Chapter 22

We made our report,which essentially meant that Crispin knocked on the door to the study, stuck his head through, and said, "He's coming. I told him to bring me a bottle of the most expensive gin the Arms can lay their hands on so he wouldn't suspect anything."

"I don't know what you think he might suspect, Lord St George," Tom said blandly, "but thank you for the help."

"I told him I'd meet him when he gets here. So I suppose I should keep myself nearby, to intercept."

"Of course you did." Tom's voice was resigned. I pressed my lips together so I wouldn't snort. "Then yes, please. If you wouldn't mind intercepting."

I couldn't see Crispin's face, but I could hear the smirk. "Delighted to be of assistance, Detective Sergeant."

He pulled the door shut and the smirk turned into a grin. I grinned back. "Well done, St George."

"Thank you, Darling. Now…" He glanced around, "you were looking for Kit?"

"I wondered where he was," I admitted. "You said you thought you knew."

He nodded. "Follow me."

He strode off down the hallway. I gave the study door a last, longing look before scurrying after, and caught up just as he pushed open the back door onto the terrasse.

"Out here?" I looked around. "I don't see him."

"Watch and learn, Darling."

He headed across the flagstones and down the stairs with me trailing two steps behind. But once on the grass, instead of turning towards the crime scene and the driveway, he took a left, skirting the terrasse in the other direction.

Back here, below the scullery window, is the vegetable garden, and on the grass, a table and chairs under the overhanging branches of a large, old English Oak. Beyond that again is an arbor, and then there's a part of the house where a lot of ivy grows around the window of Uncle Herbert's study.

Crispin turned to me and put his finger to his mouth. I peered past him and saw Christopher sitting on the ground below the window, his back against the worn brick and his knees up. His eyes were closed—the better to concentrate on what was being said inside, no doubt—but he must have sensed our approach across the grass, because he jerked his head in our direction. It seemed to take a second—perhaps he hadn't expected to see us together, or hadn't expected to be found by anyone at all—and then his eyes widened.

He started to move—his face when he looked at Crispin was horrified, and I guess it's never really a pleasant experience when you realize that someone you've listened to knows you've eavesdropped, although it wasn't as if Crispin had said anything important during his scant few seconds inside the study—but the latter waved him back down, silently. Christopher settled back into his spot on the ground and turned to me. His expression was apologetic. He must have eavesdropped on my conversation with Tom and Sammy, too, I assumed. Or the part of it he had caught after walking out here.

It didn't really matter to me—I hadn't said anything important either, and I would have shared every detail I remembered with him later anyway if he wanted to know—so I just smiled and took the hand he extended, and sat down next to him. Crispin dropped down on the other side of me, silently, and we all started to pay attention to what was going on inside.

"—only time it happened," Tom said, and I felt Christopher's hand jerk in shock.

"Apparently not," Uncle Herbert answered bitterly.

"When did you first learn?—?"

"This morning, believe it or not." He made a sound that might have been a very ugly laugh. "Hughes told me."

"Hughes?" Sammy echoed, and Tom provided the explanation: from Marsden Manor to Sutherland Hall to Beckwith Place. After it was concluded, Sammy asked, "How would the maid know?"

"Apparently the other maid told her," Uncle Herbert said. "I'm more interested in how you know."

It was Tom who answered, so the question must have been directed at him. (Really, it is so much more difficult to follow a conversation when you can't see the people involved in it.)

"I know all sorts of things about all sorts of people," Tom said blandly. "I had access to Simon Grimsby's blackmail notes at Sutherland Hall, remember?"

"Of course." Uncle Herbert sounded sour. "And you decided not to say anything about it at the time because…?"

"It wasn't my place to say anything. It didn't pertain to the investigation, and besides, how was I to know that you didn't already know? You knew about the other matter."

"The other matter was entirely different," Uncle Herbert said coldly, and this time it was Sammy who made the noise.

He apologized immediately, and I imagined that both Tom and Uncle Herbert must have given him identical death glares. When I stole a glance at Crispin, a corner of his mouth twitched in response, so he must have thought the same thing. Christopher's hand was still in mine, limp now, and I gave it a comforting squeeze. He slanted a look my way, and I smiled back, as reassuringly as I could. It took a second, but then he managed a smile in return. Crispin glanced over, noticed the byplay, watched for a second, and looked away again.

