anyway, for police and the law mattered nothing to these people. No doubt their bodies would vanish into the swamp of the Devil’s Acre. The murderers could lose themselves there too if necessary.

“No one’s taking off anyone’s face in this house,” said Angela Lambert, her voice sharp with authority, causing all heads to snap around toward the staircase, which she descended dressed in deep mourning, all black bombazine and lace. Widowhood seemed to have lent her physical grace, for she all but glided down. “Put the gun away, Robin, before the police come in force and arrest us all.”

Very reluctantly—and slowly—Robin lowered the pistol. Constance was afraid to breathe in case his finger twitched on the trigger and he fired in apparent “mistake.”

“What is all this?” Angela asked.

Had she always possessed this tone of command? Had Constance just been deaf to it? Or had Lambert’s death drawn it to the fore?

“Ida Feathers is under arrest for the murder of your husband, ma’am,” Flynn announced, at his most wooden.

Growling and derisive hoots immediately issued from the servants. Angela stilled them with one raised hand, which then closed over the newel post at the foot of the stairs.

“Look at her,” she snapped. “Have you ever met my late husband, sergeant? He was tall and strong, and yet you believe a little old woman addicted to her gin murdered him with an axe?” Her gaze swept from Flynn to Solomon to Constance. “Why are you letting this nonsense stand?”

Because it was true. The only question left was how much Angela had known, how much had been under her orders.

Constance raised the bottle. “Is this not the wine your husband went to look for in the cellar, minutes before he was killed? I’ve got her blood-soaked apron. The axe was under her bed! Are you telling us someone else just put those things in her room? They weren’t even hidden.”

“Is it not possible?” Angela said steadily. “Lots of people pass through the kitchen. And you know the woman drinks. Someone has taken advantage.”

“There is also the small matter of her attacking Mrs. Silver with said axe,” Flynn said dryly.

Angela’s gaze flew back to Constance, who met it steadily.

“She knew exactly where it was,” Constance said. “She told me everything.”

Angela’s eyes did not waver. But Constance could almost see the calculation going on behind them. Angela had a choice to make that would affect all her people and her own future. One word, one gesture from her would see violence done and her devoted cook probably freed, at least for now.

But Angela would never go back, only forward.

“It will prove to be a mistake,” she said dismissively. “A laughable one. But if you’re so determined, take her. For now.”

Her own people were staring at her, baffled, suspicious, and not best pleased.

Solomon walked forward and opened the front door. Flynn backed out of it, still grasping Ida by her arm. She went willingly, almost trustingly now, no doubt because Angela had promised it was temporary.

Solomon took Constance by the hand, urging her to the front door, putting himself between her and Lambert’s men. Angela’s men.

Angela’s voice stayed her. “You’ve made your choice, then?”

“So have you.” Constance walked out of the house, every hair on the back of her neck standing up in dread. They left utter silence behind them.

*

It was a long two hours later before they had each made their statements to the police. They emerged slightly numb, though Solomon was aware of a certain satisfaction. The end of their first case.

But as the hackney rattled across cobbles, he was aware Constance did not appear to share his feelings. She was quiet, distracted, gazing out of each window in turn, shifting restlessly on the bench beside him.

“What is it?” he asked.

She shook her head. “It doesn’t feel…finished. We’ve always known before—the murderer is revealed, we emerge safely from the fire in the nick of time, and the mystery is over.”

He raised his brows. “You are complaining about the lack of fire? We found the murderer, though to be honest, right up until I saw Mrs. Feathers with the axe, my money was on Angela.”

“So was mine.” She focused her gaze on his face. “Do you think she did it too? Were they in league?”

It was a thought that had crossed his mind more than once. “Ida never told you they were, though she seems to have admitted everything else to you, despite her denials to the police. Besides, why would Ida need to steal the wine if they were allies? Together, they could have found a simpler way to entice him into the cellar. Duggin certainly wasn’t in on it. I doubt Angela was, though she may have guessed. After all, she helped Ida get rid of Gregg’s body.”

Constance moved her hip, her skirts brushing against him. “Then why do I feel it isn’t over?”

“Because this mystery has never been entirely about ghosts, or even Gregg’s murder. There’s the negligence that led to the collapse of the tenement. Angela now owns both buildings in St. Giles and many others elsewhere. Perhaps she will be a better landlord.”

