Chapter 10

CHAPTER TEN

The atmosphere in the dining room was subdued. There was a lot of chatter, but most if it took place privately. Constance and Francis had their heads together and were conversing in low tones over the roast beef. Francis glanced our way occasionally, at me sitting next to Wolfgang, and scowled, so I thought I could guess what their discussion was about.

Laetitia was whispering sweet nothings in Crispin’s ear—or whispering something, at any rate, whether it was sweet or not. From his expression, I would guess not. At one point he looked across the table and saw me staring, and crossed his eyes in my direction. He stopped short of sticking his tongue out, but I thought he might have wanted to. Then Laetitia noticed my looking, and shot me a glare that could have dropped me dead where I sat, before she turned back to Crispin and hissed more intensely, directly into his ear. He winced.

I rolled my eyes and turned my attention to the rest of the table.

After last night, one might have expected to see Lady Violet Cummings pressing her advantage with Lord Geoffrey, and Olivia Barnsley likewise with the Honorable Reggie Fish. Such was not the case. Geoffrey flirted expertly with Lady Serena while her husband watched sourly, and Violet and Olivia were engaged in what looked like a tense conversation of their own, that involved a lot of sideways glances at the rest of the table—or more specifically, at the men present. If I had to guess, I would say that they were discussing Cecily, and perhaps who might have been responsible for her predicament.

Reggie, meanwhile, kept his attention on his plate, and didn’t say a word to anyone. So did Dominic Rivers, who—it must be said—looked a bit the worse for wear this morning. One might even use the word ‘hunted,’ if one were so inclined. He was wan under the olive skin, and when he caught me looking his way, his eyes got wide and he shied like a spooked horse.

Beside me, Christopher gave a snort. “That’s a sign of a guilty conscience if I ever saw one.”

I nodded. “Chances are the pennyroyal came from him originally, whether Cecily bought it herself or someone else did. I’m sure he’s worried that someone will figure it out.”

Christopher tilted his face to give Rivers another contemplative look. “I wonder whether he would be inclined to share that knowledge?”

I shook my head. “Not likely. It’s a crime, isn’t it? Not on par with actually using it on someone else, but still a crime. And he’s avoided getting caught in one of those so far.”

Not for lack of trying on Tom’s part.

After a second, I added, “Besides, I don’t get the impression that the local constabulary is terribly interested in investigating this as a homicide.”

So far, they hadn’t asked any of us any questions beyond the very obvious, and nothing they had asked had led me to believe they thought Cecily’s death was anything but a tragic—if self-induced—accident.

“Hard to blame them for that,” Christopher said fairly. “I’m sure murders don’t come along very often here.”

No, of course they didn’t. It was rather surprising that there had already been another one, actually, so soon after the events at the Dower House the first weekend in May.

Back then, there had been no question at all that what had happened had been a murder. Johanna de Vos had been found in the Dowager Lady Peckham’s bed with her tongue sticking out and a scarf wrapped around her throat. This was much more ambiguous.

And besides, back then, a representative for Scotland Yard had been right there to take charge. Such was not the case this time.

And speak of the devil?—

“I wish Tom were here,” Christopher muttered.

I nodded. So did I. And not only because it would be uncommonly nice to have a professional on site again, one who can recognize a homicide when he sees one, but because I like Tom, and so does Christopher.

Thomas Gardiner is a Detective Sergeant with Scotland Yard in London. Back in May, we had just discovered Johanna’s dead body when Tom arrived from Sutherland Hall to inform the Peckhams—Constance and her brother Gilbert—that their mother had died. She had been at Sutherland visiting Duke Harold for her late friend, Duchess Charlotte’s, funeral, and had succumbed in her sleep. (That turned out to be a murder, too, but of course we didn’t know that at the time.)

Tom, bless him, had volunteered to make the drive from Little Sutherland in Wiltshire to Marsden-on-Crane in Dorset to deliver the news of Lady Peckham’s death personally. He’s rather fond of Christopher, too, which was partly why he had done it, I thought. I’m not entirely sure whether that fondness is romantic in nature, the way Christopher is sweet on Tom, or whether it’s simply because Tom was Robbie’s best friend at Eton, and Christopher is Robbie’s little brother. But in either case, he had made his way to the Dower House, and when he had, he had taken charge of the investigation into Johanna’s death.