Inside the room, the conversation went on.

"Tell me about Maisie Moran," Tom said.

"What's to tell?" Uncle Herbert sounded resigned. "She was a parlor maid at Sutherland House. A few years older than me. Beautiful girl, one of the Black Irish. Bright blue eyes and black hair. I was just down from University. I imagine I thought I seduced her, but it was probably the other way around…"

From the corner of my eye, I could see Crispin's mouth curve in what looked like sympathy, or perhaps rueful memory of his own experience. Laetitia Marsden wasn't Black Irish, not to my knowledge, but she had bright blue eyes and black hair, and she had definitely once seduced him.

"I didn't know there was a child," Uncle Herbert added. "I didn't know my father knew about the affair, either. It was never mentioned, until one day I got up to Town and she wasn't there. I can't recall what he said when I asked—just that she was gone, I think; moved on to a different situation—but from the way he said it, I could tell it was because of what had happened between us. But by then I had met Roslyn, so I didn't think much about it after that, what with the courting and the wedding and then a couple of years later, Francis…"

He trailed off, and for a moment there was only silence. Then— "I never heard from her after that. My father never brought her up again. I didn't, either. If I had known…"

"You would have done something different?"

There was a beat, just a second of silence before Uncle Herbert said, "No. I wouldn't have done anything different. I didn't want to marry Maisie. I had fallen in love with Roslyn by then. I wouldn't want to change anything about my life. But if I had known that there was a child, I would have made sure it was taken care of. She probably thought I'd abandoned her to cope on her own."

"I imagine your father made the situation clear," Tom said. "He paid her quite a lot of money to go away and never darken the doorstep of Sutherland House—or Hall—again. She wasn't thrust into poverty or made to live in the gutter."

Uncle Herbert didn't respond to that, but I thought I could feel a lessening of tension in the air, as if a weight had been taken off his shoulders.

"She married," Tom added, "and used the money to buy a public house. Over time, she and her husband had two more children. From all I can gather, she's had a good life. Your son?—"

"Don't call him that."

There was a moment's pause before Tom's voice came back, still calm. "He went to war, along with his younger half-brother. After the war, he approached your grandfather for a job. I don't know whether there was any coercion involved, or whether that was a promise that had been made originally. That when the child came of age, he'd have a position waiting for him at Sutherland."

Incredibly cruel and blind of old Duke Henry, if so. To make the child who should have been the firstborn son of the house work for them as a servant instead.

Unfortunately, that didn't mean it couldn't have happened that way. Henry hadn't been known for his charity or generosity of spirit.

"Grimsby?" Christopher mouthed, incredulously, and I made a face. It made sense, I supposed. The old Duke had been strangely lenient with his valet, when he hadn't been known for forbearance with anyone else, not even his own family members. He had basically let Grimsby run wild: had let him take over the use of the motorcar (and Wilkins) and roam all over England digging up secrets about the other family members with no oversight whatsoever. They had been in London every other week, it seemed, following Christopher around. Grimsby's notes had had page upon page of minutia about Christopher's rather uninteresting doings: taking tea at the Savoy and shopping at Fortnum and Mason. I had been followed, too, and of course Grimsby had had a fine time gossiping with the servants at Sutherland House about all of St George's shenanigans.

He had been alive until late April this year, so he could have met and seduced Abigail the April before. He hadn't struck me as someone who would appeal to a young girl in a romantic way—I had found him a rather reptilian sort, with his flat, black eyes and slicked-back black hair—but there's no accounting for taste, I suppose.

And then my train of thought was derailed when, on the other side of me, Crispin scrambled upright with a silent curse and took off running. At first I couldn't imagine why, but then my ears picked up the sound of the motorcar turning into the driveway on the other side of the house, and I understood. Wilkins must be arriving, and Crispin had said he'd be there to meet him.

Tom would want to talk to the chauffeur about what Grimsby had been up to while in London last year, I supposed. Wilkins would be the only one who had any information about that.

Christopher arched his brows at me, and I shook my head. "Nothing to worry about. Just Wilkins with the motorcar." And a bottle of gin for St George.

He nodded and settled back down.

