Page 5 of Ghost in the Garden (Murder in Moonlight #3)

B efore his appointment with Constance, Solomon called on two of the most interesting acquaintances he had made since coming to England. In fact, it was their fault he had met Constance that first time, in a foggy alleyway behind Coal Yard Lane, when a body had hurtled from the roof and almost landed on top of her. His quick reflexes had saved her life when he yanked her out of the way.

Neither of them had had any idea who the other was then. But there had been a moment between them, a strange recognition, both exciting and sensual. At the time, he put it down to mere physical closeness and the relief of such a near brush with death. But it had been more than that. It was one of the few times he had seen her vulnerability. She had looked understandably startled and almost…scared. And later, with the matter in Coal Yard Lane resolved, they had all gone to this almost-hidden house off Half Moon Street to celebrate. They had not spoken to each other, and yet he had been disturbingly aware of her the whole time, even when he discovered she was the notorious courtesan Constance Silver.

When they met again, it had been unexpectedly at Greenforth Manor when she had been pretending to be a respectable widow for reasons of her own. That had been their first mystery…

He walked up the path to the home of Dr. Dragan and Lady Grizelda Tizsa and knocked on the door. This oddly matched and yet strangely suited couple were addicted to mysteries. Coming in on the edges of one of them had been something of an eye-opener for Solomon.

The door was opened not by a servant—although they had at least three—but by Dragan himself, looking supremely casual in shirt sleeves, unbuttoned waistcoat, and no necktie. He was an almost ridiculously handsome man, a refugee from the heroic struggle for Hungarian independence and democracy. Yet his looks were the least of his charms. They covered a quick mind, a staggering amount of knowledge, and a passionate idealism only slightly dented by the failure of his revolution.

“Grey,” he said in surprise, instantly opening the door wide in welcome. “Come in.”

“I hope I have not called at a bad time,” Solomon said, handing his hat to Dragan and taking off his coat.

“Not if you don’t mind the continual chaos. We’re just back from Scotland and the baby is fractious. Griz will be glad of the company, as am I.” Dragan led the way to the drawing room, which looked more like a study, dominated by a huge desk, loaded on both sides with books and notebooks and piles of paper. A guitar was propped up against a comfortable armchair. “Griz is upstairs with Alexander, but she won’t be long. Drink?”

Dragan spoke perfect English with only a slight, rather attractive accent. Solomon accepted a glass of brandy.

“I’m afraid I’ve come to ask a favor,” he said.

“Ask,” Dragan said.

“Did you read about the tenement building in St. Giles that collapsed a couple of weeks ago?”

Dragan’s lips tightened. “I did.” He waved Solomon to an armchair by the fire and sat in the one opposite.

“I have just seen some of the survivors, crammed into the building next door. Some of them have received no medical attention, and they’re in a bad way.”

Dragan frowned, his mouth twisting. “One should be able to expect more of the richest country in the world. Do you have the precise address?”

Solomon described it as best he could, adding, “I don’t know what, if anything, you can do for them, but I feel someone should at least try. I thought of you, but there may be other doctors able and willing. I will pay, but I don’t want you tell your patients that.”

“We’ll come to an arrangement after I’ve seen them,” Dragan said vaguely. “How did you get involved in the business? Through one of your charities?”

“Not really, though perhaps I should have. You may not have heard that a partner and I have set up an agency of private inquiry.”

Dragan blinked. “That is a bit of a stretch for you, is it not? How do you fit it in?”

“Oh, my other businesses more or less run themselves. I have taken a step back from them and followed my own interests.”

“Good for you,” Dragan said, smiling. “Who is your partner?”

Solomon wondered if he was blushing like a schoolboy. “Constance Silver.”

Dragan, however, did not even look surprised. “Of course. You had that murder in Norfolk to deal with together.”

“Did Constance tell you that?”

“She said something to Griz, though only when Griz asked. Actually, Inspector Harris told us.”

Dragan’s wife came in at that point, smiling delightedly at seeing Solomon. Lady Grizelda was a duke’s youngest daughter, apparently considered eccentric and plain by Society. No one could understand how she came to marry such a dazzlingly handsome man as Dragan, although they had no doubt attributed his motives to her birth and fortune and the influence of her father and brothers. In fact, Solomon thought her beautiful, in an unusual if careless and slightly untidy way. She wore unfashionable spectacles, of course, being extremely short-sighted. Like her husband, she had a quick and ravenous mind, with many unexpected talents and interests. So the revolutionary refugee, who disapproved of aristocracy, and the duke’s daughter were kindred spirits.

“Mr. Grey!” she greeted Solomon, throwing out her hand. “How lovely to see you!”