He was not here this time. Had it been up to Crispin, I wouldn’t have been surprised to see him—they were friendly, if not as friendly as Tom and Christopher; Crispin, it must be said, is not as loveable as Christopher is, nor is he Robbie’s brother—but I was sure Laetitia would have put her foot down on any suggestion of inviting a policeman to her home and her engagement party.

“We could ring him up and ask him to come?”

Christopher sighed. “We’ve been over this, Pippa. One cannot simply ring up Scotland Yard and tell them they’re needed. Only the Chief Constable can do that.”

I glanced around the table. “Surely the senior Marsdens must be friendly with the local Chief Constable? Could we perhaps prevail on them to intercede?”

“Not if they believe Cecily’s death was an accident,” Christopher said, “and everyone here has incentive to believe that.”

Yes, of course they did. If it had been an accident, no one was guilty of murder, or even criminal negligence.

I should have questioned Crispin more closely on why he believed that Cecily wouldn’t have done this to herself, I realized, but of course I hadn’t had the opportunity right then. And—I glanced in the direction of Laetitia and St George—there was no possible way I could question him now. Not without the entire table hearing me.

Although… would that be so bad? It would certainly get the conversation going, and if people were thrown off balance and talking impulsively, perhaps someone might let something slip.

“St George.”

He looked up and over, harassment clear in his expression.

“When you were in Cecily’s room last night?—”

Laetitia’s eyes narrowed. Someone gasped. Crispin sighed. “Yes, Darling. Was it really necessary to say it like that?”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” I told him sweetly. “You weren’t the only one, after all.”

“No, I’m sure I wasn’t.”

Every other conversation had stopped dead now, while everyone was watching us. Laetitia leaned away from Crispin but kept her eyes on me. The expression in them could have peeled the skin from my bones.

I ignored her in favor of her fiancé. “Was she drinking tea, by any chance, when you were in there?”

He eyed me silently for a moment. “As a matter of fact she was.”

“Did you bring it to her?”

He shook his head.

“Do you know who did?”

“No,” Crispin said. “I didn’t see it arrive, and she didn’t mention it.”

That was too bad. I had hoped she might have said something at a point when she would have had no reason to lie, and no inkling that something was wrong with the tea.

“Would anyone else like to confess?”

There was the sound of a collective intake of breath and an almost visible stiffening of spines that spread around the table, and suddenly everyone was talking, all over one another.

Laetitia raised her voice. “Quiet!”

The voices cut off as if by a knife. Laetitia turned to me. “Miss Darling.”

“Lady Laetitia.”

She scowled at me. “Why are you asking about the tea?”

“That should be obvious, shouldn’t it?” I flicked a glance at Crispin, who made a face. “If this didn’t happen on its own, someone made it happen. And the tea is a likely vehicle.”

There was a moment of appalled silence. Then?—

“That’s an awful suggestion, young woman,” Bilge Fortescue said roughly. “I’ll have you know that it’s a lot more common than you might think.”

‘It’ being a spontaneous miscarriage, I assumed. His wife made a pained sound, and he looked immediately guilty, before reaching out and putting a paw on her shoulder. “Sorry, Serena. But you know?—”

Serena bit her lip, eyes on the table, while she blinked rapidly. Not just a loss, it seemed, but a recent one.

“I’m sorry to have brought up a difficult subject,” I said, since I certainly hadn’t been going for this kind of reaction. “It wasn’t my intention to make anyone uncomfortable.”

Or not this kind of uncomfortable, at any rate. Guilty and afraid, yes, in the event that they had murdered Cecily. But upset because they had lost a baby of their own, certainly not.

“I’m so sorry, Serena,” Lady Violet said, patting Serena’s hand, not without a vicious glance my way, while Francis muttered, “Sorry, Bilge, old chap.”

Bilge nodded, and kept patting his wife’s shoulder, even as he scowled at me. I was about to apologize again, but before I could, a voice intoned my name from the doorway behind me. “Miss Darling?”

I turned on my chair. “Oh. Constable Collins. How good to see you again.”

Collins looked uncomfortable. “If I could have a word with you, Miss Darling?”

“Of course,” I said, and made to push my chair back. Wolfgang got there first, and pulled it out for me. I gave him a smile. “Thank you.”

He clicked his heels and smoldered. As Constable Collins shut the door behind me, I could hear the voices start up in the dining room again.

