Page 21 of Word of the Wicked (Murder in Moonlight #5)

C onstance Silver. Constance Silver …

Where had she heard that name? It kept repeating in Helen Fernie’s head even after they had stopped conversing and she was playing cards with Sophie Chadwick and Abigail Raeburn.

She knew why the young woman was asking all those questions, of course.

She was nosing around for Dr. Chadwick and his silly wife.

The daughter was even sillier, by all accounts, though Helen knew better than to believe in village gossip.

Still, she had seen Sophie with Ogden—the girl even visited him at his house, which was utterly improper.

And nothing to do with Constance Silver.

Where had she heard that wretched name? She was sure she had not met her in London. She was far too noticeable to forget. She was also far too well dressed to be a woman in need of work to live. And Mr. Grey was not her husband, whatever else he was.

Solomon Grey . Did she know that name, too?

When she went home, she would go over her letters from her family in London.

Wait, though, was he not one of those benevolent, wealthy men of this new world?

Made his first fortune in Jamaican sugar and cotton and built another in shipping.

A surprisingly young man who preferred seclusion to Society and was therefore sought after by all.

Oh yes, it was coming back to her now. Could this man really be that Solomon Grey?

His coat was certainly well enough cut for wealth, but why on earth would such a rich man be ferreting out squalid information for the likes of Dr. Chadwick?

Eccentric —was that not another world flung around about Solomon Grey?

And some kind of scandal written in a letter by her shocked cousin, something to do with his being snared in matrimony by an infamous courtesan.

Her breath caught. Constance Silver! Of course!

As if she couldn’t help it, Helen’s gaze sought and found the woman, so pretty, so charming—and so false. How dare she masquerade as a decent woman, tricking poor Jessica into accepting her as a guest, introducing her to the respectable people of Sutton May!

The jezebel was laughing over her shoulder at something Mr. Lance said to her, then she stood up and left the room.

She must be going to the retiring room.

And Helen was just outraged enough to follow. She was halfway across the room with a poor excuse thrown to her fellow players before she realized her own foolishness. And her own possibilities. What was her best move here?

*

The footman in the hall directed Constance to the staircase at the end of the passage. “The first door on your right is for the use of ladies.”

“Thank you.”

The room was easily found and brightly lit.

As she dealt with her own comfort and examined her hair in the glass for wayward strands, her mind flickered from guest to guest. As in most communities, secrets and ill feeling seemed to seethe beneath the surface of neighborliness, most of them trivial.

She could not actually imagine anyone present here this evening sending those anonymous letters.

None of them, she felt, would see the need of anonymity.

Unless it was Sophia Chadwick, afraid her youth gave her less gravity than a pasted-together letter of complaint?

She sighed. No, that did not really work either. Constance could not imagine her treating her mother or anyone else in that way, no matter how unjust she felt their actions to be.

But what if the culprit was not in her or his right mind? Everyone in the village seemed to be eminently sensible and even likeable people—with the exception of Peregrine Mortimer.

Mr. and Mrs. Lance from over the hill were also amiable and impressed with their children’s school progress under the auspices of Mr. Ogden. They knew of no trouble amongst the children or their parents in Sutton May, and pronounced Helen Fernie “a funny old thing” with no harm or malice about her.

Mr. Raeburn’s theory of female spite did not seem to work in this case.

Emerging from the retiring room, it took Constance a moment to realize that the landing was now in total darkness. A glow filtered up from the foot of the stairs, but it seemed very dim. Surely all the lamps and candles had not gone out at once?

Constance stood very still, trying to get her bearings, but she could not even see the top of the stairs, only the faint light below. Feeling idiotic, she put out both her hands and shuffled slowly forward, groping for a wall, or the balustrade that bordered the stairwell.

Her flesh crawled. She was sure she heard someone’s breath—though it might have been her own, erratic and shallow. Something moved at the corner of her eye, a swirl of air and shadow, and she whirled abruptly toward it.

Nothing but darkness.

With relief, she found the post at the head of the staircase and grasped it, shuffling forward until she could feel the drop of the first stair under her foot.

She slid her hand from the post down to the banister, but before she could grip it, two hands shoved her hard in the back and she tumbled forward into darkness.

So much for trivial and harmless …

*

Sophie Chadwick had the uneasy feeling that things were coming to a head.

