“Hush, hush, ma’am,” she whispered, taking her by the hands. “He won’t hurt you now. We have him safe—do you see?”
“I wasn’t going to touch her, the silly old tart,” whined the man in Ally’s powerful hold. “What’d she want to go and open the door for?”
“Probably because she saw you creeping about in the garden,” Constance said, but she barely noticed her own words, for looming up behind the first woman were another two, both fully dressed.
Mrs. Willow and Miss Morton. She recognized them well enough. Then who…?
“You’re the housekeeper,” Constance said. “Mrs. Robertson.”
“Come in, come in!” exclaimed Miss Morton, plucking at Constance’s shawl and Mrs. Robertson’s arm. “Away from that awful man. Madam, gentlemen, how do we thank you? What is the world coming to?”
“Axe murderers!” wailed Mrs. Willow.
“Get off, missus,” growled the captive, presumably encouraged by the fact that Ally and Solomon had not yet beaten him to a pulp. “If I’d wanted to kill you, you’d be dead.”
“I hate to impose,” Solomon said thoughtfully, “but would you mind very much if we continued this discussion inside?”
“Just to stop any gossip,” Constance murmured, inspired.
“Of course, of course,” Mrs. Willow said at once, retreating to make space, though she squeaked in alarm as Ally shoved his captive over the threshold too.
“Don’t worry, ma’am, I’ve got him safe,” Ally said cheerfully. “Stop wriggling, you, or I’ll break your arm.”
The housekeeper and the old ladies were all shaking like leaves, so Constance herded them to the table and sat them down with a gentle pat on each shoulder. “Let me make you some hot, sweet tea for your nerves. Brandy wouldn’t go amiss, but—”
“Oh, we don’t allow strong liquor in the house,” Miss Morton said, shocked.
“Then we’ll make do with the tea.”
Shock seemed to have blinded all three women, for none of them seemed to recognize Constance. She pulled the kettle onto the stove and set about making tea while Solomon questioned their captive—a thin, malnourished individual with the kind of inhuman eyes she had seen all too often in the old days.
“So,” Solomon said, “you didn’t aim to hurt the ladies, just stick an axe in their back door?”
“That’s it.” The man sounded sullen now.
“What the devil for?”
The captive stretched his lips into a vicious grin. “Warning.”
Mrs. Willow gasped. Her sister moaned.
Ally kicked his captive. “That’ll do.”
“Warning of what?” Solomon asked.
If the old ladies had been capable of speech, Constance saw by their anguished expressions and silently opening and closing mouths that they would have stopped him asking. And abruptly, she understood.
“Theyknow,” came the captive’s contemptuous answer. “But I ain’t saying. I ain’t saying nothing, so there’s no point even giving me to the rozzers. Won’t say nothing to them neither.”
“You don’t need to,” Solomon said. “I’ve seen you before—this very evening, in fact, in company with one Mr. Kenny of infamous repute. The ladies refused to pay his wife, and you were sent to persuade them with a little extra intimidation.”
From the bully’s chagrined expression, he might as well have admitted it in words. But he closed his lips and glowered.
The old ladies clung together, looking, if anything, even more horrified.
Constance poured the boiling water over the tea leaves and shut the lid of the teapot before carrying it calmly to the table and fetching the cups and saucers, sugar bowl, and cream jug.
“That was courageous of you,” she said to her hostesses. “Blackmailers thrive on fear. You did the right thing.”
