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

“I don’t want you to go,” Solomon said bluntly the following morning, when she had rejected all his subtler arguments. “It isn’t worth the risk.”

“Don’t go soft on me, Solomon,” she mocked. “I might start thinking you care. I brought you Janey to make the tea and guard the office while you’re out asking questions, and I’ll meet you at the corner of Tothill at eight tonight.”

“I don’t like it,” he said, his determined, dark eyes holding hers.

Constance was not unmoved by his care, though she would never show it. “We agreed to be partners running this business. If I’m good at anything, it’s avoiding risk, and we can’t turn down our first commission just because someone possibly unsavory is involved.”

She could see from his face that he knew she was right. Though she couldn’t help being glad he didn’t like it. He was a chivalrous soul at heart, was Solomon Grey.

“You will be careful,” he said, glaring at her.

“As will you, poking into matters that annoy dangerous people. Take my footmen if you need them. Janey will—”

“I have my own dangerous people,” he interrupted. “You come out of that house at the first sign of trouble.”

“Of course,” she said, pulling on her gloves. As she closed the parlor door, she wasn’t sure if she was annoyed or amused. She certainly felt unusually on edge, but that was more to do with her mother than with the Lambert case.

“I’d love to see you doing the slaving for a change,” Janey said, grinning in the hallway. “Don’t pull her hair with the comb, and don’t forget to polish her shoes till she can see her face in ’em.”

“I won’t, if you do your job here. Do exactly what Mr. Grey tells you.” Constance paused, her hand on the door latch. “Janey?”

“Yes?”

Damn my mother… “When you finish here, ask around the girls about a fence called Boggie. See if they know what he’s up to.”

“All right.”

Constance picked up the small, battered bag she had found in her attic, left the premises, and went in search of a hackney.

Half an hour later, she alighted at Westminster Abbey, where no one from the Lamberts’ house could see her traveling at such expense, and walked the rest of the way.

The front gates were not locked, though the back door was. She knocked, then turned to survey the garden. It was a decent-sized plot for this part of London, enough for a kitchen garden of herbs and vegetables and a prettier area beyond, with a well-kept lawn bordered by shrubs and roses, and climbing greenery around the three walls. There were a couple of fruit trees, and a small pond beneath a young willow, but nothing that stretched conveniently over any of the high walls to make it easy for someone to climb in that way. Or out.

As gardens went, it looked secure. When filled with thick mist, how easy would it be for a fanciful mind to conjure up ghostly shapes? Especially once someone else had seen them. Angela Lambert had not struck Constance as particularly fanciful, but then, she was very reserved…

The back door opened and a large young man stared at her.

“I’m Silver,” Constance said, “Mrs. Lambert’s maid, just engaged. I was told to report here this morning.”

“Right enough, you’re expected,” the man said, opening the door wide. “I’m Bert.”

Constance walked in, trying to combine the haughtiness of a lady’s maid—a very upper servant—with the normal nervous curiosity of taking up a new position.

A group of servants were gathered around a big table in the middle of the kitchen. A well-dressed, middle-aged man with granite-hard eyes sat at the head. He didn’t rise as Constance entered.

“This is Mr. Duggin,” Bert said. “Butler and guv’nor. Mrs. Feathers is the cook.”

“Hello, dearie—name’s Ida,” Mrs. Feathers said, pouring the contents of a flask into her tea.

“And these two are Marigold and Denise. You’ll meet Robin and Pat later—they’re out with his nibs.”

“With Mr. Lambert?” Constance asked.

“That’s what I said,” Bert replied, smirking. “Come on, I’d best take you up or she’ll be down here looking for you.”

Bert did not offer to carry her bag, though he took several not-very-surreptitious glances at Constance as they walked up to the main part of the house and crossed a decent-sized, wainscoted hall. Bert didn’t bother knocking, just walked in.

“Your new maid, ma’am. Says her name is Silver.” He grinned. “Goes pretty well with Goldie, doesn’t it?”

“Away you go, Bert. I’ll show Silver around upstairs. When she comes back down, you and Mrs. Feathers can show her where everything is down there. Close the door behind you.”

Bert obeyed. However informal his manner, there was nothing disrespectful in it. Not to his mistress, anyway.

