Chapter 13

In the kitchen,it was business as usual. Aunt Roz was still feeding the baby, while Uncle Harold was looking on, scowling. Every so often, he'd glance from Bess to his son, as if he were comparing them, and his scowl would deepen. Occasionally, he'd look from Bess to Christopher or Francis instead, and then his face would relax a little.

Francis had made it to the kitchen while I'd been tucked away in the boot room, and was leaning on the wall next to Christopher. Constance had not, and I guessed she was upstairs in her room with Laetitia, still getting ready for the day. None of the other Marsdens were anywhere to be seen. Too good to sit in the kitchen with the rest of us, I assumed. Uncle Herbert might be keeping them company, because he wasn't in attendance, either. Crispin was propping up the wall on the other side of Francis, and seeing the three of them in a row, all with their fair hair and light eyes and Sutherland features, brought home, yet again, just how much alike they all look. Christopher and Crispin, especially, could be brothers—twins—instead of cousins.

I averted my eyes and headed across the room. "Shall I turn on the kettle? I could use a cup of tea. Or coffee."

"Or something stronger," Francis muttered.

I busied myself with water and the hob. "I know we've indulged rather early in the day before, but surely drinking before eight is pushing it a bit far."

"I was considering it more as an extension of last night, Pipsqueak."

"Hair of the dog?" Crispin inquired, and Francis shot him a look.

"Not like you've never done it, is it?"

Crispin shook his head. "No, indeed."

"If you want a splash of something in your tea or coffee," Aunt Roz told him, "go ahead and fetch it, Francis. I wouldn't mind a drop of something myself. It isn't every day we wake up to a dead body on the lawn."

Francis pushed off from the wall and departed in search of alcohol.

"What's going to happen now?" Uncle Harold wanted to know.

"I imagine Constable Flatfoot will blunder about the croquet lawn until he has destroyed any evidence that might have been there," his son answered acerbically, "and eventually the chaps from Scotland Yard will show up and take over."

Uncle Harold eyed him severely for a moment. "St George…" he began, clearly with the intention of going on.

Crispin shook his head. "I've already told you, Father. Not my circus, not my monkey."

Aunt Roz looked pained. "Crispin, dear…"

Crispin turned to her. "It's a proverb, Aunt Roslyn. Some sort of Eastern European thing. I learned it from a Russian girl." He smirked—I rolled my eyes, which made him smirk harder—before he added, "There's no offense intended against the baby."

Aunt Roz sighed. "Of course not. That would be silly, wouldn't it, seeing as she looks exactly like your baby pictures?"

Uncle Harold bristled. "Now listen here, Roslyn?—"

Aunt Roz waved him off. "Never mind, Harold. She looks exactly like Christopher's baby pictures, too, and quite a lot like Francis's. I don't suspect Crispin of being responsible for this any more than I suspect my own children."

"When you say ‘this'…" I got busy pulling cups and saucers from one of the cupboards and lining them up on the counter next to the stove, "you're referring to Bess, I assume, and not the murder?"

"Of course, Pippa." Aunt Roz gave me a look that might almost have been a glare. "No one here would bash that poor girl over the head and leave her on the lawn."

She glanced around the kitchen once before repeating it. Firmly. "No one."

The impression I got—that we all got, I'm sure—was that no one had better confess to such a thing, because my aunt would simply not have it.

"Then who did?" I wanted to know as I lifted the kettle off the hob. "Who wants tea?"

Everyone did, it seemed. By the time I had finished fiddling with the leaves and water and had poured the result into cups, Francis was back with the liquor, and we seated ourselves around the table with cups and saucers, tea, milk, sugar, and brandy.

"I don't know who did, Pippa," Aunt Roz went back to the question I had asked. "I can't imagine anyone in the family doing something like that. I know I didn't raise my boys to kill."

Of course not. Although at least in Francis's case, the war had intervened. Francis had surely killed before.

And I think he must have been thinking it, too, because he put his cup into the saucer with a noticeable click. "I spent the night in the library with Constance. She would have heard it if I left."

"Of course, Francis, dear," his mother said.