“And perhaps she won’t.”

“I thought you liked her.”

“I did. Part of me still does. I understand her, or think I do, but…but she is not a good woman, Solomon.”

He groped toward understanding and found something astonishing. “She is not like you, Constance. She was never like you.”

“There are parallels.”

He reached out and covered the hand in her lap. “No,” he said gently. “There are not.”

“You don’t know, Sol,” she said, a curious desperation in her voice. Her hand twisted and clung to his. “You don’t know the things I’ve done.”

“Then you can tell me one day, if you like. Or not. Our pasts change nothing between us now.”

Her dubious glance made him scowl.

“I am not ashamed of you, Constance Silver,” he said roughly. “Did you really think I was? I thought we accepted each other.”

“Acceptance,” she said. “That is what Angela’s looking for. I wanted it too. Oh, not from Society—I am realistic enough to know I will never have that. But from certain people.”

“Me?”

She nodded and met his gaze with defiance. “I never apologize for being a whore. Do you close your eyes to what I am?”

“You cannot be labeled, Constance. I won’t try.” Frustration shook him, for yet again they were in the wrong place and the wrong time to say what he needed to. He tightened his fingers around hers, let his thumb caress her palm, heard the catch of her breath. “Come with me to the Swans’ charity ball.”

She blinked once, then broke into a peal of genuine laughter that was both infectious and arousing. “Can you imagine me hobnobbing with the philanthropic righteous? The wealthy Christian ladies and the respectable gentlemen who secretly frequent my establishment? I’ve never met Lady Swan—or her husband, come to that—but I would most certainly not do that to her.”

“And yet you are one of the major contributors to her charity. I think you’ll find you are invited already. Brazen it out, Constance. She has invited you to do so. I shall escort you if you’ll let me, and dance with you. So will Dragan Tizsa and Lord James.”

“They will be there?” she said uncertainly.

“I believe so.”

For a moment he thought she was actually considering it, maybe even that she would enjoy dancing with him…

“Angela Lambert asked me to go with her and keep her right in Polite Society.”

Unreasonably annoyed by the reintroduction of that name, he retorted, “And yet you are not worthy to attend? Constance—”

She raised her arm, rapping sharply on the ceiling to instruct the jarvey to stop. “I need fresh air, Solomon. I’ll walk home from here. I’ll see you in the office on Monday when we move on to our next case.”

He knew better than to try to stop her. One of them always ran away at the end of a case, as if afraid of having nothing but mystery between them. Or afraid of admitting to anything else.

She was gone in a flash. He reinstructed the coachman to take him home and sat back on the hard bench. He couldn’t even see her through the window.

Bleakly, he forced himself to acknowledge the other possible reason for this particular bolt. She didn’t want any personal relationship with him, only their business partnership. Whatever the attraction between them—and it had always been there—it was not strong enough for her to pursue it. And she didn’t want him to. That was why she ran away. Or was it?

Maddening woman. Maddening, wretched, awkward, beloved woman.

*

Their new case, the search for stolen jewels, began the following day, and Constance was glad of it. It kept her from thinking of Solomon and his offer to escort her to Lady Swan’s party. In fact, since they divided all the pawnshops and jeweler’s in London between then, it kept them physically apart too.

She returned to the office briefly at midday as she realized she had failed to make use of her mother’s valuable resources. She scribbled a note, asking Juliet the best places to look for stolen diamonds, inviting her to drop into the office with any ideas or to leave a message with Janey. She then went off to find a likely messenger, paid the boy, and went back to her own search.

Since she more than half expected Juliet to either ignore the message or forget to answer, she wasn’t entirely surprised to find no reply at the office at six o’clock that evening. Nor was there any sign of Solomon, so she and Janey closed up and left together. Janey introduced her to the omnibus, for which Constance was grateful after an unsuccessful day’s trudging up and down city streets and questioning both respectable jewelers and wary pawnshop proprietors.

At home, the main surprise awaited her in the receiving salon.

“A Mrs. Jules, ma’am,” the footman told her from his stance opposite the salon door.

“Really?” Her mother had never once set foot in any of her establishments before. It made Constance extremely suspicious as she peeled off her gloves, untied her hat, and left them over the banister in her haste.

