Chapter 18

This wasa pretty pickle I found myself in, I admitted to myself as I kicked small pieces of gravel out of my way as I walked. Having to keep things from my best friend—my flat-mate, my cousin, my other half. And worse than that, I now knew things about his family that I had no business knowing. Personal things that Christopher didn't even know, and that I couldn't share with him, both because I had promised, and because Uncle Herbert was right: knowing would only hurt Christopher.

But even as my conscience fought with itself, my logical brain was telling me that this opened the field of suspects by two. If Abigail Dole had been Uncle Herbert's daughter from his second affair, the Sutherland hair and Astley eyes that little Bess inherited would be adequately explained.

And if Abigail was not Uncle Herbert's daughter, then there was Maisie Moran's child, who would be older than Francis by now. If that child had been a boy—and the Astleys did run to a lot of boys—he could be little Bess's father. He could have met Abigail Dole at the Hammersmith Palais, and told her that he was the grandson of the Duke of Sutherland, and it wouldn't even have been a lie.

Of course, Uncle Herbert's second illegitimate child might have been a boy, as well. The one Aunt Roz knew about, because there were extenuating circumstances, whatever that meant.

And he would be younger than Francis. As young as Christopher, even, Or anywhere between thirty and twenty-three.

A head of red hair intruded on my inner vision, followed by the rest of Sammy Entwistle's freckled face. Moran was an Irish name. Maisie might have had red hair that she passed on to her child. He did have blue eyes. And it would explain Sammy's ongoing resentment towards all the Astleys, but especially Robbie. The legitimate son who was the same age as himself.

God—I winced—that would explain rather a lot, wouldn't it?

"No." I shook my head. "Surely not. That can't be. Not Sammy."

Only to be interrupted by a disembodied voice from my left. "Dear me, Darling, what are you muttering about? Surely not Sammy, what?"

"Oh." I managed to swallow my heart back down to where it belonged, although it was still beating hard enough to hurt my chest. And the palm I pressed against it didn't help at all. "St George. I didn't see you there."

"That's rather the point, Darling, don't you think?"

He was crouched on the running board of the Hispano-Suiza, out of sight of the house and with a lit cigarette dangling from his fingers.

I eyed it. "What's the matter, St George? Won't Laetitia let you smoke in public anymore, so you have to hide to get your fix?"

"Of course not, Darling." He dropped what was left of the fag to the dirt and ground it under his shoe. After blowing out the last mouthful of smoke, he added, "Laetitia smokes quite as much as I do. She doesn't mind."

"Why are you over here skulking, then?"

"Needed some fresh air," Crispin said, which was ridiculous, considering that he'd been sucking in lungfuls of smoke.

I sniggered. "Fed up with the adoration, are you?"

He gave me a look. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Darling."

"No, I'm sure you don't." I leaned against the opposite car, which happened to be Constance's burgundy Crossley, and folded my arms across my chest. "You don't have to put up with it, you know."

"Unbridled devotion is hardly a burden, Darling."

"No? The constant cooing isn't a bit much?" He didn't react, and I added, "I could understand if you were in love with her, but we both know you're not."

I waited another moment, but when he didn't say anything, I continued, "What happened to the girl you said you were in love with? Have you given up on that?"

"She doesn't want me," Crispin said sulkily, without meeting my eyes.

"How do you know?" I nudged the toe of his shoe with mine to get him to look at me. He did, but only for a second. "Have you told her? And not just in your usual nonchalant fashion? You know, sincerely, with some actual feelings behind it?"

"No." He moved his foot out of the way of mine, and addressed the ground between his feet rather than me. "I told you. I have nothing to offer. Father would never approve, so we would have to run away and live in squalor on the Continent, because I'd have to renounce the title and estates and become a pauper."

I giggled. "At least you're able to properly articulate ‘renounce' this time. Last time you mangled it."

Last time had been a month ago, when he'd showed up at my and Christopher's flat and tried to talk me into going out to celebrate his birthday with him. He had used almost exactly the same words then.

He scowled. "It's not funny, Darling."

"Of course it is. If that's how you propose to all your women—" Three sheets to the wind and with the delivery (and sincerity) of a musical comedy actor?—

"It's not."

"—it's no wonder they don't take you seriously."

He glared at me. "I didn't intend for you to take me seriously. Although I suppose you'd insist that I get down on one knee, wouldn't you? The heir to the Sutherlands, tractable and obedient and kneeling at your feet, offering up the Sutherland parure in the hopes that you'd have me? Is that the kind of husband you're looking for, Darling?"