"Judging from the condition you were in last night," I added, "you wouldn't have been able to make your way back to the lawn, let alone see straight enough to hit anyone's head."

Francis squinted at me. "Not sure I appreciate that assessment, Pipsqueak."

"Don't worry about it," I told him, with a pat of his hand. "It couldn't have been you. You were out cold, too drunk to aim, and spent the night with someone. If anyone's alibied, it's you."

He looked only partly mollified by that. "I'd really rather be thought innocent because you know I would never do something like this."

"Of course we all know that, Francis," Christopher said. "But a solid alibi will be a lot more helpful in the long run. Be glad for it."

Crispin nodded. "Kit and I are covered. I was with the party in the drawing room until we all went to bed, and after that, we slept in the same room."

"I went up before you," Christopher reminded him. "There was an hour or so when Pippa was asleep and Constance and Francis were in the library and the rest of you were in the drawing room. I could have killed her then."

There was a moment's pause. Then?—

"Don't be ridiculous, Christopher," I said, at the same time as Crispin exclaimed, "For God's sake, Kit, are you trying to get arrested?"

"Of course not. I didn't do it. I'm just saying I could have. You have an alibi for the whole night. I don't."

"You had no reason to want her dead, though," I pointed out. "Of everyone here, it's least likely that the baby is yours."

Uncle Harold huffed and looked like he wanted to say something, but Christopher merely shrugged. "That's easy for you to say, Pippa. You know me. The police doesn't."

"Tom does."

"Tom's not in charge," Christopher said. "Sammy Entwistle is."

"Of anyone, Sammy Entwistle is going to try to pin this on Francis." I shot the latter a look. "Sorry, Francis, but you know as well as I do?—"

Francis nodded. "No love lost between me and Sammy Entwistle."

"Which is why it's very good that you have a solid alibi. Less good that Christopher doesn't have one."

"I'll lie," Crispin said. "I can say we went upstairs together."

I shook my head. "If it were just us, that might work. But there are too many other people here who can dispute it."

And I wouldn't trust the Marsdens not to spill the beans. Laetitia would certainly prefer to see Christopher hang for murder rather than Crispin, and so, I'm sure, would her mother.

I added, "It'll be easier if we just say that he and I went upstairs together at the beginning of the evening, and spent the night in the same room. That's what we were supposed to do, anyway, before Francis ended up in the library."

Crispin looked like he didn't think much of this idea, but it was Christopher who shook his head. "That leaves Crispin without an alibi, and he's at least as likely to be guilty as Francis…"

"Thanks a lot, Kit."

Christopher shot him a look. "You know what I mean. You say you didn't do it, and I trust you. But that's somebody's child—" he glanced at little Bess, "—and somebody picked up that croquet mallet and killed her mother. I know it wasn't me. I don't think it was Pippa. I don't see how it can have been you or Francis. But I'm not going to lie to cover my own back, especially if it leaves someone else without an alibi. They can't prove I had anything to do with it, because I didn't."

"Fine." I rolled my eyes. "We'll all tell the truth. Francis was in the library with Constance, you two were together, I was by myself. Happy now?"

"Ecstatic," Crispin said dryly. "How do you plan to prove that you didn't kill her, Darling? You have no alibi at all, do you?"

I didn't. But I also didn't need one. "Don't be ridiculous, St George. What reason would I have to kill her?"

"None," Christopher said.

Crispin shot him a look. "You know that, and I know that. But does Sammy Entwistle know that?"

"Sammy Entwistle knows sod all," Francis grumbled.

Aunt Roz shook her head, but fondly, and Crispin continued. "Sammy Entwistle is going to look at this baby, and come to the same conclusion we've all come to. One of us is responsible for getting this girl with child. He's going to say that one of us killed her. If we've all got alibis, he's going to look further afield, to the other people who may have had a reason to want her out of the way. That means Constance?—"

"Constance would never," I interrupted.

"Constance was with Francis," Christopher added.

Crispin glanced at him. "In that scenario, Francis is the one with the alibi, not Constance. She would have noticed him sneaking out. He was too drunk to notice anything at all."

"Listen…" Francis growled, and Crispin rolled his eyes.

