Chapter 11

Up close,Constable Samuel Entwistle was eminently recognizable as the young lout who had made Cousin Robert's life a misery during his formative years. He had the same carrot-red hair, the same snub nose, and the same sneer on his round face as he had had back then.

Of course, I hadn't been around for much of that—it had mostly happened before Robbie went off to Eton at thirteen, at which point I was still just eight years old and living with my own parents in Germany.

But I did remember him from a few holidays after I arrived in England, when Robbie and Francis were home for the summer, before they had to go off to France and fight in the war. Robbie, with his fine clothes and fine manners, had turned the head of one of the village girls that Sammy had his eye on. At this point I couldn't even remember her name, but I did remember the incident. Sammy had convinced his foul friends to pile on Robbie after the latter had dropped the girl off at her home in the village one evening, and Robbie had staggered into Beckwith Place two hours later with a black eye and a bloody lip and torn clothes and two flat tires on his bicycle. Uncle Herbert had wanted to involve the constabulary and come down on them all like the wrath of God, but Francis had prevailed upon his father to let him take care of it. Two days later, it was Sammy walking around with a fat lip and a black eye. Needless to say, there was not much love lost between any of the Astleys and Sammy Entwistle.

I did my best to calm what I assumed would turn out to be turbulent waters. "Constable. I'm Philippa Darling. I don't know if you remember me from when we were children…"

He sneered. "My lady's German niece, aren't you?"

That was distilling it into its basest form, and without any provocation at all. I gave up any hope of civil discourse and narrowed my eyes. "Listen, you?—"

"That's Constable Entwistle to you," Sammy said, and rose to his full height of almost six feet, chest out and shoulders back.

I put my hands on my hips and glared up at him. "I don't care who you are, you prat?—"

He smirked. "That's abusive language, that is. I can arrest you for that."

"I'd like to see you try," I began, but Christopher seemed to think that this had gone on for long enough, because he interrupted.

"Constable Entwistle. I'm Christopher Astley. And that's the victim."

He pointed to Abigail. Sammy looked at her as if this was the first he'd noticed her lying there.

"Whacked her over the head with a croquet mallet, did you?"

"We didn't," I said, "for God's sake…"

Christopher stepped on my foot. Thanks to the fact that I was wearing brogues and he was wearing slippers, it didn't hurt, but I could feel the pressure. "Listen," he said, "Constable Entwistle. I have already rung up a friend at Scotland Yard…"

Sammy's face twisted into another sneer. "Friends with Scotland Yard, are you? Well, until my chief constable decides that we need help with this investigation…"

"He'll be here by midday," Christopher cut in. "I suggest you prepare yourself. Until then, we realize that you have a job to do. But?—"

Sammy scowled. "Who do you think you are, ordering me about? Just because you're one of the Astleys from Beckwith Place, thinking you can get away with murder by involving your friends from Scotland Yard…"

"You're being ridiculous," I told him. "We followed procedure. Christopher called the local constabulary. They sent you. Now I suggest you get on with your job."

He gave me a look. "And what do you think my job is?"

I wanted to roll my eyes so hard that I could see the inside of my skull, but I refrained. "If it were me, I would start with the body. You'll find Crispin's fingerprints on her throat, where he checked for a pulse. Neither Christopher nor I touched her. And no one touched the murder weapon."

Sammy eyed the croquet mallet. "How do you know that that's the murder weapon?"

I didn't. But— "Educated guess? There's blood and hair on the head of it, and it's lying next to the body. I made an assumption. Anyway, you should take a look at it."

Sammy made an irritating, humming little noise. "Refresh my memory," he said. "Who's Crispin?"

Seriously? "Viscount St George," I told him. "Future Duke of Sutherland. Christopher's cousin. Him."

I nodded towards the house and the door to the terrasse, which had opened far enough to let Crispin slip through. He was dressed for the day in tweed and plus-fours, with his hair slicked back and his best supercilious look firmly attached to his face.

Sammy looked him up and down for a moment before turning back to me. "And why did he have his hands around the girl's neck?"

His voice was pitched high enough that Crispin could, undoubtedly, hear every word.

"He didn't have his hands around her neck," I said, "you imbecile. Don't you listen? He had his fingertips against her throat to check for a pulse. Besides, does she look strangled to you?"