Part of that was no doubt due to her own guilty conscience, and the shocking, uneasy suspicions that had begun to plague her.

And she had been only too aware all evening of Mr. Grey and Mrs. Silver, circulating and asking questions.

When she saw Mrs. Silver leave the drawing room, it even crossed her mind that the woman had gone to poke around Miss Mortimer’s or Miss Jenson’s private things—though why on earth would she suspect such kind and respectable old ladies?

Miss Fernie slipped out a few moments later. Everyone needed to deal with calls of nature…

And yet when Mr. Mortimer went out too, a quite different suspicion hit her.

Had Mrs. Silver made some kind of assignation with him?

They had seemed rather friendly during the first game, and afterward had appeared to exchange some intense conversation.

But surely Mrs. Silver did not know what he was like.

That he lurked in dark corners and imagined women liked to be handled like…

She left the drawing room yet held on to the door handle for a moment. The footman had vanished from his post, perhaps even sent away from it by Mortimer. Worse, the stairs and the landing above were in darkness. Someone had put out the lights to the retiring room.

Hastily, Sophie picked up the branch of candles that stood on the table outside the drawing room and strode purposefully to the stairs—too late.

Something thudded in the blackness above and fell like a bouncing ball to lie in a dark heap on the half landing.

With a cry, Sophie leapt up the stairs, the candle flames flickering wildly. It was Mrs. Silver, her eyes wide open and staring at Sophie.

“Oh, ma’am, what happened? Can you move?” Sophie sank down beside her, placing the candlestick on the step above.

“I… I think so,” Mrs. Silver said, much to Sophie’s relief, even though her voice was unsteady.

She cleared her throat. “I think I saved my head. For once… Though my arm hurts like the devil. Sorry, that isn’t very ladylike, is it?

” She smoothed her hands over her skirts as though to be sure she was decent—or perhaps feeling for injury to her leg.

“Let me help you to sit up,” Sophie said. “Slowly, now.”

Mrs. Silver sat, wincing as she took her weight on her arm. “I believe I am fine.”

“What happened?” Sophie demanded. “Why are the lights out?”

“I can only imagine someone put them out. It was perfectly bright when I entered the cloakroom.”

“Was…was anyone else up there?” Sophie asked.

Mrs. Silver glanced up at the dark landing, then refocused on Sophie’s face. “Can you guide me somewhere private for a few moments until I recover?”

“Of course. Let me fetch my father. And Mr. Grey—”

“No,” Mrs. Silver said flatly. She smiled slightly, “Not yet…”

With Sophie’s help and holding on to the banister, Mrs. Sliver stood and took a step forward.

Sophie snatched up the candlestick and told Mrs. Silver to lean on her.

In this way they made their way slowly to the foot of the stairs and to the small antechamber beside the drawing room.

It was in darkness, but the branch of candles soon lit it up well enough.

Sophie eased Mrs. Silver into one of the two armchairs, then went and closed the door before joining her.

“Give me your arm,” Sophie said, and was pleased when Mrs. Silver raised it unaided.

She felt her way along the bones, asked her patient to bend her elbow and wrist, then wiggle her fingers and move her shoulder.

Fortunately, all seemed to be in working order.

“I think it’s just bruised, but my father should really have a look. ”

“I will consult your father tomorrow if it’s not better,” Mrs. Silver said with a sort of forced lightness in her voice. She was not going to give in this evening, though her reasons were not at all clear.

“What happened?” Sophie asked again. “Did you miss your footing in the dark?”

Mrs. Silver, still rather white and tight-lipped, held her gaze. “I’m afraid I was pushed. I didn’t see by whom, but at least I know it wasn’t you, since you came up the stairs toward me. No one else has come down.”

“No, but there are two other staircases they could use. And I know who left the room after you did.”

Mrs. Silver pounced. “Who?”

“Mr. Mortimer.”

Oddly, Mrs. Silver showed no surprise. She even nodded. “I told him off earlier in the evening. Is he really so vindictive?”

“He has a temper. And he doesn’t like to be made to look small. Or to feel small, probably.”

“Was he the only one who left the room after me?”

“No. Miss Fernie did, too, but I can’t imagine she would push you or anyone else down the stairs!”

“Not without a good reason,” Mrs. Silver said thoughtfully.