Page 38 of Murder in Moonlight

Perhaps. No one knew how they would behave in any fraught situation until it happened.

Solomon laid down his fork and reached for his coffee cup. Thomas Bolton walked into the room. He blinked in surprise to see Solomon there, but made no effort to bolt.

“Good morning, Grey.”

“Good morning.”

When he had filled his plate to his satisfaction, Bolton chose a place on the other side of the table, not quite opposite Solomon, but close enough to avoid any accusation of avoiding him.

Solomon carried on with his breakfast, curious to see if the man would ask him anything or confide anything. He didn’t.

“What do you think of this whole business, sir?” Solomon said at last. “You knew poor Winsom well, knew his character, his family, his business. Did he really have no enemies?”

“It would appear,” Bolton said dryly, “that he hadone. But I cannot agree that anyone in this house could have done such a terrible thing. We must have had an intruder, someone who knew the house and grounds and how to gain access.”

Solomon raised his brows. “Can you think of such a person?”

Bolton sighed. “I have been racking my brains, but no, I can’t think of anyone, certainly not anyone with the malevolence and wickedness to—to…to do what was done.”

“What about someone from the bank?” Solomon asked.

Bolton blinked. “From the bank? Who?”

Solomon shrugged. “A disgruntled employee, perhaps?”

“Our staff are all well treated and well paid. We provide opportunities for advancement. Everyone, I believe, is happy to work there.”

“But not, perhaps, to be dismissed? Mrs. Albright recalled someone swearing at her father in the street, someone lately dismissed from the bank.”

Bolton frowned in a clear effort of remembrance.

“Are there so many that you have difficulty remembering who it was who swore in public at Mr. Winsom in front of his family?”

Bolton’s frown turned into a scowl. “No. I merely could not remember the case at all, since the man had no possible grudge. He was fortunate not to be prosecuted.”

Solomon set his cup down in its saucer. “He committed some crime?”

“Framley? Oh yes. Fraud. We dismissed him at once. We had no choice. Though in consideration of his previous exemplary service, we did not charge him. At the time he was too angry at being discovered to be grateful.”

“What happened to him?” Solomon asked.

“I have no idea.” Bolton’s eyes widened. “You do not think he can have broken in here? Murdered poor Walter in revenge?”

“I think it highly unlikely,” Solomon said. “Was he ever invited to the house when he worked at the bank? Either as a guest or for bank purposes?”

Bolton finished chewing and swallowed. “I believe he was, once or twice. Carrying messages or books, that sort of thing.”

It was, Solomon supposed, something else to think about, but it seemed an unnecessarily elaborate way for an employee to take revenge. On top of which, when could he have stolen theknife? And Winsom would have been far too wary of him to walk with him in the moonlight!

Solomon sat back in his chair and regarded Bolton, who seemed both tense and morose. There were no servants in the room, and he might not have a better opportunity.

“I believe you do business with Ivor Davidson,” Solomon said.

“We shared a successful venture.”

“Not successful enough to risk any further ventures with him?”

“I wouldn’t say that.”