Sammy glanced at her, blankly. Maybe he truly didn't know what a victim of strangulation looked like. My mind served up an image of Johanna de Vos sprawled across the Dowager Lady Peckham's bed, and I gagged.

"Listen, Constable—" Christopher began, eyes narrowing.

"Easy, Kit." Crispin must have seen the look, because he put a hand on Christopher's shoulder for a moment before he came to a stop next to him. "Constable." He directed a look down the length of his nose at Sammy. "I'm Lord St George."

And he sounded every bit of it, I must say, with his posh vowels and condescending tone.

Sammy sneered. "Of course you are."

Crispin arched a brow. And waited.

"So you touched the victim," Sammy said, when nothing more was forthcoming.

Crispin nodded blandly. "I put my hand on her neck, yes. To check if her heart was beating."

"Couldn't tell from the back of her head that she was dead?"

Crispin flicked a glance that way. I did, too, and wished I hadn't. "Not really," Crispin said faux-apologetically. "I'm afraid I lack your vast experience with murder victims, Constable."

That wasn't true, actually. From his grandfather and Grimsby to Johanna and Frederick Montrose, Crispin had probably seen more murder victims in the past few months than Sammy Entwistle had in most of his career. Rural Wiltshire isn't exactly a hotbed of criminal activity.

Of course, Sammy might have been in France or Belgium during the war, and that would put rather a different complexion on things. Not as far as murder victims go—unless you consider victims of war to be murdered, and I suppose you could—but at least as far as violent death was concerned.

"Who was she to you?" Sammy wanted to know.

Crispin flicked another glance at Abigail. "Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"I didn't know her."

Sammy scoffed. "A likely story."

"It's true, nonetheless," I told him. "None of us knew her. I met her once before yesterday. Last week, in London, for less than five minutes. Crispin met her once, several months ago. Also in London, and also for just a few minutes. Christopher hadn't met her at all."

"She wasn't a guest, then? Here for the engagement party?"

"No," I said. "The engagement party so far consists of our family and Constance's family. We were expecting a few friends later today, although I suppose we'll have to try to head them off after this. The only women here, apart from myself and Constance—and of course Aunt Roz—is the Countess of Marsden and her daughter, Lady Laetitia. This is neither of them."

Sammy looked at the body. "Who is she, then?"

"As far as I know," I said, "her name was Abigail Dole. That's what she told me."

"And what was she doing here?"

"We don't know," I said.

Both Christopher and Crispin reacted to that, with a little flinch each, and Sammy raised his brows. "Don't know?"

"We never got a chance to talk to her. She staggered onto the lawn in the middle of tea yesterday, and collapsed. Francis carried her inside."

Sammy's jaw twitched, but he didn't interrupt.

"We sent for Doctor White," I added, "and he took her to the village infirmary in the Duke's Crossley. Wilkins drove and Christopher went along for ballast."

Sammy had looked from Crispin to Christopher during this recitation. Now he returned his attention to me. "Wilkins?"

"Father's chauffeur," Crispin said.

Sammy sneered, but didn't comment with a remark on people who had chauffeurs. "And when did the victim return?"

"Sometime between ten o'clock last evening and about an hour ago, That was when I looked out the window and saw her."

"Midnight," Crispin said.

I shot him a look. "Really?"

"No, Darling. I have no idea when she returned. But that's when the rest of us went to bed."

"You and Laetitia, you mean?"

He shook his head. "The rest of us. Kit had gone up early. It was me and Laetitia, her parents, my father, and Aunt Roz and Uncle Herbert."

"What about Geoffrey?"

"Somewhere," Crispin said. "Maybe he went to bed early, too, or maybe he roamed the house hoping to find a stray female."

"He was out of luck, then. I locked my door, and Constance was with Francis in the library. Not that Geoffrey would try to seduce Constance, I imagine."

"He'd seduce anything in a skirt," Crispin said, which was rich considering the source.

Before I could say so, Sammy cleared his throat. "Who's this, then?"

"Lord Geoffrey Marsden," I said. "Only son of the Earl of Marsden and his countess. Cousin to the bride-to-be."

"And what was his relationship to the deceased?" By now, he had pulled the standard issue notebook and pencil stub out of his pocket and was actually taking notes. Perhaps he could be taught after all.

"None that we know of," I said. Although if Geoffrey had been roaming the house last night, hoping to come across an unattached female, and Abigail had showed up… well, who knew what might have happened?