“You found us without difficulty, then? Take off your coat and hat.”

Constance obeyed.

Angela Lambert sighed. “The dress will do, and there’s no reason why you should wear a cap, but you’re too damned pretty. Please try not to cause any fights in the kitchen.”

“I’ll keep ’em all at a safe distance,” Constance assured her, adopting an accent with traces of her old one, like a lowborn maid eager to prove she’d come up in the world.

Angela nodded. “You’ll do. This is my parlor,” she said. “If I’m not in the sitting room—which we’re to call the drawing room—I’m generally here.”

“Is this where you saw the ghost?” Constance asked, walking to the window.

Angela followed her. “Yes. You wouldn’t think it, would you? Not with the sun shining and everything clear and bright.”

“Fog changes everything. Where exactly in the garden did you see it?”

Angela pointed toward the apple tree. “There, and then it glided on across the garden.” She made sort of round, S-shaped gestures.

“In no particular direction?”

“Seemed to be random kind of movements.”

“But definitely toward the house?”

Angela thought. “Yes.”

“What was its position when you last saw it?”

“By the willow, there. It seemed to glide over the pond, and then it sort of…broke up and vanished.”

“Is it possible the fog swirled more thickly over the figure, hiding it from your view?”

“Yes,” Angela said again. “That’s what I tell myself. But then I need to know, who was in my garden and why?”

“Yes, I can see that,” Constance murmured. “May I go out and look around?”

“Of course. I’ll show you the herb garden properly too. I like mint and chamomile tea at bedtime. First, I’ll show you your room.” Mechanically, Angela picked up Constance’s bag and went to the door.

Constance hurried after her. “Mrs. Lambert, I should take it.”

The woman flushed slightly, looking flustered and vulnerable for a moment. It endeared her just a little to Constance, who was a good judge of most people but couldn’t quite grasp her client.

Carrying the bag, Constance followed her across the hall to a staircase, lit from a tall stained-glass window stretching up from the half-landing.

“I’ve put you in the room just off mine,” Angela said. “It’s meant to be a dressing room, but I never use it. And besides, it makes sense in terms of nearness to me, and your own privacy from the other servants. They sleep in the attic rooms. Apart from Mrs. Feathers, who has her own little cupboard bedroom in the kitchen.”

Whatever her background, it seemed Angela had exacting standards. Her home was spotlessly clean and well maintained. It was all a little cluttered and over-opulent for Constance’s taste—her own much-less-respectable establishment was less vulgar and considerably more soothing to the senses—but her new employer was clearly proud of it in a quiet, almost shy way.

“My husband has come up in the world,” Angela said. “We need to be able to entertain gentlemen—and ladies—in style.”

“What does your husband do, ma’am?”

“He owns property. Like the aristocracy.”

“Is it all like this?” Constance asked, allowing a little awe into her voice. In truth, it wasn’t hard, for Angela had just led her into her own bedchamber, a large and luxurious apartment that, apart from the quality of the furnishings, resembled the brothel in which Constance had spent her early years. Red velvet predominated, with lavish cushions and gold embroidery.

“All sorts,” Angela said vaguely. She cast an unexpectedly anxious glance at Constance as though seeking approval. “His ambition is to have it all like this or better, but you got to start somewhere. What do you think?”

“Magnificent,” Constance said, hoping her own accommodations were plainer, or she would never sleep.

“My husband has the connecting bedchamber. It makes sense when he works so late and goes out early.”

“Most considerate of him.”

Angela walked in the other direction. “This is your room.” She opened the door to a slightly cramped room containing a narrow bed, a small chest of drawers with a mirror, and a washstand, then opened the door to a cupboard. “There’s hanging space for dresses in here. Will it do?”

“Of course.” Constance laid her bag on the bed, then hung up her plain coat and hat and the two spare gowns she had brought with her. “You had better tell me what I need to do as your lady’s maid, and when I’ll have free time to investigate in my own way.”

They discussed this for a little. Angela had clearly never had a lady’s maid before and didn’t need one now. But, for show, Constance would be summoned at certain times and be required to carry out duties like pressing clothes and bringing morning tea.

“The other servants used to do those things, but I’ve told them that from now on, only you are allowed in this room—though when my bed is changed, you’ll need one of the maids to help. When you’re here with me pretending to help me dress, we can discuss anything you are or aren’t finding out.”

