Chapter 20

A quick roundof questioning elicited the information that no one present had seen the weapon before, and only a few people knew what it was. Among them, the Earl of Marsden.

"Oh, yes." Maurice nodded knowingly. "That'd do it."

"It wasn't in the young gentlemen's room," the other constable finally got around to saying. "It was in the other bedroom, where the young lady slept."

Everyone turned to look at me, and I could feel myself turn pale. "That can't be. I would never?—!"

"Blood spatter?" Sammy inquired, and his colleague shook his head.

"None so far."

If I was reading the shorthand correctly, whoever had wielded the weapon—me in this scenario—was likely to have gotten some of Abigail's blood on him or her, and so far, none of our rooms had yielded any bloodstained clothing.

"May I be excused?" I asked tightly. "I'm not hungry."

The display of food was actually turning my stomach. Sammy opened his mouth, took one look at my face—it was probably green—and closed it again. Aunt Roz nodded. "Off you go, Pippa. Do you need anything?"

"Just to get away from that thing," I said, already on my way towards the outside. "Some fresh air. Excuse me."

I stumbled through the front door, shut it behind me, and dropped onto the step, where I closed my eyes and fought air into my lungs in slow inhalations as I struggled to keep the nausea at bay. Images of the head of the trench club colliding with the back of Abigail's head, of blood spatter and the noise of eggs cracking under the pressure of a spoon, filled my head, and I swallowed hard against the feeling of bile rising in my throat.

It didn't come as a surprise to hear the door open again just a few seconds later. I should have known that someone would come after me. If not Christopher, to check on how I felt, then Sammy, to make sure I wasn't trying to make my escape. I must look quite guilty at this point, with the murder weapon hidden in my room.

But it turned out to be neither of them. It was Francis. And when I thought about it, I guess it made sense. Tom was inside, sticking close to the investigation, and so Christopher had stayed inside to stick close to Tom. Crispin probably couldn't leave Laetitia even if he had wanted to, and there was no reason to think he'd prefer my company to hers or that he'd be concerned about how I felt. Constance was holding the baby, and had Aunt Roz for backup. But Francis had been just as fazed, if not more so, by the trench club as I had been, and it wasn't surprising that he might want some fresh air, as well.

"Cigarette?" He held an open case under my nose.

I shook my head. "Thank you, but no. I really do want fresh air."

"I find that smoking settles my nerves," Francis said. He chose a cigarette and then closed the case and dropped it back in his pocket. "I'll probably have nightmares about trench raids tonight."

His hand was trembling when he pulled out a lighter and lit the fag before sucking in a deep lungful of smoke.

"I wouldn't blame you," I said. "I might, too, and I never took part in them."

"Be glad you didn't. Nasty business." He blew the mouthful of smoke out.

"I'm sure of it." I hesitated a moment, and then I told him something I'd never told anyone else, not even Christopher. "Sometimes I wonder what happened to my father. I know he died—he was on the casualty list, my mother told me that much before the influenza took her—but I don't know the details."

Of course, he had been on the other side, in the German trenches. But if it hadn't been in a battle, then it might have been in a trench raid, with a whack on the head by someone wielding the kind of weapon that had killed Abigail.

"Better if you don't think too much about it," Francis advised.

I nodded. "I don't often. It isn't pleasant. And sometimes I feel like that was someone else's life. That I've always been here with you and Christopher and Aunt Roz and Uncle Herbert."

Francis took a seat next to me on the step. He didn't look at me, just sat by my side and stared at the bushes on the other side of the lane while he smoked his cigarette.

"But then something like this happens," I added, "and I remember that my father died in the war, and that it wasn't very long ago at all—less than half my life, really, and I haven't lived that long—and then I start to feel a little strange about it all."

"Sometimes I think about that, too," Francis admitted. "Sometimes I worry that I killed him."

I slanted him a look, and he met my eyes for a second before he added, "I probably didn't. So many people died, on both sides. So many people were involved. It would be a very big coincidence if it was me. But sometimes I worry."

We sat in silence a moment before I leaned into him so I could put my head on his shoulder. "Sometimes I'm afraid that my father was the one who killed Robbie. We'd never know it if he did. And I know he'd never have wanted to. He didn't want to be there. But it's possible that he's the one who did it."

Francis didn't say anything.

"Even if you did," I told him, "even if you were the one who killed my father, I forgive you. I'd never not forgive you, Francis. You and Christopher are my brothers in every way that matters. There's nothing I wouldn't forgive. Even this."

He didn't answer, and I added, "You did what you had to do. So did he. Neither of you had a choice. You were there, and you had to make the best of it. You had to survive. And now it's over and you did. You came home."