Juliet had been made comfortable. An empty cup and saucer had been abandoned at her elbow, and a glass containing the indifferent sherry was clutched in her plump right hand.

“Wotcha, Con,” she said amiably. “Just admiring your fine room. Guaranteed to cool the ardor with relentless subtlety.”

“That’s the plan. I meet visitors here and decide whether or not to give them a chance.”

“Your haughty servants expect me to run away with the silver,” Juliet said. Loudly enough for Anthony, the footman in the hall, to hear.

“Only because they don’t know you’re my mother,” Constance said, gratified to see Juliet’s eyebrows fly up in astonishment. “I’m not ashamed of you, Ma. What are you doing here? I can’t imagine it’s idle curiosity.”

“Hardly,” her mother said. Opening her reticule, she emptied the contents into her lap, where they glittered like ice. She removed a handkerchief and a few coins from the pile and held up a shining diamond necklace. A matching bracelet, earrings, and a brooch remained in her lap. “These what you’re looking for?”

Constance closed her mouth and swallowed. And swallowed again before she risked trying to speak. “They could be. I hesitate to ask where you got them.”

“Good. ’Cause I won’t tell you. One of the last lots I bought to fence. Got it all for a song, for obvious reasons. It’s got to be recognizable to somebody. I could never have sold it without breaking it all up, and that seemed a shame. Besides, I’s already decided to go straight, so I never did anything with it.”

“That,” Constance said slowly, “has to be the most stupendous trick of fate, or luck, or whatever you call it, ever.”

“Maybe you’re due some luck.”

Constance gave a crooked smile and waved around her. “This is all luck.”

“No, it’s hard work and good sense.”

Constance blinked at this unprecedented praise.

“You think I don’t know? Was never proud? I don’t want you in this game, but if you have to be, you couldn’t do better. And before you spin me some more tales, I know what else you do.”

Girls still talked on the streets, and Juliet still knew them. Constance’s haven was not unknown.

“I’ll show these to my client tomorrow,” she managed. “What do you want for them?”

“If he’s paying, I’ll take what I spent. Otherwise you can just have ’em. To be honest, I don’t want them in my house, since the rozzers are likely to poke around at first.”

Constance took the jewels from her, dropping them into her own reticule. “This might just be the easiest fee we’ll ever earn. Whether or not they’re my client’s, thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. You’re helping me out.” Juliet struggled out of the too-comfortable chair, and Constance knew an echo of the old panic she had felt as a child whenever her mother left her.

“Do you want a bite to eat?” she blurted. “We’ll have no guests before eight, so there’s plenty of time.”

“Not today,” Juliet said, as Constance knew she would. Though her mother could still surprise her. “Got things to do if I’m to open this week. But I’ll come another day. If you like.”

“I would like,” Constance said, and meant it.

Her mother nodded, then turned away as though to hide her own pleasure. Her breath caught. “Con?”

“Yes?”

“I don’t know who your father is. Never did, never cared, because whoever he was, he didn’t matter. You were always enough.”

Emotion swept up, contradictory and confused. Constance’s throat tightened unbearably.

Juliet grasped the door handle, then glanced over her shoulder. “I’m sorry I wasn’t.” She tugged open the door and stomped off, leaving Constance staring after her.

A second later, she gasped and hurried after her mother, brushing past Anthony at the door. Juliet was halfway down the steps.

“You’re daft,” Constance called after her, and her voice barely broke at all. “And still much more than enough!”

Juliet laughed, lifted an airy hand, and fled. But Constance could tell, just from her jaunty wobble, that she was glad.

And so was Constance.

*

The following day, Constance and Solomon called upon their client, who was overjoyed to identify Juliet’s jewels as his. He immediately gave them a banker’s draft for the rest of their fee and sent them away with effusive thanks, just in time to meet their next client, who had a very interesting problem of his own.

Even so, Constance found it hard to think about the new case. Her mind kept straying back to the Lamberts, to the dead, the injured, and the bereaved, and to the vileness of exploitative slum landlords.

Eventually, as she should have done from the beginning, she went into Solomon’s office and talked to him about it. After that, the decision about Lady Swan’s party was easy.