Inside the study, the conversation went on. "I think," Tom said thoughtfully, "that this accounts for everything. He is unquestionably the grandson of the Duke of Sutherland, as much as Francis and Kit and Lord St George are. He had access to your father's Crossley, which is a black motorcar, as Abigail Dole noted on her list. With your father's goodwill, he could easily have been in London and at the Hammersmith Palais in April of last year. We may be able to confirm that if we ask the staff at the Hall or at Sutherland House. He spent time in the trenches, so could have brought back a trench club at the end of the war…"

All that was true. However, Abigail's list had had the words ‘fair hair' and ‘blue eyes' on it, and those didn't fit Simon Grimsby at all.

Besides, Grimsby was dead. I had seen the body, in the heart of the garden maze at Sutherland Hall in April. There was no question that Simon Grimsby was dead.

So how could he be here, committing murder?

And then there was a brisk knock on the study door and the sound of Crispin's cheerful voice—"DS Gardiner? Here's Wilkins to see you,"—and suddenly it all rearranged itself in my head with a clatter.

For a second or two, the mental noise blocked everything else out. Then Tom's voice cut through, pleasantly. "Mr. Wilkins. Come in. Have a seat."

There was a pause. I imagined Wilkins standing in the doorway, chauffeur cap in hand, with his sandy hair exposed and his cool, blue eyes—not Astley blue, more the washed-out color of the summer sky—flicking back and forth between Tom, Uncle Herbert, and Sammy.

Sensing the trap and unsure whether he could talk his way out of it. Knowing he had Crispin at his back, so retreat was impossible.

Then—

"Thank you, Lord St George," Tom added, pleasantly, "you may go."

There was another moment of silence, then a burst of noise. The sound of flesh on flesh, a grunt, a thud—the door hitting the wall?—and a rattle of footsteps.

"After him!" Tom's voice said, and then there was the scraping of chair legs and quick breaths and more footsteps pounding. They faded into the distance, and there were a few more, farther-away thuds: perhaps the boot room door opening and shutting a few times.

Christopher and I looked at one another, wide-eyed. I was just about to suggest that we get up and go around the house to see what was going on when Uncle Herbert spoke up.

"All right, my boy? Did he hurt you?"

"Not enough to matter," Crispin said. "Uncle Herbert…"

"Yes, Crispin?"

But Crispin must have changed his mind, because I don't think what he had originally planned to say was, "Perhaps we should go and see what's happening?"

"If you'll forgive me," Uncle Herbert said, rather formally, "I think I would rather stay here and not watch."

That was certainly understandable. Christopher and I exchanged another look, and without a word, got up and headed towards the back of the house. Uncle Herbert might prefer not to watch his newly discovered son be arrested for murder, but I had no such qualms.

It was strange, naturally. I was shocked and appalled that Duke Henry hadn't seen fit to tell Uncle Herbert that he had a son he didn't know about, especially when that son came to work at Sutherland.

But right now, there was the fact that Wilkins must have killed Abigail, because if not, why would he have run? He must have recognized Tom from back in April, and must have assumed that if Tom was there, and was asking for him, it was because Scotland Yard knew what was up.

And so he had run, instead of waiting to be asked the questions that would clear it up.

The only reason why someone would do that, it seemed to me, was if he was guilty.

By this point in my cogitations, we had turned the corner of the house onto the croquet lawn, and were trotting alongside the terrasse at a jog. And that's when the sound of a gunshot sliced through the silence and made both of our steps falter.

From the other side of the trees several voices rose into cries, and then settled back down into murmurs again.

By the time Christopher and I had fought our way through the bushes, the situation became clear. Tom and Sammy, along with Phil Hemings and the other constable, the one whose name I didn't know, were grouped around the Duke's Crossley. The motorcar's door was open, and beyond them, I could see a pair of legs in gray uniform trousers and tall, shiny boots sticking out, at an angle that indicated that their owner was limp.

Crispin had made his way over from the study, and was standing in the boot room door, his face pale and his eyes enormous, with both arms folded across his torso. Uncle Herbert was nowhere to be seen, so he must have done what he'd intimated he'd do, and stayed behind in the study.

I took Christopher by the elbow and tugged him in Crispin's direction instead of towards the coppers, who were deep in conversation. From the way none of them did anything about Wilkins, I assumed he was no longer a threat, nor capable of being arrested. I didn't quite know how to feel about that, to be honest, so I made myself not think about it.