"And he didn't."

I shook my head. "No, he didn't." Whether the ‘he' he was talking about was my father or Robbie, or perhaps both. "But he—neither of them would have wanted you to spend the rest of your life miserable over what you had to do. You were drafted, Francis. You didn't choose to go to war. And since you came back, the only person you've hurt has been yourself. It's all right to be happy now. You deserve Constance, and marriage, and all the happiness in the world. If anyone's earned it, you have."

He nodded. "I didn't kill her, you know."

"Abigail? Of course you didn't. I never thought you had."

"Sammy thinks I did."

"Sammy wants to think you did," I corrected. "You have an alibi, so you couldn't have. Of anyone in the house, you're the one least likely to have done it."

"Sammy would say I'm the most likely."

"Sammy doesn't know what he's talking about," I said. "Constance was with you all night, and you were too drunk to move from the sofa. I saw you, don't forget. Several of us did. I know you couldn't have done it. You're still hung over now."

"It's not my baby." He shot me a look. "She looks just like me?—"

"Not just you. Christopher and Crispin, too."

He nodded. "But I swear, Pippa, she isn't mine. I had a few bad years right after the war—you missed the worst of them, you and Kit, being away at Oxford—but by last spring, I wasn't doing badly. I still did a lot of things I shouldn't have done, drinking and doping and the like, but I wasn't walking around in the kind of stupor where I'd black out and not know what had happened. If I'd taken this girl to bed last year, I would remember."

"I believe you," I said. "Just out of curiosity, have you ever been to the Hammersmith Palais?"

He looked at me with an almost comical look of disbelief on his face, mixed with a healthy dose of amusement. It was nice to see, after the conversation we'd had. "A dance hall? No, Pippa. Whenever I'd go up to London, that wasn't the kind of place we'd visit. We'd have darker haunts than that."

Like the opium dens in Limehouse and someone's flat where they could enjoy getting doped up on cocaine without worrying about being caught, I assumed.

"We found a note in her bag that indicated that she had met whoever he was at the Hammersmith Palais. Constance didn't mention it?"

"We haven't really had a chance to talk," Francis said. "I was thoroughly foxed last night, and this morning you woke us up with the news that the girl was dead. We haven't had the opportunity for a private chat since then."

And yesterday afternoon, he was already gone by the time we'd found the tote with the list in it. "Well, perhaps you ought to tell her."

"It wouldn't matter anyway," Francis said. "I'm marrying Constance. Even if the baby had been mine, they couldn't have forced me to marry her."

No, they couldn't have. "I still think you ought to tell her. Find a few minutes for a private conversation. She might be worried about it."

He didn't move. The cigarette was long gone, and must have done the trick in calming his nerves, because he didn't reach for another one. But he didn't get up, either. "What about you, Pippa? Are you worried?"

"I'm not sure what you think I'd be worried about," I said. "I know you didn't do it. I know Christopher didn't. And Crispin was with him, so I know he couldn't have. Aunt Roz and Uncle Herbert had no reason to want Abigail Dole dead. Not that I think either of them would be capable of that kind of thing. And Constance is surely too small to deliver such a blow. Everyone I care about is in the clear, it seems."

Francis nodded. "And yourself?"

I shot him a look. "Why would I kill her? I'm sorry to have to put it so bluntly, but she and her child were nothing to me. If one of you were responsible, I would have wanted you to step up and take responsibility, but it certainly wasn't important enough for me to kill anyone over."

He hummed. "Do you suppose Sammy sees it that way?"

"I can't imagine that he'd see it otherwise," I said. "You're engaged to Constance, Christopher's queer, and St George… well, if I wanted St George I wouldn't just have to kill Abigail, I'd have to kill Laetitia, too. And probably a dozen other women who are ready to step up as soon as Laetitia's out of the way."

"But the murder weapon?—"

"I have no idea how that got into my room," I said. "It wasn't last night, after I whacked her over the head with it, I can tell you that much."

Francis shook his head.

"I haven't been up to my room in hours, so anyone could have put it there."

"But between that and the fact that you slept alone, you're not worried that Sammy's going to think you're a viable suspect?"

"I'm not." I was fairly certain that Sammy had no plans to try to pin the murder on me. He was probably trying to prove that Francis owned the trench club and had hid it in my room sometime between dawn and now. "Just out of curiosity, have you been alone at any time this morning?"

Francis shook his head. "I went upstairs with Kit, and came downstairs with Kit, and I've been with the rest of you since. Kit would have noticed if I'd had a trench club hidden down my trouser leg when we climbed the stairs."

