Chapter 21

"Come in, Miss Darling."

I took a deep breath before I pushed open the door with a smile. "You were asking for me?"

Uncle Herbert's study is a lovely, masculine little room with dark wainscoting and heavy wood furniture, that smells of leather and smoke. Sammy had positioned himself in my uncle's chair behind the desk, I saw to my displeasure, and was lounging there like he owned it. Tom, meanwhile, was sitting in one of the chairs in front of the desk, the one usually occupied by Christopher when he and I had been called on the carpet in front of Uncle Herbert as children. I headed for my own usual chair before Sammy could even gesture to it.

"Yes," he said drolly, "have a seat."

"I assumed you weren't going to make me stand." I sat and folded my hands demurely in my lap before I added, "Not even my uncle did that."

Not usually anyway. Not unless we'd committed some particularly heinous crime, like the time I had locked St George in the cellar and left him there. It had been in retaliation for a spider down the back or something like that, no doubt. That time, I got my dressing-down on my feet, while Crispin sat in the chair. His face had been blotchy and his eyes red, and I had felt quite good about the whole thing, even in the face of his tears.

At least until Uncle Herbert informed me of my punishment, which had been to spend the next day in my room instead of accompanying the others on a trip to Salisbury. I quite liked Salisbury, it usually had things like ice cream and tea cakes, and now I'd be stuck at Beckwith Place instead, all by myself. Crispin had smirked then, and I had stuck my tongue out at him, and then…

Tom cleared his throat, and I came back to myself with a flush. "Apologies."

Sammy smirked. "Something you'd like to share?"

"Just a memory of being in here with my uncle and Lord St George, getting dressed down for locking him in the cellar for the best part of an afternoon. We were eleven."

Sammy looked nonplussed, but Tom chuckled. "There never was much love lost between the two of you, was there?"

"He used to take me into the garden maze at Sutherland Hall and leave me there. I was just getting some of my own back."

He nodded, and I added, "But no. We got on the wrong side of each other almost immediately. He was such a horribly mean little boy."

"Mean enough to commit murder?" Sammy wanted to know.

I gave him the sort of look I frequently bestow upon St George, as if he were something that had crawled out from beneath a flat rock. "No. Or not this murder, at any rate."

"If I were to tell you that I have proof that Lord St George killed the girl?—"

My stomach did a sort of swoop, but I shook my head. "I wouldn't believe you."

Tom arched a brow. Sammy said, "Why?"

"First of all, he spent the night with Christopher. Christopher would have woken up if Crispin tried to leave the room. He's a light sleeper."

"Perhaps he woke up and is lying about it."

"Christopher's not a liar," I said. "And Crispin had no motive."

"If the baby was his…"

"It wasn't. And aside from that, he wouldn't hit a young woman over the head with a truncheon. He might have abandoned me in the garden maze when we were eleven, but he never hit me."

"The trench club…" Sammy began.

"Was found in my room. That's what Constable Hemings said."

"There were fingerprints on the handle?—"

"Not Crispin's. And not mine. Besides, I don't believe you. Nobody would have been stupid enough to leave a weapon with their fingerprints on it. Not someone who was thinking clearly enough to substitute the croquet mallet in the first place. Certainly not Crispin. He's too smart for that."

Tom smirked. Sammy sighed. "If not Lord St George, then who?"

"I told you," I said, or perhaps I hadn't. I had been over all this so many times in my head by now that I had gotten confused. "I don't know who did it. But it wasn't Christopher, Crispin, or Francis. They all have alibis."

"You spent the night alone."

I nodded. "But I had no reason to kill her. I love them—or I love Francis and Christopher, at least; I can take or leave St George. But I wouldn't commit murder to get them out of taking responsibility for siring a child out of wedlock. Besides, Abigail met St George at Sutherland House in March. If she was still looking for her baby's father in July, that means Crispin isn't it. And if Crispin isn't it, then Christopher isn't it. And if Christopher isn't it?—"

"Mister Astley…" Sammy began, and I shook my head.

"It's not Francis. I know you don't like him, but just like I have to admit that St George isn't guilty, it's time for you to admit that Francis isn't, either. He has an alibi."

Sammy looked sour. "His fiancée would lie for him even if he were guilty."

"He's not, so that's moot. And it's not just that he was with Constance. He was so drunk last night that Wilkins had to help him across the grass. We put him in the library because he couldn't make it up the stairs. He wouldn't have been sober enough to kill anyone even several hours later. He certainly wouldn't have had the presence of mind to switch the murder weapon for the mallet."

Nor would he have tried to frame me with it. Francis loved me.