"Are you all right?" I asked Crispin instead. "Did he hurt you?" Hopefully it wasn't his head again.

"Not enough to mention. Elbowed me in the stomach on his way past. It took me a moment to catch my breath, but I don't think he broke any of my ribs."

He wasn't looking at me, but at Christopher. "You all right, Kit?"

Christopher nodded, although he didn't look it. He kept glancing at the Crossley, and then away again, and then back, as if he couldn't stop himself. "What happened?"

"I was a little slow off the mark," Crispin said dryly. "Entwistle and Gardiner both ran by me. By the time I made it through the door, he was already at the car. He opened the door and threw himself inside, across the passenger seat. A few seconds later, there was a shot. He never tried to hurt anyone else, only himself. Gardiner had got there by then, and was trying to haul him out, but it was too late. He went limp."

After a second he added, "I'll make a guess and say he kept a loaded pistol under his seat along with the trench club, and he'd rather do this than go to prison."

It was a blunt assessment, but probably accurate. And not to be callous, but it would solve rather a lot of problems. For the Astley family, anyway. Wilkins's relationship to Uncle Herbert might not need to come out, nor his relationship to Abigail.

Publicly, I mean. We'd all know, I assumed. At least the family, which at this point included Constance. But perhaps we could keep it from the Marsdens, at least. It was none of their affair, after all.

I put my arm around Christopher's waist to give what comfort I could. I'm not sure he noticed, but it was all I could do, so I did it. Perhaps when Tom could remove himself from the other constables and come over, it would help. But until then, it was up to me, so I did what I could.

"He must have picked her up in the village last night," I said softly, "and offered to drive her up here. He had no reason to be here last night otherwise. And instead of helping her find Bess, I guess he decided to get rid of her once and for all, somewhere where there were a lot of other Astleys who could be blamed."

"She might have said something to him," Christopher said distantly. "Perhaps she made some sort of threat."

He glanced at the car and the pair of legs protruding from it again, before he added, "I guess we'll never know."

Not unless we could piece it together ourselves, no. We probably wouldn't.

For a moment, I wished fervently that Tom had forced Wilkins to speak in the study, that he had maneuvered the chauffeur into a chair so perhaps we could have gotten a few answers before it was too late.

But it was what it was, and we had to be satisfied with what we already knew.

And it wasn't as if we didn't have most, if not all, of the answers. Or like we couldn't extrapolate the rest. The man had killed himself rather than be questioned: he must be guilty. Tom had filled in the backstory in broad strokes for Uncle Herbert while we'd listened, and Uncle Herbert had done the same with the earlier story for Tom. I don't know what Wilkins could have told us, apart from how the murder had come about, or the reason for it, that we didn't already know. Abigail might have threatened to have him sacked, or she might have insisted that he marry her when he didn't want to, or he might have had another girl he wanted instead and this one was in the way…

I shook it off and turned to Christopher. There was no sense in us standing out here staring at a tragedy we could do nothing about. Not when there was something helpful we could do inside.

"Let's go check on your father. He can probably use a visit from one of his sons right now."

Christopher glanced at Tom, still in conversation with Sammy and the other constables, and then at Crispin. A moment passed, then?—

"Topping idea," Crispin said. "Let's all go."

He stepped backwards, out of the doorway, and I nudged Christopher into the boot room ahead of me. I closed the door behind us, and when I turned back, I heard Crispin say, softly, "I'm sorry I didn't tell you."

Christopher gave a harsh bark of laughter, one with not even a trace of humor in it. It might have been a sob, and not laughter at all; I don't know. "I don't blame you, Crispin. You found out… when? Two months ago?"

Crispin shrugged, and Christopher added, "I imagine it must have been a shock to you, too. And it isn't your responsibility to keep me up to date on Father's shenanigans. Even this. Besides…"

He hesitated. "If you had told me back then, or even between then and now, I might have resented you. And now I don't. And I'm glad I don't. So it's better this way."

Crispin didn't respond, but as they set off down the hallway towards Uncle Herbert's study, he nudged Christopher's shoulder with his own and got an answering nudge back. If all wasn't perfectly well with the Astleys at the moment, at least it looked as if they'd get through this tumult in time and be all right for it.