Of course he would have. "There's no way Sammy can say that you were the one who put it in my room, then. You couldn't have done while I was sleeping—I would have woken up if you'd started lifting my mattress—and you couldn't have done it since."

Francis looked relieved.

"Although," I added, "I would feel better if I had some idea of who might actually be guilty. It's one thing to know that I'm not, and that you're not, and that Christopher isn't."

Francis nodded.

"But someone killed her. And not just that, but someone's the father of that baby. And if we don't figure out who, all of you are going to go through life being suspected of it."

He shook his head. "I don't know how to help you, Pippa. I just know it wasn't me."

I nodded. The answer, of course, was obvious: it had been one of Uncle Herbert's illegitimate children. But I had promised my uncle I wouldn't talk about that.

"You wouldn't happen to know who Sammy's mother is, would you?" I asked instead. Maybe I could get at this from a different angle.

Francis looked at me with his brows elevated. "Of course I do. I've lived in this village my entire life. You should know that, too."

"Well, who is she?"

"Amelia Entwistle. The butcher's wife."

Butcher? Sammy probably wouldn't baulk at a bit of business with a trench club, then.

Although Amelia sounded nothing like Maisie. Amelias are usually called Amy or Ammie or, in a pinch, Melia or Lia. Not Maisie.

"What about the other constable? The one who found the truncheon?"

"Phil Hemings," Francis said. "Nice lad. Took some shrapnel in France and was sent home early, so he missed the rest of the war, the lucky devil."

"Do you know his family, too?"

"Of course." He still eyed me strangely. "His father drives a lorry and his mum's a housewife."

"Names?"

"Vicky—Victoria, I suppose—and Philip Senior. Is there a reason you're asking me these questions, Pipsqueak?"

"There is," I said, "but I can't tell you."

He nodded and pushed to his feet. "I'd better get back inside. Don't want to give Sammy too much of an opportunity to bully Constance."

No, it was probably better if he didn't. "I'll be right there," I said. "Just… give me a minute more to think something through."

"Take all the time you want. We know where to find you."

He closed the door behind him. I turned my eyes back to the bushes, but without really seeing them.

Both Sammy and Phil Hemings had been in the war. Either of them might reasonably have brought home a trench club as a souvenir.

Neither of them was old enough to be Maisie's son. Sammy was Robbie's age, two years younger than Francis, and in order to have been in France during the war, Phil Hemings had to be either the same age or older. He did not look like he was older than Francis, however, and the latter had called him a lad, which indicated he was probably the same age as Sammy and Robbie.

Either of them could arguably be Uncle Herbert's younger child, the one born during his marriage. Although they had both lived near Beckwith Place for as long as I could recall, and so had their families. You would have thought, if Uncle Herbert had seduced one of their mothers, that there would have been some sort of talk about it at some point. It's difficult to keep secrets in a village, and until today, I had never heard a single, solitary whisper about my uncle's infidelity.

Other than the fact that Sammy and Phil Hemings were both here at Beckwith Place this morning—which had a logical explanation; it wasn't as if either of them had inserted themselves into a situation they didn't belong in—was there any actual evidence to suggest that either of them was involved in this case beyond investigating it?

There wasn't, I decided. Much as I wanted someone else to be guilty, I was back to the family and friends—I use the word loosely—gathered at Beckwith Place.

Francis, Christopher, and Crispin had had no opportunity, at least not unless someone was lying. The same, I assumed, was true for Aunt Roz and Uncle Herbert and the couple Marsden.

Take all of them out of the equation, then.

Geoffrey had had opportunity, but probably no motive. He had missed the draft by a year or two, so I couldn't imagine where he might have gotten his hands on a trench club.

Then again, Maurice knew what they were, so there was a possibility one had been at Marsden Manor. But even if Geoffrey had had one at home, there would have been no reason for him to bring it to Constance's engagement party. He didn't have a beef with Francis, or with anyone else in the family as far as I knew. He also had no motive for wanting Abigail out of the way, and no way to know that she'd even turn up here this weekend.

Laetitia had had motive, if she believed that Crispin was responsible for little Bess and that he would be forced to marry Abigail. She'd also had opportunity, but again, probably no access to the murder weapon. And from her reaction to it earlier, she probably wouldn't have chosen to use it in any case.

Unless that had been a reaction to actually having used it, of course, and the memory of what it had done to the back of Abigail's head.

Would she have put the truncheon in my room to implicate me if she were the one who had used it?

Of all the people here, I thought she actually might have done. She doesn't like me much, and I suppose I was partly to blame for that, after the way I had greeted St George when we arrived. And then, of course, there was the fact that I had spent the time since I got here diligently trying to talk him out of marrying Laetitia.

