Epilogue

Tom leftwith little Bess in the late afternoon. Ian Finchley had come back from Whitechapel with the names and location of the Dole family, information which he had passed to Tom via telephone, and Sammy was only too happy to relinquish the responsibility both for the baby and the death notification.

He had his hands full with the new crime scene, the one in and around Uncle Harold's Crossley. The official responsibility for going to Southampton and telling Maisie Wilkins that her son was dead would be his, although by the time Tom left, Uncle Herbert and Francis had already set off in the Bentley on that errand. Maisie shouldn't hear about her son's death from the constables if he had the opportunity to tell her himself, Uncle Herbert said, and Aunt Roz agreed with him, so off they went. She would have gone herself, I think, had she not had a house full of guests she had to attend to.

She wanted to keep Elizabeth. She did, however, realize that we had no claim to the baby, or if we did, it would be much better for everyone if we pretended we didn't. So Bess was off to the Doles, with the promise of a substantial monetary settlement from the Astley family, ostensibly because the Duke of Sutherland's chauffeur had seduced and then murdered their daughter.

That was really all they needed to know, and it was all we were prepared to share with them. If Abigail had told them that the baby's father had told her he was an Astley, it could easily be explained away by his employment, and there was no need for them to know any more of the sordid details.

Aunt Roz impressed upon Tom, anxiously, that he must tell her if there was any reason at all to think that little Bess wouldn't be safe or happy in the Doles' care, because if so, to hell with the conventions and what people thought: she would bring the baby up herself rather than leave her somewhere unsafe, and the whole world could think—and say—whatever it wanted about it.

"Promise me, Thomas! If you get any inkling, even just a feeling, that something isn't right, you will take her out of there, and bring her back here. I won't be responsible for anything bad happening to that precious baby!"

Tom assured her that he would not leave Bess with people who wouldn't take care of her, and then he set off in the Tender with Hughes beside him, allegedly so she could help with the baby, but really because she couldn't wait to get away from us all, and we—mostly Uncle Herbert—couldn't wait to be rid of her.

He impressed upon her the need to get in touch with us with a forwarding address once she was settled—and used the missing Lydia Morrison as an excuse—but I heard it, and I'm certain Hughes did as well, as an assurance that the cheque for a thousand pounds would be forthcoming.

Her blackmail had lost rather a lot of its sting with these last few events, of course, although I suppose giving her the hush money still made sense. Uncle Herbert had it to spare since Uncle Harold was coughing up the settlement for the Doles. I guess perhaps the new Duke felt somewhat guilty over his late father's actions and wanted to contribute something.

"I'd still like to know how that trench club ended up in my bedchamber," I commented, after the Tender had vanished down the lane behind the Bentley with Uncle Herbert and Francis. "It makes no sense that Wilkins would have put it there. He had the opportunity, I suppose, but why would he frame me, out of everyone here? I had nothing to do with any of this, and he couldn't possibly have known that I didn't have an alibi. He wasn't here last night when we went to bed. And there was no reason why he'd single me out. There was no bad blood between us."

There was a beat, then?—

"Probably thought he was framing Astley," Geoffrey grunted. "Someone who had been in the war and could have brought home a club of his own. Someone who could have been the baby's father."

I blinked. That was a very sensible suggestion, and I was rather surprised that Geoffrey, of all people, had come up with it. Up until now, I had been convinced of his utter uselessness. But it made sense, at least as far as Wilkins's hypothetical motivation went. Frame Francis, not just because he had been in the war and knew how to use a trench club, but because Francis was the firstborn legitimate son, the one who had taken Wilkins's place.

"Shouldn't he have put it in the room on the other side of the landing, then? That's where Francis was supposed to sleep. Or the library, where he actually slept? Or even the room Uncle Harold was in, which is Francis's usual room when the house isn't full of guests?"

There was a moment's silence. Then the Duke cleared his throat.

"I don't imagine you'll ever discover the reasoning behind it, Miss Darling," he said smoothly. "The man's dead, and can't tell us."

I smiled politely, even as I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Talk about pointing out the obvious. "Of course."

He eyed me down the length of his nose. "Surely there can be no question that he did it? Who else would have had access to the weapon?"

He clearly meant it as a rhetorical question, although I could think of one other person who might have had access to it. Harold, Duke of Sutherland, might have found the trench club in his own room after Wilkins put it there with the idea of framing Francis.

That would mean that my courtesy-uncle-by-marriage had deliberately tried to frame me for murder. And while I had always suspected that he and Aunt Charlotte didn't like me much, that seemed rather like a serious accusation.

Unless he, too, had tried to frame Francis. He wouldn't have wanted to put it in the other upstairs room, after all, where Crispin had been asleep. Nor would he want to wander all over the house with it, I assume. Nor admit that he had it at all.

And he was right, anyway. Maybe Wilkins had done it. We'd never really know.

While I cogitated, His Grace turned to Crispin. "I'll have to travel back to Sutherland with you, St George, since the Crossley—and Wilkins—is unavailable."