When she sat down on the sofa, Dragan quickly told her Solomon’s reasons for calling.

“What a wonderful idea,” she exclaimed of their inquiry firm. “Perhaps Dragan and I can help occasionally.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” Solomon said. “I don’t suppose either of you have come across a man called Caleb Lambert? He seems to have grown rich by means of property, both respectable and slum dwellings. In fact, we believe he may be the business partner of Huxley Gregg, the landlord of the collapsed tenement in St. Giles.”

“But they’ll never get to charging or trying him, will they?” Lady Griz said. “I heard nothing about a partner. Is one of them your client?”

“Neither,” Solomon said. “Our client is Lambert’s wife, who is concerned about a ghost seen several times in her garden by different people, including her. We’re trying to find the logical explanation behind the sightings.”

Lady Griz and Dragan exchanged glances.

“There may, of course, be a logical explanation,” Griz said slowly. “But don’t rule out the supernatural either. There are more things in heaven and earth … You should keep an open mind.”

Solomon blinked. “I am surprised to hear you say so.”

“We had an odd experience in Scotland. It opened our minds to situations that might be rare but that do occur.”

Solomon thought back to some of the strange beliefs he’d encountered in Jamaica and shivered. Hastily he dragged his mind back to the matter in hand and turned to Dragan. “You move in radical circles, do you not?”

“More social than political these days, but yes.”

“Have you ever come across a young man called Knox? Lenny Knox? He lived in the building that collapsed. Apparently he’d been agitating to get repairs done and rent lowered. It’s largely because of him that Gregg can’t argue he didn’t know about the state of the building.”

Dragan thought about it, then shook his head. “I don’t believe I have.”

“His wife and child died in the collapse. It seems to have destroyed him. You might see him among the more physically injured.”

Dragan nodded. It was the best Solomon could do for Knox at this stage.

“I’m going to meet Constance now and see what she has discovered.” Solomon finished his brandy and stood up to take his leave.

“I’ll come with you,” Dragan said, rising, and to Griz, “I’m afraid I have patients to see.”

“The morning would do, I’m sure,” Solomon said with unusual awkwardness.

“For some, it might not,” Dragan replied.

Griz got up and passed her husband his tie and coat. If she was disappointed to spend her evening alone, she didn’t show it. Probably, as a doctor’s wife, she had grown used to it.

Solomon and Dragan took a hackney together part of the way.

“If you wait until I’ve spoken to Constance, I’ll come with you,” Solomon said. “Going into St. Giles alone after dark is not wise.”

“I have learned the worst places to avoid,” Dragan said. “The rest have grown used to me. Just drop me at Long Acre.”

“Be careful,” Solomon said uneasily, though Dragan had been a soldier and could presumably look after himself.

“You too. You are a little close to the Devil’s Acre, are you not?”

“I don’t like her being there,” Solomon blurted.

“You have to trust in her good sense.”

“As you do with your wife’s?” Solomon retorted, although the cases were, of course, far different.

“Yes,” Dragan said unexpectedly. He knocked on the carriage ceiling for the driver to halt. “It can be hard, but she would not be Griz if she didn’t try.”

He was right, Solomon realized as the hackney rolled on. Constance wouldn’t be who she was if she didn’t throw her heart and soul into things. And she had survived a dreadful past that had at least provided her with good instincts and the means to recognize and escape from problematic situations. He knew that.

He wasn’t sure it helped.

He alighted at Westminster Bridge and walked briskly toward the Lamberts’ house. Having worried about being late, he found now he was too early, and so, after peering along the street at the front of the house, he moved along the curving lane and around the back of the house, where smaller, meaner dwellings stood. They might once have been mews buildings for stables and carriage houses, though now they were mostly somewhat run-down cottages.

There were no street lamps here, only the faint glimmer from the street beyond and whatever light escaped the closed curtains and shutters of the surrounding windows. At least the sky was clear, revealing the moon and glittering stars.

A dog barked at his passing. A door closed in the distance, but otherwise he saw no one. Before he reached the door to the Lamberts’ garden, it opened silently, causing him to press back into the shadows of the wall.

A slender figure slipped through the door, silver in the beam of the moon, and apparently veiled. For an instant, he imagined he was looking at the ghost itself, and his mouth went dry. Clearly, he had paid too much attention to the Tizsas, for the ghostly figure turned, inserted a key, and turned it in the lock.

No ghost ever made a noise like that. Besides, it moved like Constance, quick, graceful, and sensual. He stepped out of the shadows, and her breath caught as she jerked to a halt.

“It’s me,” he said wryly.

