Page 2 of Word of the Wicked (Murder in Moonlight #5)

“Unless it really means pay ,” Constance said, gazing at the slightly grubby scrap of glued paper on the table between them. “Whoever sent it might already have asked for money. Blackmail money. Dr. Chadwick wouldn’t necessarily know.”

“I wonder what unkindness the kindest woman in the world is capable of?”

“I suspect it’s in the eye of the beholder. Some people take it as a kindness just not to be hit very hard. Others think people un kind if they don’t constantly shower them with gifts and compliments. It will be interesting to meet the residents of Sutton May.”

Solomon looked even wearier as he rose to his feet. Was it merely tiredness and too many things still to do? Or was he just not as eager as she to investigate together again? He had said he missed her, and yet unease wriggled through her, a fear that he was growing apart from her.

He said, “I had better write this wretched report and get it out of the way.”

“Then, perhaps, take some time to sleep,” Constance suggested. “You look as if you’ve been up all night.” He probably had.

“Almost there,” he said.

As he walked purposefully toward his desk, she said, “Sol?” and waited until he glanced back over his shoulder. It took a second. “I miss you too, but I can do this one without you if I have to.”

She watched him actually consider it. She had always loved that he considered everything she said, though now it felt more like an insult. Then his eyes softened. “No,” he said. “I need to come. It will be my reward.”

Her heart eased and she quietly left his office for her own. Janey was in the hallway, blocking the entrance of someone Constance couldn’t see.

“He’s not seeing anyone else today,” Janey declared. “Mrs. Silver might be able to spare you five minutes. Otherwise, I can give you an appointment for—”

“Who is it, Janey?” Constance said, concerned by the belligerence in her tone.

Janey half turned, and the man on the doorstep took off his seaman’s cap.

Constance grasped the hall table for support. She had seen him only once before, and he’d taken her breath away then too, because even with his longer, curlier hair and rough clothes, he looked exactly like Solomon—tall, lean, and dark.

“It’s fine, Janey,” she said, praying that it was true. “Mr. Grey will want to see this gentleman.”

The sailor’s jaw dropped, as though he had expected her to try harder to keep him out. Then he straightened, nodded casually, and stepped inside, leaving Janey to close the door.

Solomon was not at his best to deal with anything as upsetting as this visit. Part of Constance wanted to whisk the visitor away to her own office and make sure he hadn’t come to cause trouble before she let him near Solomon.

Solomon would not thank her for that.

“This way,” she said, walking back to Solomon’s door and entering once more. There was no way she could make this easier for him, except by giving him an instant’s warning by the tone of her voice.

“Solomon. You have a visitor.”

She stood aside, and his head snapped up while the sailor walked into the room slowly, almost as though, at the last moment, the journey required more energy or more courage than he could muster.

Solomon rose from his desk as courteously as always, and the eyes of the two men, so alike and yet suddenly so different, clashed and held.

“Solomon,” the sailor said in a husky whisper, as though the word had been choked out of him.

“David,” Solomon returned without smiling. Pain seemed to leak out of him, and yet more than that, it was recognition.

For the first time in twenty years, Solomon knowingly faced his twin brother, who had vanished apparently off the face of the earth at the age of ten.

They had met again by chance about three months ago, but there had been no recognition in David then.

He had been known as Johnny the sailor and, while forced to acknowledge their physical similarity, had no memory of a brother.

He remembered nothing, in fact, before an illness some nine years ago, when he had awakened in a hospital in Marseilles.

Everyone there had told him he was a sailor, and so he had appeared to be.

For all Constance knew, they shared no family history, their likeness just a bizarre coincidence. Solomon had acknowledged it, too.

But that one word— Solomon , not Mr. Grey —was recognition. And so was Solomon’s response. David , his brother.

“You said to come back if I ever needed your help,” David blurted, his gaze still locked with Solomon’s. “Well, I’m sorry. I need your help.”

“How?” Solomon asked at once.

“I’ll bring fresh tea,” Constance said, meaning to leave them to whatever kind of reunion this was.

Solomon made a quick gesture toward her. “No. You are family too. You are involved. Stay.”

She stayed because he wanted her to, perhaps even needed her to, but David showed no disagreement.

“You are married now?” he asked.

“Not yet,” Constance said calmly. “Please, sit here.”

David sat, reaching for the teapot from apparent instinct, though he checked himself, glancing from her to Solomon. “May I?”

“I’ll send for a fresh tea,” Constance said. “I’m afraid it’s cold.”

“No need.” David splashed tea into the cup that had once been Solomon’s.

He grasped the cup around its bowl, not its handle, and drank greedily until it was gone.

Then he lowered the cup to its saucer and wiped his sleeve across his mouth.

“Sorry. I was thirsty, and I’m not used to manners. I’m fine now.”

“What,” Solomon asked, as he asked all their prospective clients, “can we do to help you?”

David’s eyes were oddly unfocused, a bleak, dazed look that had not been there three months ago. “I don’t know. Nothing, probably. I just felt I should try. I’m afraid I killed a man. But the funny thing is, he was already dead.”