The Body in the Moonlight by Katherine Hall Page Page B

The old man was killed by his grandson, in part because the grandfather objected to the lad’s taste in fiancées—although, the lass was totally unscrupulous and interested only in young Willoughby’s healthy cash flow. But the main motive for the young sprig was righting an ancient wrong. He’d nursed this grievance for years. Seems his grandfather had been indirectly responsible for young Willoughby’s mother’s descent into alcoholism and early death. When she’d married into the family, Forbes senior had insisted that she cut herself off completely from her own family, humble but honest yeomen, and even though she complied with his wishes, he continued to treat her as nothing more than a servant. Unlike our murder, it was murder committed in a fit of passion. The grandfather’s objection to the fiancée was the match to the shavings.”
    Nothing at all like Anson Scott’s books, Faith thought. There was passion, but it was never straightforward, and certainly much bloodier than the country house crime enacted at the dinner. The grandfather would have been found in several parts, scattered about the estate. If they’d been following a Scott script, no one would have been able to eat.
    â€œGwendolyn Lord was playing the fiancée,” Anson continued. “I was the butler and, let’s see, wasn’t your husband playing Willoughby Forbes the Third?”
    Faith nodded. Yes, the good reverend. Tom. Tom, her husband. The murderer.
    The housekeeper arrived with a loaded tray. The silver tea service gleamed. Sliced lemons, hot water, milk, sugar, Faith’s muffins and scones, arranged withthe housekeeper’s addition of tea sandwiches and thin sugar cookies—it was all there.
    â€œThank you, Margery,” Anson said approvingly, and got up to stoke the fire. The housekeeper silently disappeared.
    â€œWill you be mother?” he called over his shoulder to Faith.
    â€œI am and I will,” she replied. It was getting to be more and more like an Oscar Wilde play. She expected Lady Bracknell at any moment.
    â€œMilk or lemon?”
    â€œMilk and three lumps of sugar, please. I’m terribly greedy.”
    She put the cup down in front of him and poured one for herself. He was already eating one of her muffins with great relish. Looking behind him, she could see rows of bookshelves filled with leather-bound copies of his titles, as well as the translations into virtually every tongue on the planet. The walls were decorated with framed posters of the books that had been made into movies, as well as with a variety of scrolls and plaques, most of which were decorated with skulls, daggers, or gore of some nature.
    â€œI’ve been trying to think of a motive. Gwen wasn’t wealthy, so money is out.” Faith was feeling hopelessly outclassed.
    â€œBut there are so many, many more motives. More interesting ones—love, hate, fear, jealousy, pride—hubris, overweening pride, that is.” He was smiling broadly. The man obviously loved his work.
    â€œWhat about the choice of poison? What does that say about the mind of the killer?”
    â€œThe psychological approach, yes! Poison is often a coward’s choice—one doesn’t necessarily have to be present to kill. Murderers are frequently cowards, you know. Terribly, terribly fearful people. Presumably, the killer was in attendance in order to get at the dessert and saw the death throes of the victim, hence perhaps, although a poisoner, not such a coward after all. More tea, if you will be so kind.”
    He put several sandwiches and a scone on his plate. “I assume you will be visiting my fellow scribblers.” The look he gave Faith was definitely mischievous.
    â€œI hope to—if they’ll see me.”
    â€œTake food, my dear. No one will refuse you. And come again to see me, even without your sumptuous victuals. I’d like to hear what they have to