“Tell me about the household,” Constance said, sitting down on one of the two armchairs indicated by Angela. “Is it just yourself and your husband? And the servants, of course.”

“Yes. We were never blessed with children.”

“Do you mind?” Constance asked impulsively. She herself would never have children, and yet just occasionally, the thought of them slipped into her mind, with the ache of regret.

Angela blinked rapidly but didn’t appear to be angry about the intrusion.

“Sometimes,” she admitted. “More for Caleb than for myself. He’d have loved a son to leave all this to. To work for. Instead, he’s always in such a hurry for more and more success, as if he’s afraid time will run out before he’s done everything. If we’d had a son, he might have left something for him to do. As it is…” She trailed off, shrugging.

“Your husband is an ambitious man, then?”

“Oh, he’s very ambitious, is Caleb,” Angela said ruefully. “That’s men for you, though, isn’t it?”

“Tell me about the servants. How long have they worked for you?”

“Duggin’s worked for Caleb forever. He came with us when we moved here, keeps the rest of them in line.”

“He’s the butler, yes?”

Angela’s lips twitched, as though with some secret amusement. “I suppose you could call him that. He’s got the right kind of imposing face for it, ain’t he? I brought Mrs. Feathers in five or more years ago so I didn’t need to cook. She’s a bit of a sot, but it don’t interfere with her none. Even in a stupor she can whip up something delicious.”

“And the man who brought me to you? Bert. Is he a footman?”

“I suppose so. Caleb don’t hold with livery. He likes the servants to blend more. He hired Bert a couple of years ago to look after me, run errands for me, take me out when I need to go somewhere. Pat and Robin do much the same for Caleb.”

Bodyguards , Constance thought. Footmen often were, to a greater or lesser degree, so that wasn’t necessarily significant. “What about the maids?”

“They do the cleaning. Goldie—Marigold—is Duggin’s daughter.”

“So you can count on her loyalty, too?”

“Oh, yes. She came a couple of years ago when we moved here. Brought her friend Denise, the other maid.”

“Do you trust her?”

“I trust them all.”

“Then none of the servants have cause to upset you by making up stories about ghosts, or even dressing up as one to scare you or your husband?”

Angela regarded her pityingly. “No one’d try to scare Caleb. Or me, by association.”

So Caleb Lambert was someone to be afraid of. Which made sense of Angela’s reluctance to tell her husband about the investigation.

“A successful man like Mr. Lambert,” Constance said tactfully, “must have made a few enemies on the way.”

“I told you he has,” Angela said. “But this ain’t exactly cornering him in a dark alley, is it? What sort of revenge is it to creep about his garden pretending to be a ghost? Which he hasn’t ever seen anyway!”

“Fair point. Though I suppose it depends exactly what this person is doing in the garden.”

“That’s what I don’t understand. She don’t do anything. Do you think… Do you think it really could be a ghost? Haunting the house or haunting us?”

“Is that what you believe?” Constance asked, mostly to avoid answering. She always felt the atmosphere of a house, which some of her friends called sensitivity to spirits, though she had never seen one. It was another odd contradiction in the down-to-earth, practical Angela Lambert, though.

“Sometimes,” Angela said bleakly. “Nothing we can do if it is, except move! But I need to know.”

Constance stood up. “Then why don’t you show me the kitchen and the garden to start with?”

It quickly became clear why the Lamberts employed no housekeeper—the lady of the house undertook that task herself. On the way down to the kitchen, Angela looked in on the drawing room where the two maids were busy chattering and cleaning.

“You can do the dining room next and the upstairs landing,” she said, with a nod of approval that seemed to please both the maids.

In the kitchen, Ida Feathers was busy pounding dough for bread, surrounded by other bowls and pots and a miasma of delicious smells. She didn’t curtsey to her mistress, but she did glance up and nod with an oddly sweet smile.

“She likes to cook,” Angela said. “Here’s the kettle and the pot and the mint and chamomile for my tea. China tea is here. The laundry room is through here.” She lowered her voice again. “Starch is here, and you can heat the irons there. You do know how to use a flat iron, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Good. The washing is sent out, but the pressing is done here. Goldie and Denise were doing that, but you might as well do mine while you’re here. Let’s go out.”