"Not at all," I said with a shudder. "The Sutherland parure is hideous, and certainly no incentive to marriage. Besides, I gave you my answer last month, St George. Don't you dare."

I could just imagine the scene that would ensue if Laetitia, or Sammy Entwistle, or—God forbid—Uncle Harold came outside and found him down on one knee in front of me, mock-proposing.

He nodded blandly. "I remember, Darling. ‘Keep the title and fortune,' wasn't it? Followed by, ‘I don't want them—or you?'"

It was. Or had been. That was pretty much word for word what I'd told him, as a matter of fact. Although I was surprised that he remembered it so clearly, because he had been thoroughly potted at the time. "If she loves you," I said carefully, "she'll live in squalor on the Continent with you."

"I don't want her to!" Crispin retorted angrily. "Besides, I told you. You just?—"

—don't listen, I assumed. He stopped before he could finish the sentence, and said instead, more calmly, "She doesn't want me."

"Crispin…"

He looked up, and for a second his eyes were the clear gray of water, open and completely transparent, and so sad that my chest clutched.

Until the shutters slammed down and the corner of his mouth curved up. It took only a moment. "Don't feel sorry for me, Darling. I don't want your pity, and I certainly have no reason to whinge. I can marry Laetitia next week if I want to, and if it isn't love, it's close enough."

No, it wasn't. "Just because your father thinks it's time you settle down and stop running wild?—"

He chuckled. "Did he tell you that?"

I snorted. "Of course not. Your father and I aren't on speaking terms. Especially not now, when I would gladly throttle him for pushing you at Laetitia the way he's doing. If you're not careful, you'll be engaged by the end of the weekend."

"There are worse things," Crispin said with a shrug. "Better than being arrested, at any rate."

"Is there a chance of that?"

He squinted at me. "I figure it's an equal chance that he'll haul in any one of us, Darling. He'd prefer for it to be Francis, no doubt, but he'll take any one of us he can get. We've all got alibis, but they're all from people who'd lie for us anyway. I'd lie for Kit, and I'm sure Kit would do the same for me. Constance would lie for Francis. You'd lie for either of them, or for Constance?—"

"Or for you," I said.

"Would you, Darling? Charmed, I'm sure."

I shrugged. "Don't be too flattered. I just don't think you did it. I'm sure Christopher didn't, and I don't think Francis did, either. But none of you should need me to lie. Your alibis are good and neither of you had the opportunity to kill her."

Crispin nodded. "Well, someone did. If not one of us, then someone else. What was that you were muttering about when you first turned up? Not Sammy what?"

"Oh." I flushed. "None of your concern, St George."

"Hmm." He looked me up and down, with special attention to my flaming face. "Dear me, Darling, have you formed an illicit passion for Constable Entwistle? Is he your idea of the perfect husband?"

"Don't be ridiculous," I said. "He beat up Robbie. How could I form an illicit passion for someone who beat up my cousin?"

"I'm sure I don't know, Darling. Not Sammy what, then?"

"I told you. None of your concern."

He arched that infernal brow. "If you don't tell me, you'll have to put up with me drawing my own conclusions, you know."

"I guess I'll have to," I said crossly, "because I promised, and…"

"Oho!" He grinned. "And who did you promise, pray tell?"

"No one," I said, since I had already admitted more than I should have.

He gave me a shrewd look. "Uncle Herbert, was it? Oh, relax?—"

Because my eyes widened and my jaw dropped.

"I'm not a diviner or anything. I saw him let you out through the boot room door."

"Oh." I started breathing again. "Well, I'm sorry, St George, but I can't?—"

"No, no." He waved a hand. "I bet I know what it is anyway."

I certainly wasn't going to fall for that twice. So I put my hands on my hips and scowled at him. "You do not!"

"I may not. But I heard a few things when I was hiding in that secret passage outside Grandfather's room before he died. Things I didn't tell you at the time."

"I'm sure you did," I said, "you infernal cockroach?—"

"Now, now, Darling. Name-calling will get you nowhere."

"I'm not trying to get anywhere! Unless it's away from you, you awful excuse for a human being!"

"Uncle Herbert fathered a son with someone other than Aunt Roslyn," Crispin said flatly, and I slapped my hand across his mouth.

"Be quiet!" For good measure, I leaned in until we were practically nose to nose and I could see his pupils dilate. "He told me not to tell anyone, and that means that I'm not to speak of it. Not even to someone who already knows. Certainly not where anyone else can hear! I want you to promise me that you won't mention it again. Promise me, St George!"

He said something, lips moving against my palm, and I snatched my hand away. "What?"