"I suppose we'll need a new motorcar after this," Crispin said brightly. "Can I talk you into one of the New Phantoms? Overhead-valve straight-six engine and four gears? Ninety miles an hour at top speed?"

Uncle Harold looked somewhere between revulsed and fascinated despite himself.

"Looking for more and better ways to kill yourself, St George?" I wanted to know, which was really quite a stupid turn of phrase under the circumstances. At least half the room flinched.

Crispin, who has no finer feelings to speak of, merely gave me a supercilious look. "Not at all, Darling. I'm a changed man. From now on, it's the straight and narrow road for me."

"If you say so," I said dubiously.

Laetitia tinkled a little laugh. "Oh, Crispin," she cooed, fluttering her eyelashes, "you're so droll."

I saw no reason to refrain this time, so I rolled my eyes with abandon. Crispin smiled, and Uncle Harold said jovially, "Why don't you come back to Sutherland Hall with us for the rest of the weekend, Effie? Maury? With Francis gone, the engagement party is surely off?—"

Surely, and not just because Francis had motored to Southampton.

"—and Roslyn undoubtedly has other things to think about than keeping us entertained."

Like the fact that her husband's son, whom she hadn't known about until today, had killed her grandchild's mother and then himself on the grounds of her childhood home.

"Of course, Harold," Aunt Roz said peacefully. I'm sure she was as eager to get rid of them as they were to leave.

Euphemia said herself willing to share the amenities of Sutherland Hall for the next few days, and so the following thirty minutes were spent in a mad dash as everyone gathered up their belongings and beat a hasty retreat out the door to the remaining motorcars. Laetitia got in beside Crispin as if she belonged there, and left Uncle Harold to choose between squeezing into the back seat, or going with the Earl and Countess. He chose the latter, and ended up in the back of the Daimler with Geoffrey. I guess they all trusted that Laetitia and Crispin could do without a chaperone for the trip, or if not that, that a chaperone was unwanted, because they'd all like to see them married and would do whatever seemed necessary to affect that outcome.

"Be careful," I said as we stood outside seeing them off. "No sudden moves, St George."

"Don't worry, Darling." He flicked me a glance. "I'll drive as carefully as if I had a dozen bottles of port in the boot."

For once I wasn't worried about his driving—if he wanted to put Laetitia in the hospital on the way to Sutherland Hall, he had my permission—but of course I couldn't say that with her sitting right there. Especially when she told me, with utter condescension, "How kind of you to concern yourself, Miss Darling. But I'll take care of him."

She put a possessive hand on his arm. I eyed it for a moment, but since she'd have to move it anyway as soon as he started driving, I didn't bother to say anything sarcastic. I could have, so I gave myself full marks for restraint. Although I did take a step back from the vehicle to avoid further temptation. "Safe travels."

Crispin nodded and let out the clutch. The Hispano-Suiza rolled off down the driveway followed by the Daimler.

"Aren't you afraid they'll be engaged by tomorrow night?" Constance wanted to know. She came up to stand next to me as we watched the cars turn the corner into the lane, one after the other, leaving only the Peckhams' Crossley parked in front of the carriage house.

I glanced down at her. "I wouldn't say that I'm afraid. And anyway, it's none of my affair, is it?"

"Isn't it?"

"All I can do is warn him," I said. "If he chooses to propose to her, there's nothing I can do to stop him. I wasn't invited along. And he knows what I think, because I've told him, and if he refuses to listen to me, then that's his problem. He needn't bother to come crying to me about his unhappiness later."

Constance tucked her hand through my arm. "I can't tell you how glad I am to be rid of them. I guess they mean well—at least Uncle Maury does, I think, and I suppose Aunt Effie too, when she isn't busy trying to arrange an advantageous marriage for Laetitia—but I really could have done without them this weekend."

I could have, as well. Especially Laetitia. "This wasn't how I wanted your engagement party to go."

She sniggered and shook her head. "No. But it doesn't matter. All I want is to marry Francis, and now we can get married with nothing whatsoever hanging over us."

I nodded, even as I reflected that there were still plenty of things hanging over us. There was Uncle Herbert's second love-child, and Laetitia Marsden, and I would still like to know how that trench club ended up in my room, if it came to that.

But Constance didn't know about Uncle Herbert's extramarital shenanigans, and she had better things to think about than Laetitia's and Crispin's romance, so I merely squeezed her arm and smiled warmly as I turned her towards the boot room to follow Christopher and Aunt Roz back into the house. "Let's go inside and plan the most wonderful wedding ever."

"That sounds wonderful, girls," Aunt Roslyn said brightly over her shoulder, and tucked her arm through Constance's as we entered the boot room. I relinquished Constance to her future mother-in-law and took the arm Christopher extended to me. "Everything all right with you?"

"Never better," my best friend told me, and although it might not be strictly true, it was close enough for jazz as we closed the boot room door behind us and entered a quiet Beckwith Place.