None of that had happened until after we were both here, though, and I didn't think she'd come here with a plan to kill me. And she would have had to, to have brought the trench club with her. But of everyone, she'd had both motive and opportunity, as well as a reason to try to frame me with the murder weapon. She stayed on the list.

She had not been upstairs at the time when I had seen the shadow against the window in my room, however. Not according to Christopher. And if that had been when the trench club had been hidden under my mattress, then Laetitia hadn't done it.

Constance had had opportunity to kill Abigail, since Francis had surely been too drunk to notice her moving about last night. She'd been close to the back door, which would have made going outside easy. There had been no one else in the back of the house to see her come and go. And if Abigail had knocked on the back or side door—which she might have done when she arrived in the middle of the night—Constance was the one most likely to have heard her. All the rest of us had been upstairs, with the exception of Francis.

She'd had motive, if she had believed that Abigail might take Francis away from her.

I wasn't sure she would have had the strength to crack someone's skull, but given sufficient motivation, it was possible. I also had no idea where she would have got her hands on the trench club, but that was true for all of us.

And she had been upstairs when it had been put in my room. But try as I might, I couldn't imagine Constance framing me for murder. Why would she? We were friends.

I had had opportunity, of course. I'd slept alone. I'd had no motive—I had felt bad for Abigail, and had wanted to know who her baby's father was, but I hadn't felt threatened by her. Her situation certainly hadn't been worth committing murder over.

Who else?

There was Uncle Harold. He'd slept alone. He'd had motive, if he thought Abigail was after Crispin. He wasn't above knocking his only son around when he felt like it, so I knew he had at least some capacity for violence. I had no idea where he might have got his hands on a trench club, but he could have found one had he wanted to. You can acquire anything when you have enough money.

Would he have framed me for murder, though?

I wouldn't like to think so, certainly. I was part of the Sutherland family, practically a daughter to Aunt Roz and Uncle Herbert, and if he did that and was discovered to have done it, he would completely destroy his relationship with his brother, his sister-in-law, and both his nephews. His son might not like it much, either, not that Crispin's opinions seemed to hold a whole lot of weight with His Grace.

And if Uncle Harold had committed murder and was trying to avoid being arrested for it, family relations might take a back seat to the gallows, anyway.

Cook was surely out of the picture. She belonged here at Beckwith Place and would have had no reason to know that Abigail and Bess even existed.

Hughes? She would have heard about Abigail during that weekend at Sutherland Hall, when the rest of us had first heard the story about the girl with the baby who had visited Sutherland House. I couldn't think of any reason why Hughes would have killed her, though. And anyway, she hadn't been here last night. Like Cook and Wilkins, she had lodged in the village?—

"Pippa," Christopher's voice said from behind me, and I jumped. I'd been so caught up in my thoughts that I hadn't even noticed the door opening again.

"Is everything all right? Are you feeling better?" He looked concerned. "You've been out here a long time."

"I'm fine." I jumped to my feet. "Do you require me?"

"Sammy does. He wants to go over some of your answers again."

"Where?"

"He has taken over Father's study," Christopher said. "Tom's with him."

"Perhaps he has realized that he needs help." I crossed the threshold and waited for him to close the front door behind me. "Or at least that he'd be better off accepting it, when it's available. Hopefully that means this will get figured out sooner rather than later."

He nodded, and I added, "Anything else I should know?"

Christopher shook his head and fell in behind me. "I think he suspects you, Pippa."

"He would." I pulled the door to the back of the house open and stepped onto the cellar landing. Behind me, Christopher followed.

When both doors were closed, the one in front of me and the one behind Christopher, I added, "He knows I had both motive and opportunity, and the real murder weapon was found in my room. Why wouldn't he suspect me?"

"Because you didn't do it?" Christopher suggested.

I smiled. "Of course I didn't do it. Tom knows that. Between us, we'll be able to set Sammy straight."

"See that you do," Christopher said, leaning a shoulder against the wall. "I'll tell you straight out, Pippa, I'm worried. I know it isn't my baby, and I don't believe it's Crispin's or Francis's, either. But if not ours, then whose?"

I shook my head, since I couldn't tell him what I knew that he didn't.

He added, "I have no idea what's going on. I don't see any of us committing murder, but I also don't see how it could have been anyone else."

"It'll be all right," I told him. "I have an idea."

"Will you tell me?"

"Not now. I'd better not keep Sammy waiting. Let's not give him the idea that I'm reluctant to talk to him."

Christopher nodded. "Come find me when you're done."

I promised I would, and he gave my hand a final squeeze for luck. Then I pushed open the door into the back of the house and stopped in front of my uncle's study and applied my knuckles to the wood.