"I'm not saying I believe it, Francis. I'm saying it's what Entwistle will say."

When none of us objected, he went on, holding up another finger. "It means Philippa, because I'm sure he knows that she'd commit murder for Kit."

He probably did. Sammy Entwistle, I mean. He'd seen enough of both of us growing up to assume that.

"It means Laetitia," I shot back, "for the same reason it means Constance."

"Not quite the same reason, Darling. I'm not engaged to Laetitia, am I?"

"You might as well be," I told him, "considering how possessive she is of you. And she has no alibi, either. She slept in a room by herself. One with a view of the lawn. She might have seen Abigail arrive, and decided to go downstairs and deal with her. I saw her expression yesterday, when she saw the baby. Do you really suppose she wouldn't kill to keep you?"

"Now, listen here, Miss Darling…" Uncle Harold began, and Crispin shot him a look. So did Aunt Roz, who must have assumed that I was likely to start accusing both Uncle Harold and the other Marsdens next.

"Well," she said brightly, "this has all been quite illuminating, hasn't it? But I think perhaps it's time you and I join the others now, Harold, and let the children be."

I huffed, but quietly, so she wouldn't notice. "Shall I clean up the kitchen, Aunt Roz?"

"Yes, thank you, Pippa." She balanced little Bess against her shoulder and began patting her back. "Rinse the bottle so it's clean for next time, too, if you please. Hopefully Cook will get here soon, so we can get some food on the table."

"I can begin on breakfast," I offered, "if you'd like."

"No, no, Pippa." She looked faintly alarmed. "Leave it for Cook, dear."

She swept Uncle Harold out the door ahead of herself, and herded him down the hallway towards the front of the house.

Crispin sniggered as I began to gather the teacups. "Was that a reaction to your cooking, Darling? Afraid you'll poison us all if you attempt to make breakfast?"

"At least I'm able to feed myself," I shot back. "Christopher and I don't have live-in help, you know."

Unlike him, who had the entire staff at the Hall, or at Sutherland House, available to him when he was in residence.

"You live in a service flat, don't you?"

"We have a kitchen," I said. "For God's sake, St George, we're not incompetent."

He smirked. "Truly, Darling? You know how to cook?"

"I can cook enough that Christopher and I won't starve. I could manage breakfast right now, although I'm sure Lady Euphemia wouldn't be likely to appreciate my efforts. Nor would your father, I'm sure." Or Lady Laetitia, for that matter. "Mostly, we end up boiling eggs and eating sandwiches and the like. But whoever I marry, assuming he'll be someone without a staff, won't starve. I'm sure that's more than you can say, St George."

"Luckily, I'll never have to worry about it," Crispin said languidly. "Are we done here, then?"

He glanced at the door.

"If you can't wait to see Laetitia," I told him, turning toward the sink with the cups and saucers, "I certainly won't keep you. Goodbye, St George."

I waved him off. He scowled, but went. Francis, who had been watching the two of us like a spectator at a tennis match, chuckled. "You know, Pippa?—"

"Yes, Francis. But all the same, we do have to figure this out, you know. Sammy—Constable Entwistle—is going to want to pin this murder on somebody. If we can't figure out who actually did it, I'm afraid he'll choose you."

"Of course he'll choose me," Francis said, and got to his feet. "I'm the most likely suspect, and not just because he has a bone to pick with me. She'd already visited Sutherland House and your flat in London, hadn't she? So she looked at both Crispin and Kit and decided they weren't who she was looking for. That leaves me. With a history of drinking too much, and doping myself to the gills, and doing stupid things I can't remember the next day—all of which Sammy Entwistle is well aware of. And with a brand new fiancée I'm presumably willing to do anything to keep. Even murder."

When he put it like that, it sounded unpleasantly possible. "We know you'd never?—"

"Of course you know that, Pippa. And you saw me last night, and you know I wouldn't have woken up for anything but a crack of lightning that hit the roof. But Sammy's going to say that I was pretending, and that I fooled you, and Constance, and that I was able to sneak out when she didn't notice and kill that poor girl, and there's going to be no way of proving that I didn't!"