A small, inarticulate noise spilled from her. She threw herself at him, clutching his arm with both hands, painfully tight. “Sol.”

He closed his free arm about her, but already she was hurrying him on as though ashamed of the weakness.

“I don’t have long. I don’t know when she’ll ring for me. Seven o’clock would be better tomorrow, while they’re dining.”

She said nothing else as they sped out of the lane and onto the street, where she pulled him away from the house.

“What happened?” he asked, trying to keep the fear out of his voice.

“Oh, nothing. I don’t like Lambert.”

“Is he a threat?” Solomon asked calmly while curling his fingers, itching to damage the man just for frightening her.

She drew in a breath. “No. I’ve faced worse and I can deal with it. I don’t have to like it.”

“Neither do I. Come out. We’ll investigate some other way.”

“We’ll never get in some other way. The footmen are more like bodyguards, one for her, two for him. They patrol the garden regularly—I only just made it unseen—and watch the street too.”

“For what? Ghosts?”

“I suspect the threats are more substantial. He’s a villain, Solomon, the sort you can feel without evidence. A nasty piece of work.”

“You wouldn’t let him near your girls?”

She cast a quick glance up at him, as though she suspected him of making fun of her. In fact, he was perfectly serious. She was an excellent judge of character, and whether she would permit men near her girls was a better guide than most.

“Is Angela frightened of him?” he asked.

“Yes, I think so, but it’s as if she’s used to it. I get the impression she’s not scared into doing what he wants. She’s just being a good wife to him. But she doesn’t want him to know about me, and now that I’ve met him, I’m in full agreement.”

“Where do you sleep?”

“A dressing room off their bedchamber. There’s a key in the lock.”

With his most immediate worries addressed, if not exactly resolved, he tried to concentrate on the case. “What signs of our ghost?”

“None so far. Angela saw it moving erratically away from the house toward the back wall around five or six o’clock. So did Goldie the maid, who also saw it in the middle of the night—after midnight, she thinks. I haven’t spoken to the footmen yet. What have you found out?”

“Nothing helpful, though I’m fairly sure Lambert is involved with Gregg in the ownership of the collapsed building. There’s a greedy rent collector and so-called caretaker by the name of Fraser who’s too frightened to say much. And a lot of injured people crammed next door with no help or medical attention except what they can offer each other. Dragan Tizsa has gone to help. I find…”

“You find what?”

“I don’t really care about the damned ghost,” Solomon said frankly. “I want Gregg and Lambert to pay for what they did. And didn’t do.”

“Whoever the ghost is might well shed some light on that…”

“Ask Angela about a troublemaker called Lenny Knox,” he said impulsively. “He was organizing the tenants into some kind of revolt against their conditions. His wife and baby daughter died in the collapse and now he would appear to have lost heart. In fact, ask her about Fraser the caretaker too.” He frowned. “Fraser hasn’t seen Gregg since the collapse, but he still takes the weekly rents to the office. There, they claim to have no idea where Gregg is, and they’ve never, apparently, had anything to do with any Lambert. But the rent money’s going into someone’s pocket.”

“Is this what Angela really wants us to find out about?” Constance wondered aloud. “Is the ghost just an excuse because her conscience bothers her?” She shivered. “I have to go back. Can you come at seven tomorrow?”

“I can.” She drew her arm free of his, but he held it a moment longer. “Constance.”

She raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. Her eyes were once more clear and damnably lovely. Quite suddenly he was plagued, as he often was, by the memory of lying in bed beside her, untouching, aroused and damnably frustrated. And one precious night when he had simply held her…

He swallowed. “Take no chances. Leave if there is any threat to your safety whatsoever.”

“I will, but there won’t be,” she said, slipping away with a quick, cocky smile that was pure Constance.

*

As had become their habit since moving to this house, Caleb Lambert escorted his wife from the dining room to the drawing room, where they sat by the fire and talked about business.

Caleb had always been in the habit of discussing such matters with her. She was a useful sounding board and, besides, she had a good brain behind her once-lovely face. Not so beautiful now, of course, but she was still a handsome woman and important to him in a way his many affairs were not. She knew that. She was, in fact, the perfect wife for him… If only she weren’t so damned common.

So was he, of course, but he had mixed for a long time with the upper echelons of Society as well as the lowest of the low, and he could adjust enough not to be despised. Angela, however, carried her origins in her voice. She could never mix with the wives of the people he was cultivating now. Unless she kept her mouth shut. Perhaps she could just smile…

In a quiet moment, he said, “How do you like your new maid, then?”

“She’s very polite and willing,” Angela said. “And I like how she talks.”