Although how would Geoffrey know where to find a croquet mallet? We hadn't played last night, so they weren't easily accessible. As far as I knew—as far as everyone in the family knows—the croquet set is stored in the carriage house.

Then again, Geoffrey had been here a good part of the day yesterday. There was no reason to think he might not have explored the grounds closely enough to figure out where the sports equipment was kept.

Sammy made no inquiries about the croquet mallet, so I didn't say anything about it. He asked a few more very basic questions and then he dismissed us to the house to change. And while he managed to give the impression that my pyjamas were entirely beneath his notice, he also managed to make it seem like I must be the loosest of loose women to be wandering around outside in them accompanied by two young men.

I flushed with irritation but kept my mouth shut. Hopefully, we'd only have to deal with Sammy for an hour or two more, before Tom got here and took over, and then I wouldn't have to see Constable Entwistle again.

So I kept my head high as I stalked up the stairs to the terrasse and across the flagstones to the back door. Once we were inside and out of Sammy's hearing, however, I said, "I suppose we should knock up the others. Cook will be arriving soon, too, I imagine."

"I'll get started on that," Crispin offered, "while you two get changed. While your pyjamas are lovely, Darling, you clearly shocked poor Constable Entwistle down to his toes. I can only imagine how he'd react to Constance's virginal frills or Laetitia's lace and satin."

"I'm sure Lady Laetitia would take it in her stride," I said, since she wasn't the shy and retiring type. "Constance, on the other hand…"

He sighed. "Yes, Darling, I'm aware." He stopped outside the library door. "I'll wake them up, shall I, and then work my way upstairs? Knock up Aunt Roz and Uncle Herbert, then my father? Aunt Roz will want to deal with the Marsdens herself, don't you think?"

"We'll knock on Aunt Roz and Uncle Herbert's door on our way upstairs," I said. "You concentrate on your father and Lady Laetitia. She would undoubtedly rather have you walk into her bedchamber than me or Aunt Roz. Although with everyone else around, I suppose it's just as well if you don't, actually. Best not to give anyone the opportunity to say you've compromised her."

"I'm afraid that ship sailed months ago, Darling."

"Yes, thank you," I said. "There's no need to rub it in, St George."

He opened his mouth and then closed it again. "Go on upstairs. I'll get started on this."

He twisted the knob, and when the door didn't open, he applied his knuckles to the wood. "Constance? Francis? Open up."

"Come on, Pippa," Christopher said and took my elbow. "Let him deal with it. We'll go get changed."

I let him pull me away from the door and along the passage to the door beside the study and into the front of the house. From there, we climbed the stairs to the first floor, where Christopher lingered to knock up his parents and I headed up the second flight of stairs to the attic level where I got busy changing into proper attire for the day.

By the time I was dressed in a sprigged summer frock of my own—yellow and violet with a dropped waist, cap sleeves, and three ruffles on the skirt—Francis had made his way up to join Christopher, and was asking questions about what had happened. When Christopher mentioned Sammy Entwistle's name, Francis's face contorted in a snarl. "Sodding bastard."

"I take it you've met again since you were children?" I inquired delicately.

He scowled. "You take that right. The tosser threw me in the village jail overnight to sober up a couple of months ago. Gave me a beat-down while he did it, too. Said I had ‘resisted arrest' when I woke up the next morning with a black eye and bruises."

"That's not right," Christopher said.

Francis shook his head. "Nought I could do about it, though. It was just the two of us, and I was drunk off my arse. And while I don't remember putting up a fight, I suppose I might have done."

"I can't imagine that you wouldn't," I told him, leaning against the door jamb with my arms crossed over my chest, "if Sammy Entwistle tried to arrest you."

Francis made a face. "You're probably right about that. Now, do you mind, Pipsqueak? A bit of privacy, if you can? I'd like to change out of these clothes."

"Of course," I said and pushed off from the wall. "I'll go downstairs and see how far Crispin has gotten with his notifications. He might need help."

"You just want to stop him from walking into Lady Laetitia's room," Christopher said.

I sniffed. "And what if I do? His father and her mother are just looking for an excuse to tie him into an engagement. He'd play right into their hands by being caught in there with her in her negligee. And you know he's not going to be able to resist if she reaches for him and coos his name in that voice she uses when she wants to wheedle something."