His voice had risen until he came to the last word, and after he had finished speaking, the silence rang. I swallowed a nervous hiccough.

"We won't let that happen," Christopher said. "I promise, Francis. Tom's on his way. He knows you wouldn't. And I don't care what we have to do. I'll kill Entwistle myself if I have to, before I let him arrest you for this murder."

Francis choked back a laugh, although it was a wet one. "Don't even say that, Kit." He put his hand on Christopher's shoulder for a moment. "You have no idea what that's like, and I don't want you to ever know. But I didn't do it, and hopefully Tom will be able to prove it. If it's up to him, that is."

"If it isn't," I said, as I put my own arm around Francis's waist, "I'll prove it myself. We will not allow anyone to arrest you for a crime you didn't commit."

"Thank you, Pippa." He leaned into me for a second before he straightened again. And cleared his throat before telling us, "We should go find the others. Cook will be here soon, and won't want us in her domain, and I should find Constance."

"I'll just peek out the back," I said as we entered the hallway and the others turned towards the front of the house. "Just to see if anything more has happened."

Christopher hesitated, and I added, "It's only going to take a minute. I just want to see whether Sammy's back on the lawn and if he has rung for reinforcements. He can't investigate everything by himself, I imagine. I mean, we're in here, and she's out there, and there are rather a lot of us…"

"If he's rung anyone, he hasn't done it from in here," Christopher said, but he followed Francis down the hallway. "Don't dilly-dally, Pippa," he told me over his shoulder.

"Of course not." I didn't wait for him to disappear through the door above the cellar steps, just turned in the other direction and headed for the terrasse. A few seconds later, I had closed the back door behind me and was on my way across the flagstones, as quietly as I could manage.

There turned out to be no need to sneak around, however. The lawn was perfectly empty except for the dead body still sprawled there, with the croquet mallet nearby. Sammy was nowhere to be seen. He was either still speaking to Wilkins by the boot room door, or he had gotten back on his bicycle and gone down to the village to request help from the rest of the constabulary.

If he had done anything at all to protect the crime scene, it wasn't immediately evident to me. I could have walked up to the body and touched it, had I wanted to.

Of course I didn't. Want to, or do it. I had already seen poor Abigail up close; I had no need to examine her again. I certainly didn't want to touch her. Watching Crispin do so had been more than enough for me.

I did think Sammy ought to have covered her with something, though, now that he had seen her. It seemed polite, as well as a prudent way to protect the crime scene as much as possible.

Although I didn't know what there was to protect, to be honest. The croquet lawn was… well, it was a lawn. It wasn't likely that the killer would have left footprints. It hadn't rained recently, and the grass was thick.

I put my back to the balustrade—and the body—and surveyed the terrasse. This was where we'd sat yesterday, when Abigail had staggered out from the bushes and collapsed on the lawn. Crispin on the far right now, with Uncle Harold, Laetitia, and her mother. Christopher and I, Constance and Francis, at the table in the middle, and Aunt Roz and Uncle Herbert with the Earl and Lord Geoffrey on my left.

But what good did it do to think about any of that? Nothing had happened then. She had collapsed, and some of us had run for her while others had stayed in their seats. I supposed those reactions, or lack thereof, might have said something about our individual attitudes towards those less fortunate than us, but I couldn't see what it might have to do with the murder, since at that point, more than half the assembly hadn't even known who Abigail Dole was.

Something moved, just at the upper edge of my vision, and I glanced up, at the soft, faded brick of the old Georgian house. It was glowing a lovely pinkish peach, a result of the sun just creeping above the trees to the east.

Up on the third floor, in the room where I had spent the night, a shadow stepped back from the six-over-six paned windows. I squinted against the reflection of the sun to see if I could make out who it was, but by now, the window was empty.

Aunt Roz, maybe, tidying up. Or Christopher, whose room it was supposed to have been originally. His weekender bag with his spare clothes had still been on his unused bed when I ran out of there this morning.

Or someone else, wanting a private look at the crime scene, from a vantage point where they weren't likely to be seen?

I contemplated the empty window, blank now but for the mullions crisscrossing it, for another moment before I headed back across the flagstones to the terrasse door.