“So do I,” Lambert said, pleased. “Maybe you can copy her. Then I can take you to Sir Nicholas Swan’s charity ball.”

“Maybe,” Angela said. “When were you talking to her?”

Was that suspicion in her eyes? Jealousy? “Just for a moment before dinner,” he said easily. “I knocked on your door to see if you were ready and she told me you’d just gone down. Pretty little thing. The lads will be fighting over her.”

“I don’t fancy any of their chances,” Angela said with a curl of her lip. “She’s stepping out with a much classier gent.”

“Then what’s she working for you for?”

“Saving up for marriage? How do I know? I took a shine to her.”

“Then you don’t want a proper footman after all?”

“Not right now,” Angela said, much to his relief.

Another man in the house who owed nothing to Lambert, and yet was liable to hear and see what he wasn’t meant to, would have been a dangerous thing. Lambert didn’t want strangers so close to him.

“Did you see anything of Gregg today?” she asked.

He shifted uneasily. “No, and I don’t want to. If he’s keeping his distance, that suits me fine.”

“What if he talks to the inquiry, like he said? Lands you in it along with him?”

“Gregg’d never do that, whatever he said to me the other day. Too much the gentleman.”

She cast him a look that was almost derisive. “And when all the rents start coming direct to you?”

“By then, the law won’t be looking.”

“No, but Lenny Knox might. And all those other angry sods who lost family.”

“Give it a rest, Angie,” he growled. “It’s all sorted. None of them will come after me.”

“Pride goes before a fall, Caleb.”

“I ain’t proud. And neither you nor me will fall.”

“Muck always rises,” she said bitterly.

“We ain’t muck,” he snarled. “Never think it. We’re just ambitious. Backbone of this country.”

Sometimes, he even believed that.

*

How to explain the sheer emotion that flooded Constance when Solomon had stepped out of the shadows? Relief that he was no threat was in there, but swamped by all the rest, chief of which was fierce happiness and the reasonless belief that now all was right with the world.

Solomon had become necessary to her. It was a dangerous weakness, for she had not relied on anyone since early childhood. And yet she had to stop herself from seizing him and hugging him close. As it was, she had nearly broken his arm with the ferocity of her grip. And his instant response, while embarrassing her, warmed her from her toes.

If she were honest with herself, that was what made it so much easier to return to the Lamberts’ house. She was not alone again among scary, alien enemies. Solomon was within reach. And she could take care of herself.

She had to knock at the back door to get back into the house. Even facing Duggin did not trouble her. “Where’ve you been?” he asked coldly as she breezed inside and he closed and locked the door behind her.

“Just getting some fresh air before I have to attend the mistress. She hasn’t rung, has she?”

He didn’t blink often enough, which made him appear oddly menacing. “As well for you she hasn’t. You don’t leave the premises without permission.”

“Without the mistress’s permission,” she said, as though agreeing. “Or instruction. I’ll just go up and make sure her night things are laid out ready.”

“She’ll be a while yet,” said the maid Denise, carrying a tray of dirty crockery into the kitchen. “They’re in the drawing room. After that she always goes back to her parlor for a bit before bed. We’ll take their tea up in a bit, then we can have ours and get to bed.”

“Except you.” Duggin smirked at Constance. “You’ll have to wait for the mistress.”

“Doesn’t Mr. Lambert have a valet?” she asked as though surprised.

“Mr. Lambert is quite capable of dressing himself.”

Constance went upstairs and prepared Angela’s night things as best she could. She found her skin prickling, every sense alert for the intrusion of Lambert. She put another coal on the fire before she left and returned to the kitchen.

Tea and a light supper were laid out on the table. All the servants were there, though after ten minutes, Pat and Robin went out on their usual patrol of the garden. Conversation was desultory—everyone, presumably, was tired. Constance, used to late nights, was not.

When Pat and Robin returned, they nodded to Duggin and sat down again. A minute later, Duggin rose.

“Get your heads down,” he said curtly, and went out.

“Come on, girls,” Ida urged the maids, while she got out her flask. “Let’s have this washed up and then we’re done.” She took a healthy swig and stood. “Night, all. Don’t let me hear you much longer.”

Constance felt the gaze of the “footmen” upon her. She looked directly back at each in turn. There was curiosity and varying degrees of avid lust, so open that it had to come from a sense of power. And that, in servants, had to come from the power of their master. Lambert had power in their underworld, so no one crossed his nearest underlings either. Or refused their advances, no doubt.

Constance, however, was a master of such rejection.

After a considering look at each, she let her bored gaze slide to the curtained window and sat up straighter. “See any signs of Mrs. Lambert’s ghost when you were out there?”