"I said, how am I supposed to promise anything when you've got your sweaty palm over my mouth?"

I narrowed my eyes. "That's not what you said. It was something much shorter than that!"

"I said, unhand me." He fished his handkerchief out of his pocket and dragged it across his mouth. "God, you're awful, Darling. It was all I could do not to bite you."

"Fine," I said. "I won't do it again. Just promise me, St George. Promise you won't talk to anyone about this."

"I did," Crispin said. "That's what I said. I promise. Besides, I'm not the one you need worry about, you know. I've known for months, and I haven't said a word to anyone. You found out ten minutes ago, and you've already told me."

He moved to stuff the handkerchief back into the pocket of his trousers.

"Give me that." I snatched it out of his hand to wipe my palm with it. Cooties, ugh. "Although you're right about the rest of it. I'm a horrible person. I broke my uncle's confidence, and it didn't even take a quarter of an hour."

He sighed, and accepted the handkerchief back. "You're not a horrible person, Darling. I tricked you, all right? You wouldn't have said anything otherwise."

"You did not. You already knew. You said it first."

He shrugged, and I added, "But we can't talk of it again. Any of it. Maisie Moran's child or the… the other thing. He doesn't want Christopher and Francis to know."

Crispin nodded. "Believe me, Darling, I feel the same. It would only make them feel awful. Better we keep it between the two of us. Or three."

"Four," I said. "Apparently Aunt Roz knows."

He rolled his eyes. "Of course she does. Four, then."

"But he doesn't want me to talk to her about it, either."

"No," Crispin said, "I can quite imagine why. Very well, then. If you feel the need to jabber, I suppose you'll just have to come to me."

I rolled my eyes. "I'm sure Laetitia will appreciate that."

"She'll cope," Crispin said. "It's not as if she has to worry about you giving her competition for my attention, is it?"

"Of course not. She's welcome to you. You know that."

He nodded. "Precisely."

"I just don't think you should marry her. For your own sake, you know. And a little bit for ours, too, I guess—she's bloody awful, St George—but mostly for yours. I don't care what you do, but I also don't see any reason why you should set yourself up for unhappiness with the wrong woman when you know that the right one is out there, and all you have to do is suck up your pride and tell her how you feel."

"She doesn't want me," Crispin said. "And even if she'd take me, which she wouldn't, I have nothing to offer her. But I thank you for your concern, Darling. I'll take it under advisement."

It sounded like a dismissal, so I nodded. "I'm going to walk down to the lane and see if Christopher is coming. You may join me if you wish."

"I think I'd better go back inside," Crispin answered. "If I delay much longer, Laetitia is likely to come look for me."

"At least she's not carrying her ostrich feather fan today. You don't have to worry about being slapped with it. And that's another thing?—"

"Just a love tap, Darling. Nothing to worry about."

It hadn't been, actually. I'd been watching, and it had been rather more than a love tap. But if he was the one she'd hit, and he didn't complain, who was I to do so? So I merely told him, "I'll see you inside, then, St George. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

He quirked a brow. "Propose?"

I shuddered. "God, no. Not at ten in the morning with a murder and an illegitimate child hanging over you." And not to Laetitia Marsden.

"See you later, then, Darling. Enjoy your walk."

He set off for the front door. I watched for a moment before I headed down the driveway to look for Christopher.

When a vehicle appeared,however it was not the Astleys Bentley. It was yet another Crossley, one of the less luxurious and more utilitarian Tenders that the London Metropolitan Police had invested in after the war. From behind the wheel beamed the handsome face of Detective Sergeant Thomas Gardiner with Scotland Yard. "Hullo there, Pippa. Waiting for me?"

"Waiting for Christopher, actually," I said, "although I'm happy to see you."

"Hop in, I'll give you a lift back up to the house."

It was a three-minute walk, no more, but it seemed silly to let him drive it alone while I ran after the motorcar, so I swung myself up into the passenger seat and watched him let out the clutch. Once we were moving again, he slanted me a look. "Is Kit not here?"

"He drove the doctor down to the village in Uncle Herbert's car," I said. "You must have passed it on the way."

"I wasn't paying much attention. I was concerned with getting here as quickly as I could."

"And we appreciate it," I said. "You can park just over there, with the others." I waved to what was essentially a car park in front of the carriage house. "We have more motorcars than we know what to do with right now. Uncle Harold and St George motored up separately, God knows why, although it looks like Wilkins took the Crossley back to the village, actually…"

It wasn't with the others, anyway, so unless he'd made a run for it, the black Crossley was likely parked in front of the pub. He must have gotten away while I'd been eavesdropping on Uncle Herbert and Hughes.

