Black Moonlight by Amy Patricia Meade Page B

keeping an eye on you, Miss,” Jackson responded. With a firm grip on Creighton’s arm, he escorted him out of the stable and along the white gravel path.

Marjorie watched in dismay as Jackson led Creighton past the house and onto the stairs that led to the cove and the pier. Never before had she felt such an overwhelming need to solve a case.
    She knew that, given the terms of the new will and his whereabouts during the murders, Jackson would feel little need to look beyond Creighton as the culprit behind both crimes. She also knew that Creighton’s eminent arrest had already limited her access to vital evidence, thus reducing her chances of finding the real killer. There was no way around it; she had to find a way to stay involved in the investigation.
    Marjorie needn’t have worried, for the single tear that had worked its way down her cheek was soon joined by others. And she found a sympathetic ally in Inspector Philip Nettles.
    “I’m sorry.” He removed the handkerchief from his jacket pocket and handed it to her. “Once Sergeant Jackson gets an idea in his head, it’s difficult to dissuade him.”
    “Thank you,” Marjorie said softly as she took the handkerchief and dabbed at her cheek. “I can’t pass judgment on Sergeant Jackson. I’ve been guilty of a bit of stubbornness on more than one occasion.”
    “He’s a good policeman,” Nettles assured. “And a good man. He’s simply accustomed to doing things a certain way. He was a Detective with Scotland Yard, you know.”
    “Really? Why did he come here?”
    “His wife was tired of the English winters. Jackson and the Missus never had children; it’s just the two of them. So, if she’s unhappy, you can bet Jackson does his best to make things right.”
    “Smart man,” Marjorie remarked between sniffles.
    “So is your husband,” Nettles responded. “That’s why I don’t think he murdered his father or Cassandra.”
    “You mean, you don’t think he did it?” she asked hopefully.
    “Of course I don’t. Like I said, your husband is a smart man. If he had murdered his father, he wouldn’t have drawn our attention to the murder weapon by bringing it downstairs this morning. It’s nonsensical. Nor would he have stuffed the body into the trunk his father gave to you as a wedding gift. It’s too theatrical.” Nettles bit his lip meditatively. “I won’t even touch upon the absurdity of him doing all of this on his honeymoon. Feelings for his father aside, I find it hard to believe he’d ruin your time together.”
    “Too bad Jackson doesn’t share your point of view.”
    “He will eventually. Like I said, he’s a good detective,” Nettles smiled. “But, enough discussion. We’d best go inside. There’s work to be done.”
    “‘We?’” Marjorie repeated.
    “Of course. Why not?”
    “Well, I thought with Creighton …”
    “That you’d no longer be considered ‘trustworthy’? I’ll take the risk, if only to have access to your keen intuition,” he teased. “Come on.”
    She followed him into the house, where they were instantly met with a red-faced young constable.
    “Sir,” the constable tipped his hat at Nettles. “Mr. Pooley is in the study and the others are gathered in the drawing room.”
    “Thank you, Constable,” Nettles replied.
    “Oh, and, um, sir,” the constable added, “I’m sorry about the second murder. I was so busy making sure that no one left the island, I had no idea that …”
    “That’s all right, Constable,” Nettles assured. “None of us have much experience with murder cases. In future, keep a closer eye on things or Jackson will have both our badges.” Nettles warned turned into the drawing room with Marjorie trailing close behind.
    Upon their entrance, Edward leapt to his feet. “Is it true? Is it true Cassandra is dead?”
    “Yes,” Nettles replied. “Murdered.”
    “Murdered. And the whole island crawling with police,” Edward scoffed.
    “It won’t happen again,