Sammy accepted defeat. Not graciously, but he accepted it. "Moving on," he said.

I nodded. "Good idea. Were there really fingerprints on the trench club?"

"No," Sammy grumbled. "It was wiped clean. Same as the mallet."

"I don't quite understand why someone would bother to substitute the mallet for the trench club, and then leave the trench club in my room. If you were going to leave the actual murder weapon, why substitute the mallet in the first place?"

"Opportunity," Tom said before Sammy could open his mouth.

I tilted my head. "Opportunity?"

"The trench club was a weapon of opportunity. Something handy. But also something that might be traced back to whoever used it, so he or she fetched the mallet and tried to make that look like the murder weapon."

I nodded. I followed so far. That's what we'd always believed anyway. Or at least what we had believed since Doctor White had told us the mallet was not the murder weapon.

"Then something happened, some reason or opportunity presented itself that made it seem like a good idea to hide the club in your room."

"Hughes," I said.

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing." Had Hughes realized that I had overheard her conversation with—or blackmail of—Uncle Herbert, and decided to frame me for murder?

But that would mean that Hughes had killed Abigail, and that made no sense whatsoever.

"Never mind," I said. "Carry on."

Tom's lips curved, as if he knew exactly the progression of thoughts that had made their way through my head. He didn't say anything about it, however. "Your room was mostly empty all morning, so it might have been simple opportunity. It might be that someone knew you'd slept alone and had no alibi, so you'd make a handy scapegoat. Or it might be personal. Someone wanted you, specifically, to look guilty."

"I did see someone in my room earlier," I said. "It was while a few of the Marsdens were still making their way downstairs. We'd sat in the kitchen—Christopher, Francis, and I, and Crispin, along with Aunt Roz and Uncle Harold—and when the others went to the front of the house, I went back out on the terrasse. And someone was upstairs in my room. I saw a shadow against the window."

"Someone might remember who was where at what time," Tom said to Sammy, and the latter looked unhappy about taking the suggestion, but nodded.

"I already asked Christopher. I think he told me that only Geoffrey and Constance were not in the sitting room. Of the guests, I mean."

The two coppers exchanged a glance. "Lord Geoffrey Marsden?" Sammy said.

"Too young to serve," Tom answered. "Although his father did know what the trench club was."

"He doesn't like me," I supplied. "Geoffrey, I mean. He tried to push me into a corner of the Chesterfield at the Dower House two months ago, and St George had to rescue me. I've been avoiding him since yesterday, which I can't imagine that he appreciates."

There was a moment's pause while they both chewed on that. Tom had already known about the incident at the Dower House, of course. It had come up during the murder case in Dorset. But it was news to Sammy.

"And also Miss Constance Peckham," he said now, and I felt myself stiffen. "I don't know where she might have gotten her hands on a trench club. Astley?—"

"Francis," I said.

Sammy shot me a look. "Yes, Mr. Francis Astley said that he hadn't brought one back from the Continent, so it wouldn't have been here. Unless he lied, of course."

"I lived in this house with Francis from 1914 until a few months ago," I said, "and I've never seen it before."

"Her motorcar?" Tom suggested. "Didn't you say that Geoffrey Marsden motored up from Dorset in it, Pippa?"

I nodded. "Gilbert Peckham was too young to have been in the war too, though."

"But they had a chauffeur, didn't they? I think I met him when Lady Peckham died?"

He probably had. I hadn't paid much attention to the chauffeur—didn't think I'd heard him speak once. He had arrived at Sutherland Hall with Lady Peckham, Constance and her brother Gilbert, and the late Johanna de Vos, and I hadn't seen him again until several days later, when he arrived back at the Dower House with Lady P's luggage. I didn't even know his name.

And he certainly wasn't at Beckwith Place now. The only chauffeur here was Wilkins. "Are you thinking that the club could have been in the Crossley? That the chauffeur kept it around as a weapon, should he get held up by a highwayman on a lonely road at midnight? And when Lady P died and he was out of a job, he left it behind?"

"Something like that," Tom said. "People do keep weapons in their motorcars."

I'm sure they did. And if a man had gone through the war with a trench club at his side, it might make sense to him to keep it behind the seat of his car in case of trouble.

Although if he had gone through the war with a trench club at his side, would he have left it behind in someone else's car after losing his job?

"Are you thinking that Geoffrey went to the village in Constance's Crossley after everyone was in bed last night," I asked, "and he picked up Abigail on her way here, and killed her? Why would he do that?"

"Not Lord Geoffrey," Tom said.

"Who, then?" Not Constance. Constance wouldn't have tried to frame me for murder. We were friends. And she was marrying my cousin.