“Don’t be daft,” scoffed Robin. “That’s women’s rubbish.”

“No it ain’t,” Bert argued. “Me and Pat both saw it.”

“Goldie told me,” Constance said. “Did you recognize her, then? Is she the ghost of some dead person in a painting or what?”

“You got some imagination,” Robin said. “I like that in a girl.”

“No you don’t,” Constance said carelessly. “You just called it rubbish. Well, is she?” she asked, gazing from Bert to Pat and back.

“I never saw anyone like her,” Bert said. “Mind you, it weren’t that easy to make out her face, what with the dark and the mist and her all veiled and ghostly like…”

“He’s right for once,” Pat agreed. “Total stranger.”

They’re lying. The realization came with a sweep of excitement that she could neither show nor challenge directly.

“But totally dead,” she said.

“None deader,” Bert said.

Constance gave a little shiver of anticipation. “Tell me what you saw…”

They were halfway through a story told in the clear hope of impressing her when a ringing bell interrupted them. But at least she’d learned the day, the time, and the direction of the sighting.

“Duty calls,” she said brightly. “I’ll bid you all goodnight now.”

She hurried up the back stairs to the main bedroom and found Angela seated at her dressing table in her nightgown and robe, brushing out her hair.

“Shall I do that?” she asked.

“Don’t be daft, I can manage,” Angela said shortly. “What have you found out so far?”

“Not a huge amount,” Constance admitted, glancing toward the connecting door that led to Lambert’s room.

“Don’t worry about him. He’s still in his office.”

What did he do there at this time of night?

Constance said, “I think Pat and Bert might know more about your ghost than they’re saying. I think they did recognize her, or at least suspect who she is.”

Their eyes met in the looking glass. Angela’s fell first.

“Is it possible?” Constance asked steadily.

“Course it is. They give you any names?”

“No. Perhaps you can.”

“I didn’t hire you to do the work for you,” Angela snapped.

“No, but I’m not quite sure why you did hire us.”

“To find out who she is.”

“You already know who she is,” Constance said. “Or at least you suspect. Like Bert and Pat.”

Angela stood abruptly and paced to the fireplace, where she turned and faced Constance again. “I don’t know . It’s the not knowing that troubles me because that means I can’t deal with it. I never believed in ghosts or spirits, never even thought of them until…” She jerked her shoulder, impatient with herself. “Until I suddenly understood that some things are so bad, the dead can’t rest. My husband…”

Her gaze flickered away again. She was a woman stuck between the silent loyalty of years and a painful, desperate need to know the truth.

Pity stirred in Constance. “You suspect something your husband did is beyond forgiveness?” she said gently.

Angela nodded. “A building collapsed with people inside it.”

Back to that. Although her heart gave a little bump of excitement, Constance kept her voice steady. “I read about that. People died.”

“A lot of people,” Angela said, pacing again, twisting the belt of her dressing gown in her fingers. “Too many. Among them was a young woman, little more than a girl, with her own baby. A good, clever girl. I met her once.”

Was this the family Solomon had wanted her to ask about? “You knew one of the people who died?” Constance said cautiously. “That must be awful for you. But why should she haunt this house? Or this garden?”

“She asked me to speak to my husband, to get the building repaired before the worst happened. I never did. Never had time.”

“But your husband wasn’t the landlord,” Constance pointed out. “That was Huxley Gregg.”

“They’re friends,” Angela said shortly. “And I’m a woman who used to be like Cathy Knox, young and strong with nothing but ideals and determination to make a better life. I failed her.”

“Gregg failed her. Why doesn’t she haunt him ?”

Angela smiled faintly, seeming to relax. “That’s what I said to myself. I know it’s nothing to do with me, but still, I can’t forget her. Guilt’s a funny thing, isn’t it? Of course, I know —in my head—that the ghost isn’t Cathy Knox. Can’t be. I expect Pat and Bert know that too.”

“You think it’s a real person with a grudge?”

“Maybe.”

“A grudge against you or your husband because of your connection with Gregg?”

“That’s what you have to find out.”

“What is his connection with Gregg?”

Angela shrugged. “They’ve been friends a long time. Partners in many ventures.”

“In ownership of that building?”

“I don’t know. He says not.”

“But you don’t entirely believe him. Where would I find Gregg?”

“Don’t know. He ain’t been home since the collapse. He doesn’t come here anymore, neither. Which at least keeps Caleb out of it.”

“But he isn’t out of it, is he?”

Angela swung on Constance, seizing her wrist in a grip that hurt. “Don’t ever say that. He’ll kill you.”