She unlocked the back door, through which Constance had first entered the house, and they went out into the cold garden.

With more leisure to concentrate, Constance looked very carefully at the back of the house, which was largely covered in ivy and other creepers. It had a few low, barred windows, through which no one could get in or out. A path led down the right hand side of the house to the front.

“Are the front gates locked at night?” Constance asked while she looked at the herbs Angela was pointing out.

“Yes. From about six o’clock in the evening. It wouldn’t be easy to climb over them—or the walls—but I suppose it could be done.”

“Same at the back,” Constance observed. “I suppose the door in the far wall is kept locked too?” Since she already knew it was, she was not surprised when Angela nodded. “It would be helpful to have the key. To communicate with my partner when necessary.”

Angela frowned. “Why would you need to do that? You’re the one that’s here.”

“I might need him to find out about people or events he doesn’t yet know about. Things I can’t easily do from here while I’m being your maid. We work together.”

“I see.” Angela appeared to regard this as something of a novelty. “I suppose I could give you mine.”

“Who else has keys to all these doors?”

“My husband, of course. And Duggin. Pat and Robin need keys too, to keep a proper eye on the place.”

“Are valuables kept here?” Constance asked. “Beyond the usual, I mean. Or a lot of money?”

Angela shrugged. “Not really. I suppose when the rent’s collected, some of it might sit in the house till next morning. Caleb uses banks.”

There appeared to be some pride in that revelation. Constance supposed it was more refined than stuffing it in a stocking under the mattress, though she had done that in her time too.

“How often is the rent collected?” she asked.

“Some every week, some each month or even every quarter. Depends on the tenant and their ability to pay. Why?”

“I was wondering if those nights when there was a lot of money in the house coincided with any of the ghost’s appearances.”

Angela’s jaw dropped. “You think someone’s pretending to be a ghost in order to get into our house and steal the rents?”

“It’s a possibility, isn’t it? If Mr. Lambert’s habits are known.”

“I suppose. We collect weekly rent on a Saturday—which is the day I saw the ghost.” Angela still looked doubtful, though she did seem to be thinking it over while they walked toward the apple tree. “But I don’t think it was a Saturday when Goldie saw it.”

It would have been too simple, Constance thought as they followed roughly the erratic pattern of the ghost’s movements to the pond and the willow. There was no obvious place for a person to hide except among the mist-laden branches of the willow, or deep in the mist itself.

“It’s not far from here to the door in the wall,” Constance mused. “With some nice, swirling mist, someone might get away without being seen.”

“Raises the question who. And why.”

“True.”

“Come on back inside. It’s cold out here. I’ll be going out this afternoon. You don’t need to come with me. Bert will. You can just settle in till I get back, and look around all you want—only not in Caleb’s office. He wouldn’t like that.”

Constance was sure he wouldn’t. But she had every intention of getting in there as soon as she safely could.

*

Ida Feathers, the cook, finished cutting her vegetables while she watched Angela take the new girl back upstairs with her. Wiping her hands on her apron, she felt the outline of the flask in her pocket and mechanically took a little nip.

Ida didn’t care for change. For one thing, the new girl would make Goldie and Denise jealous by being superior in rank and in looks. And the lads would fight over her. Robin would win, of course, and that would be bad for Denise’s hopes of him. Unless Caleb himself wanted her. For a moment she even wondered if Caleb had foisted the girl on Angela. But no—Caleb was no saint, but he never publicly humiliated his wife with his infidelities. Everyone could pretend she didn’t know.

Maybe she didn’t, though Ida doubted it. A very knowing woman, was Angela Lambert. Plus, she was kind at heart, which Ida had cause to know. Who else would have found a place for a gin-sodden old woman in their home, let alone given her a wage and something to do all day?

Ida liked to cook. She had always cooked the best meals and sweet treats for her little ones, bless their poor, lost hearts. The ache never went away. But with the gin and the cooking and Angela, she didn’t mind the living so much now.

And she could still take care of the new girl, Silver, if she proved to be a problem for Angela. Probably she wouldn’t. She had a good face and a good smile. Yet there was something wrong about her being here. She bore watching. And Angela need never know if Ida had to remove her.