They exchanged a look.

"Not Constance," I said. "She wouldn't have left Francis for long enough to drive to the village. And she wouldn't be strong enough to crack anyone's skull. And even if little Bess was Francis's—and she isn't—they couldn't force him to marry Abigail. Constance had no reason to kill anyone."

"Calm yourself, Pippa," Tom said. "We aren't talking about Constance."

"You're not?" Somehow that didn't feel good, either. I wasn't Hercule Poirot, by any means, but surely I should be able to figure this out. "Who are you talking about, then?"

"We," Tom said, "are talking about someone who participated in the war, who had access to this house and to a motorcar, and who might have kept a trench club behind the seat in case it came in handy…"

"Not Francis!" The Astleys had the Bentley, but there was no trench club in it. There never had been. I had spent enough time in that car to know.

Sammy looked sour. "No," Tom said. "Not Francis."

I sat back on my chair. "Then I don't know who we're talking about."

Tom nodded and turned to Sammy. "What I'm about to tell you can't go beyond this room."

"I can't promise that…" Sammy began, but Tom wasn't listening to him. Instead, he turned back to me.

"Be a dear and go fetch your uncle, Pippa."

I got to my feet, a bit reluctantly. "Which uncle do you want? Herbert or Harold?"

"Better make it both," Tom said, "actually."

"Really?" If this was about Uncle Herbert's illegitimate child, or children, was that something Uncle Harold needed to hear?

He might already know, of course. Duke Henry might have shared it with him, as his successor to the title. Or Uncle Herbert might have done the same, brother to brother. But if not, did Tom really want to let that particular cat out of the bag?

I tried to convey all those thoughts with the power of my mind, without opening my mouth, and?—

"On second thought," Tom acquiesced, "perhaps just Lord Herbert for now."

I nodded and headed for the door. Only to be brought up short by his voice behind me.

"And see if you can make Lord St George follow you out of the room, Pippa."

"Excuse me?" I stopped in the doorway and turned around.

Tom smirked. "I need Lord St George for a moment. Try to make it look natural."

I eyed him down my nose. It was made easier—made possible—by the fact that he was sitting and I was standing. "I'm not sure what you're implying, but I suppose simply asking him to accompany me is out of the question?"

"You can go ahead and ask. Just make it look like you want him personally and not for me."

I sniffed. "That'll be difficult to feign, but I'll do my best."

"Do your best, Pippa." He waved me off. "Close the door behind you."

I did, and then eyed it resentfully. Clearly part of the purpose of this errand was to get me out of the way while he brought Sammy up to date on things I wasn't supposed to hear. I contemplated staying where I was and putting my ear to the door instead of fetching Uncle Herbert from the sitting room, but if I did, and didn't produce him and Crispin in a timely manner, Tom would likely guess what I had done, and I didn't particularly want to end up on the wrong side of Tom Gardiner. So I stuck my tongue out at the door, but buzzed off past the cellar steps and into the foyer.

"Uncle Herbert? You're wanted in the study."

In my absence, most of the tea tray had been demolished, and everyone looked a bit more genial. Constance and Francis were cuddled up together in one of the oversized armchairs, while Euphemia Marsden had lost most of the pinched look. She was watching her daughter use her wiles on Crispin with a benevolent expression on her face. Little Bess had fallen asleep, and was tucked into a corner of the Chesterfield next to Aunt Roz, her pink rosebud lips parted and her tiny chest rising and falling under her embroidered blanket. Her wispy fair hair stuck straight up from her small head.

"St George," I added, dragging my eyes from the baby and over to where he was sitting, perched on the arm of Laetitia's chair. "May I have a moment of your time?"

He blinked. I'm not usually so polite when I want his attention, I suppose. Laetitia's eyes narrowed and Uncle Herbert shot me a quick glance on his way past.

"Good luck," I told him, and he nodded and headed for the door to the back of the house. Crispin, meanwhile, clearly needed more time to decide whether he wanted to oblige me or not. So much for Tom's inference that he'd follow me if I just crooked my finger at him. All he did was eye me with calculation from across the room, as if trying to figure out what my angle might be.

"You know what, St George?" I said, annoyed. "Forget I asked. It's obviously an imposition."

Laetitia's lips curved up, pleased.

"I'll just ask someone else for help. And the next time I need assistance?—"

By the time I was halfway through the sentence, Crispin was up from the chair and on his way across the floor. "Stop being manipulative, Darling, and tell me what you want."

He grabbed my elbow as he moved past, and tugged me along into the foyer.

"You, St George," I told him sweetly, just before we disappeared through the door into the back. Hopefully my voice was loud enough that Laetitia heard it. "I should have thought that was obvious."