"The Marsdens brought their Daimler up from Dorset, along with the Peckhams' Crossley, since I guess that belongs to Constance now…"

Tom didn't say anything, just slotted the Tender into the spot where the Duke's Crossley had been, turned it off, and let me ramble.

"The only ones with no vehicles are the constables. They're getting around on bicycles. But the vehicle from the mortuary was here earlier and picked up the body and the croquet mallet…"

Tom nodded. "Would you like to tell me what's going on before we go inside? Kit didn't have time to go into much detail when he rang up this morning."

"Of course." I took a breath and let it trickle out again. "Where would you like me to start?"

"At the beginning," Tom said. "That's usually best."

Right. The beginning.

I thought back, over what he might reasonably know and what it was likely that he didn't. Tom had been there during the weekend at Sutherland Hall when Duke Henry and Grimsby were killed, when I'd first heard about the girl with the baby. Crispin had known about her earlier, of course, but that was my introduction to the subject, and I assumed it had been Tom's as well, so I decided to start there, with a recap of that story and then everything that had happened since.

"And this morning she was dead on the lawn?" Tom asked when I had gone through it all. "You saw her through the window?"

I nodded. "I knocked up Christopher and Crispin, and we all went down together."

"Was there a reason you thought you might need reinforcements?"

"I suppose…" I hesitated. "They were there, just across the hall. We were all three of us on the top floor. It seemed silly not to wake them while I was up there, that way I wouldn't have to run back in and up three flights of stairs if I needed them later."

Tom nodded.

"But also, it was a bit eerie to see her again, so similar to yesterday afternoon. Sprawled on the grass in almost the same spot. I suppose I was, subconsciously at least, thinking that someone might have to carry her inside."

"You didn't see the blood until you came outside?"

I shook my head. "It's a long way down. And her hair was brown. It blended. And the sun wasn't fully up yet, either. And I don't think there was much blood on the grass, just on her head."

Tom nodded, and I added, "By the way, Doctor White came and looked at her, and he said that the croquet mallet wasn't the murder weapon. Someone hit her with something else first, something metal, and then fetched the mallet and—" I winced, "rubbed it in the wound so it would look like the murder weapon."

"Cold," Tom commented.

I nodded. Yes, indeed. Not only to take the time to replace the actual murder weapon with something else—and in full view of half the bedrooms in the house, too, even if it probably had been the middle of the night and we were all asleep—but to do that to it!

"I suppose I should go introduce myself to the chap in charge," Tom said.

"Are you taking over the investigation?"

I asked it hopefully, but I wasn't surprised when he shook his head. "We have to be called in by the Chief Constable, and your Constable Entwistle doesn't seem to think that's necessary."

"He's not my Constable Entwistle," I said; that was all I needed, for someone other than St George to latch onto that fallacy, "and besides, he probably thinks it's going to be easy. I'm sure he's just looking for a reason to arrest Francis."

"Why Francis?"

That necessitated an explanation which included Robbie, who had been Tom's best friend during their years at Eton, before they were both sent to France and Robbie didn't come back.

At the end of it, Tom nodded understanding, but said, "I thought you told me Francis has an alibi."

"He does! He was thoroughly spiflicated, for one thing. Absolutely blotto. I'm sure, if he'd tried to hit someone over the head in that condition, he wouldn't have known which head to aim for."

Tom chuckled, and I added, "Constance spent the night with him. They both ended up in the library. She hadn't had anything to drink—she never drinks much—and she spent the night in a chair. She would have heard him get up if he tried to leave."

"Not Francis, then. Who else does he suspect?"

I had no idea who Sammy suspected, or whether he suspected anyone at all, or perhaps he was just busy building a case against the person he most wanted to arrest. "I don't see who it could be," I told Tom honestly. "Christopher and Crispin spent the night together. In the same room, I mean. And while they might lie for one another, I don't think either of them is capable of committing murder."

Or at least not this murder.

"I slept alone," I added. "So did Laetitia Marsden. Constance was supposed to be in with her, or she was supposed to be in Constance's room, but Constance stayed in the library with Francis, as I said, so Laetitia got the room to herself."

"Shades of the Dower House situation," Tom commented.

I nodded. "Geoffrey Marsden also slept alone, and so did Uncle Harold. Aunt Roz and Uncle Herbert shared, of course, and so did the Countess and Earl of Marsden. I slept alone."

"No one else on the premises?"

I shook my head. "Not overnight. Aunt Roz runs the house with very little help. Cook lives in the village, and Hughes ended up above the pub with Wilkins, I think."