Francis sniggered. "Go ahead and try to prevent him from ruining himself if you want, Pipsqueak. But I fear you'll be fighting a losing battle."

I feared he was right. But all the same, I intended to try. "I'll see you downstairs," I said, and headed for the stairs. Christopher stayed behind to talk to Francis—or perhaps it just took him longer to get ready than me; men have to wear so many layers.

Downstairs on the landing, I tripped right into Crispin coming out of his father's—aka Francis's regular—room at the front of the house. He shut the door behind him and stopped for a second to let out a breath and pinch the bridge of his nose as if he had a headache.

"Everything all right?" I ventured.

He jumped, as if he truly hadn't noticed me coming. "Oh! Darling. Yes, fine. Talking to my father is always a bit of a strain."

He kept his voice low, presumably so that Uncle Harold wouldn't hear him. Beckwith Place is built quite solidly, if not as solidly as Sutherland Hall, so I didn't think there was much danger of that. I lowered my own in deference anyway. "Surely he didn't take the opportunity to push his marriage agenda while you were telling him about Abigail Dole's death?"

"Oh, didn't he?" He shook his head. "Never mind. He knows what happened; that's the important part."

"Come along downstairs, then." I tucked my hand through his arm. "Let's see what Constable Entwistle's up to."

For a moment he stiffened, and threw a glance at the door to Uncle Harold's room, but then he let me pull him towards the stairs. Above my head, I could hear Christopher's—or perhaps Francis's—footsteps enter the staircase and start down. Elsewhere on the first floor, there was the murmur of voices. Perhaps Aunt Roz talking to the baby or Uncle Herbert updating the Marsdens or Constance and Laetitia conversing behind the closed door of their room.

We landed in the foyer, and I pulled Crispin towards the door to the back of the house.

He resisted. "Where are you taking me?"

"Don't you want to see what Sammy's up to?"

"I expect he's up to his job," Crispin said, twitching his sleeve out of my grasp. "And no, Darling, since you asked, I feel no need to present myself for his consideration any sooner than I have to. You know he'll suspect all of us of having killed her."

"You spent the night with Christopher," I said. "The two of you can provide one another with an alibi. Besides, if you had started to walk around on the landing in the early hours, I'm sure I would have heard you."

He quirked a brow. "Did you hear me come up?"

Well, no. I hadn't, now that he mentioned it. "Were you alone at any point last night?"

He sniggered. "Only the time it took me to climb the stairs from the first story to the attic. After you went upstairs, Kit and I spent some time in the drawing room with the others. He excused himself to go up to bed. I stayed. At the end of it, I walked Laetitia to her door, managed to avoid being pulled inside her room, and came upstairs. By then, Kit was asleep, although I woke him stumbling in."

Stumbling, was it? "Were you drunk, St George?"

"With my father and Laetitia's parents watching my every swallow? Please, Darling. I tried to be considerate by not turning on the hall light, but it made it difficult to see."

Of course it did. "What did you fall over?"

He grimaced. "Kit's shoes. He'd left them in the thoroughfare. I just barely avoided clipping the side of my head on the bedpost."

I sniggered. "How very debonair of you, St George."

He shrugged. "I do better when it's someone I care to impress in the bed."

"Of course you do. Must you keep bragging about it?"

He smirked. "I had no idea my escapades bothered you so much."

"They don't," I said. "I just wish you wouldn't constantly feel the need to remind us all that you go through women the way other men go through socks. It's not an attractive quality, you know."

"Sorry, Darling." There was nothing in his tone or his demeanor to indicate that the apology was sincere.

I was saved from responding by Christopher, who entered the staircase above us at that point, followed by his mother. She had little Bess on her hip and was chattering. "—slept through most of the night, thankfully. Although what we'll do now…" She trailed off and then picked up the conversation with another thought. "We know nothing about this girl save for the fact that she lives somewhere in London, and that's if we can even surmise that. She might have come up from somewhere else the few times you've seen her."

As she stepped off the staircase she looked up and saw us standing there. "There you are. Crispin, dear, help your aunt for a moment."

"Of course, Aunt Roslyn," Crispin said obediently. He's perfectly lovely to practically everyone but me.

Or at least he was until Aunt Roz stepped forward and dropped Bess into his arms. "Hold the baby for a moment. I have to arrange for a bottle."

She disappeared through the door into the back of the house without a backwards look at him. She did, however, tip me a very small wink on her way past.