Then the door shut behind us, and he dropped my arm like it had burned him, and pushed the next door open in front of us. "A likely story, Darling. What do you really want?"

"You, as I said. But I'm just the messenger. Tom needs you for something. He just didn't want to make it obvious."

I gestured to the now-closed door to the study. Crispin looked at it, and looked at me, and then gave the door a brisk knock. He turned the knob and walked inside without waiting for an invitation. When I tried to follow, he shut the door in my face. I rocked back on my heels, my mouth open in outrage.

It took a second to battle back the instinct to pull the door open again and start ranting at him. Instead, once I had, I leaned in and put my ear to the crack.

"There you are," Tom's voice said, sounding smug. "I thought she'd get you to follow her."

"Yes, thanks a lot, Gardiner." Crispin's voice was as annoyed as I felt. "Very funny. What can I do for you?"

"We need a very small favor," Tom said. His voice was fading, I assume as Crispin walked closer to him and he didn't have to speak so loudly. "If you could go next door?—"

And that was all I heard. I made a face, but kept my ear to the door for another few seconds, until I heard footsteps approaching on the opposite side. By the time Crispin came back out, I was standing on the other side of the hallway looking innocent.

Or perhaps not. He looked me up and down, and snorted.

"What?" I said.

"Nothing, I'm sure."

He turned down the hall towards the back of the house.

I trotted after him. "Where are we going?"

"I'm going to the library. I don't know where you're going."

I was going wherever he was going, but I couldn't say that without opening myself up to some sort of sarcastic remark. So instead I said, "Where's Christopher? He wasn't in the sitting room when I fetched you, was he?"

"He didn't come back after going to tell you that Sammy wanted to talk to you." He pushed open the door to the library, and walked in.

I followed, looking around. The room was deserted, but the blankets from last night were still on the sofa, thrown off and forgotten when we'd burst in to tell Constance and Francis about Abigail's death. I headed toward them and began folding.

"I have an idea where he might be, though," Crispin added. "I'll help you look for him once I've made this telephone call."

"Are you sure you wouldn't rather go back to Laetitia?"

He gave me a look but didn't respond, just picked up the ear piece of the telephone. I put one folded blanket down on the sofa and picked up the other and shook it.

"Do you need me to leave?" I'd listen at the door if he did, of course, but it seemed polite to inquire.

He shook his head. "It's nothing. Just a call to the village to ask Wilkins to come back up."

"Sammy talked to Wilkins this morning," I said, while I watched Crispin deal with the exchange.

"And now I suppose Gardiner wants to talk to him." He turned his attention to the receiver, with a noticeable increase in charm. "Hello? Is this the Beckwith Arms? This is Crispin Astley, calling from Beckwith Place…"

There was some noise from the other end, and then a smile from Crispin. It warmed his voice when he said, "Yes, that's correct. My father and I are visiting from Sutherland…" He chuckled. "Is that so? Yes, of course I do…"

I rolled my eyes and put the second blanket down. Some woman at the pub remembered him from some other time he'd been here, and wanted to know if he remembered her, no doubt.

He caught it, and smirked at me, but without losing the thread of the conversation. "Yes, for Francis's birthday next week. That's right… Yes, with all the visitors we have a full house at Beckwith this weekend. Our chauffeur is lodging with you, which is why… Yes, that would be simply spiffing, if you would be so kind."

There was a pause and then all the charm dropped off and his voice turned businesslike. "Wilkins. Thank God. It's St George."

There was a faint quacking on the other end of the line.

"Not that I know of, Wilkins. Would you mind bringing the motorcar in this direction? Along with a bottle of the most expensive gin the Arms can provide? I can't stomach my uncle's sorry excuse for a gin and tonic anymore…"

The phone quacked again, and then Crispin answered, "Yes, thank you, Wilkins… Yes, we'll be here. Nobody's going anywhere, it seems… No, I don't believe they're any closer to figuring anything out. Why would they? Village idiots, the lot of them…"

He leaned a shoulder against the wall and examined his nails. "Yes, Wilkins, I'll be here. I'll meet you outside the carriage house. And Wilkins… don't let my father know, eh?"

The quacking continued for a moment and then went silent. Crispin hung up the receiver and arched a brow at me.

"Masterfully done," I said. "Tom wanted gin?"

He shook his head. "Tom wanted Wilkins. I wanted to give Wilkins an excuse that didn't include the police."

"So you don't want the gin?"

"There's nothing wrong with Uncle Herbert's liquor cabinet," Crispin said and headed for the door. "Come along, Darling. Let's go make our report."