"Your late aunt's maid from Sutherland Hall, you mean? She's here?"

I nodded. "She came here with the party from Sutherland Hall yesterday. And I suppose I ought to tell you…"

I hesitated, wondering whether I truly ought, or whether I just felt like I should. Tom wasn't in charge of the case, although I personally thought he stood a much better chance of solving it than Sammy Entwistle did. He wasn't biased, for one thing. Or at least if he was biased, it was in our favor.

On the other hand, I had told Uncle Herbert I wouldn't talk about it. But surely I could mention Hughes's blackmail without going into the reasons for it? If Tom had to solve the case, surely he needed to know about that. And it was a criminal offense, wasn't it?

"I overheard her blackmailing my uncle," I said.

"The Duke?"

I shook my head, and then tilted it curiously. "Does Uncle Harold have something he can be blackmailed over?"

Tom didn't answer beyond an arched eyebrow, and I made a face. "It was Uncle Herbert. They were in the study talking earlier, and they didn't hear me come down the hallway. And it was over something that happened ages ago. Before Christopher was born. And before Hughes arrived from Dorset to work for Aunt Charlotte. Apparently Lydia Morrison told her."

"Who's Lydia Morrison?"

I explained who Lydia Morrison was, and Tom nodded. "I already know what Hughes was holding over your uncle's head. You don't have to tell me."

"I wasn't going to," I said grumpily. "I just wondered… You know about the child, I assume? Or children? Who they are? Or ended up being?"

Tom didn't answer, just gave me another inscrutable look, and I sighed. "Just answer this. Abigail Dole. She wasn't Uncle Herbert's daughter, was she?"

Tom looked at me. After a moment, a corner of his mouth turned up. "No. She wasn't."

I nodded. "So whoever the baby's father was… by the way, you should go inside and see little Bess. Aunt Roz has been taking care of her since yesterday afternoon. There's really no denying that she's a Sutherland. And if Abigail wasn't one, then one of the men in the family must be responsible."

"I thought you'd always assumed that."

I had always assumed that. But— "When I learned that Uncle Herbert had had a child with someone other than Aunt Roz, I thought maybe…"

"No," Tom said. "Abigail Dole was not your cousin. I actually spent some time this week looking into her, as it happens, so I can assure you of that."

I must have looked surprised, because he added, "Kit told me last week that she had turned up and might be thinking of causing trouble. I decided to do some digging."

Good for him. "And?"

"Abigail Dole is from Bristol originally. Her parents still live there. She has lived in London for the past four years or so, working as a shop clerk. That ended when the baby was born."

"In January?"

He nodded. "The baby was born at the East End Maternity Hospital in Stepney. The father's name on the birth certificate was noted as unknown. Abigail listed the Blackwall Buildings in Thomas Street in Whitechapel as her home address. Finch is there now, trying to learn what he can."

He glanced at his watch before he added, "He's probably back at the Yard by now, actually. It took me a while to get here. I should ring up and see what he's discovered."

"Let me take you inside," I said, and fumbled for the handle on the door. "You've been here before, haven't you?"

He nodded. "With Robbie, when we were lads. It's been ten years or more, though."

"Uncle Herbert locked the boot room door," I explained, taking Tom's arm, "so we'd better go through the front. Unless you'd like to see the croquet lawn and the scene of the crime. If so, we can go through the terrasse door instead."

"I wouldn't mind getting the lay of the land, and a look at the crime scene. As I said, it's been a while."

"This way, then."

We pushed through the trees and bushes—"That's where we found Abigail's tote last night," I pointed out, "with the list she made on the train," —and emerged at the back of the house. The constable who had been squatting on the crime scene earlier was nowhere to be seen now, and I indicated the general direction of where the body had been. "That was where she was this morning. Yesterday, she collapsed more in this vicinity. Just a few steps out from the bushes."

Tom had stopped, and was looking around. "And the doctor said what, exactly?"

"About the collapse? Exhaustion, heat, dehydration. Nothing criminal or sinister. Probably just from making her way here from Salisbury, and from not taking care of herself generally."

Tom nodded, eyeing the grass. "They haven't secured the crime scene in any way."

No, they hadn't.

"I guess Sammy thinks he's gleaned everything there is to glean," I said.

Tom scuffed the grass with the tip of his shoe. "He might be right. Not much hope for footprints on this."

"No. Come on, let's get you inside so you can make your presence known, and then you can ring up London and Detective Sergeant Finchley."

We abandoned the grassy lawn and headed up the steps to the terrasse and the back door.