I smiled. “What can I do for you, Constable?”

Collins shifted from one foot to the other, looking awkward. He’s a young man, even younger than me, and he was clearly feeling out of sorts. “It’s about what you said in there, Miss Darling.”

I nodded encouragingly.

“About the young lady being dead…”

“Yes, Constable.” I took pity on him. “As I’m sure you noticed, the consensus seems to lean towards natural causes.”

“But you don’t think so?”

“I’d like to,” I said. “Nobody likes to contemplate murder, do they?”

Except for those of us who enjoy a good detective novel, of course.

“Then why?—?”

“The teacup in her room last night smelled of spearmint,” I said.

Collins eyed me. “Pennyroyal.”

“That was the assumption I made.”

“We assumed she would have done it to herself,” Collins said. “Many girls do, when they find themselves in the family way.”

He sounded practically blasé about it. I didn’t think it happened that often, but perhaps I was traveling in the wrong circles.

Or perhaps the women in my circles—like the Hon Cecily—had other ways of dealing with the matter when it happened.

“Lord St George didn’t believe she would have done it herself. We talked about it this morning, after we learned what had happened. He spoke to her last night, in her room, after the party. I don’t know what she said to give him that impression; you’d have to ask him.”

Collins nodded. He had pulled out his little notebook, and was scribbling in it with the ubiquitous pencil stub that every policeman seems to carry in his pocket. “And how did Lord St George seem?”

I could see the trap clearly, so it was easy to step aside and avoid it. “He was shocked, I suppose. Or surprised, at least. A bit pale, if I’m honest.”

“Aside from that?”

“He told me that it was none of his concern. He hadn’t been intimate with Miss Fletcher in a long time.”

Constable Collins blushed, and so did I. He cleared his throat. “What happened then?”

“We heard steps on the staircase from downstairs,” I said, “and we didn’t want to be seen talking together— This is his engagement party, you know. His fiancée is the jealous sort.”

Collins eyed me. “Is that so? What did you do?”

“We stepped into my room and finished our conversation. When we opened the door to the hallway a few minutes later, Dominic Rivers was standing out there.”

“I’m not familiar with Mr. Rivers,” Collins said.

Of course not. That had been a different murder case. “Dark-haired gentleman. A bit swarthy. A dope peddler from London down for the festivities.”

Collins’s eyebrows rose. “A dope dealer?”

I nodded. “Scotland Yard is aware. You remember Detective Sergeant Gardiner, don’t you?”

“Of course.” Collins glanced around vaguely. “He’s not here, is he?”

“I’m afraid not. But he knows about Rivers. If they had enough evidence against him, I’m sure he’d be in Wormwood Scrubs by now.”

Collins nodded. “So you opened the door and Mr. Rivers was there. Was anything said?”

“Nothing pertaining to her death,” I said. “He tried to give Lord St George a hard time. I reminded him that Lord St George wasn’t the only one to have had a conversation with Miss Fletcher last night—the maid told me that Mr. Rivers had been in there, too—and then he withdrew to his room, and Crispin went downstairs, and I went to bed.”

Collins scribbled it all down. “You mentioned a teacup?”

“It was in her room,” I said. “She said she asked for peppermint tea for an upset stomach, but it smelled more like spearmint to me. Do you know for certain what killed her?”

“Doctor will have to do the autopsy first,” Collins said, “but pennyroyal’s as good a guess as any. Do you know what happened to the cup?”

“I dumped the dregs down the drain and put the cup and saucer on the floor outside her door. It was gone the next morning. I’m sure by now it’s been washed and put away.”

“Just so.” Collins looked at his notebook for a moment. “Anything else you can tell me?”

“She came into the lavatory when I was brushing my teeth,” I said. “She was already unwell then. She vomited. I had to help her back to her room and into bed.”

“Did you talk?”

“Not about the tea. She did confirm that Lord St George is not— was not—the father of the child.”

“And you think she told you the truth?”

“She had no reason to lie,” I said steadily.

Collins nodded. “Who does that leave?”

“Of the men here, I suppose you mean?”

“If someone killed her,” Collins said, “as you seem to think someone did, it’s likely to be connected to the situation, don’t you think?”

It was, rather. Although— “I didn’t imply that anyone killed her deliberately, you know. Pennyroyal—if it was pennyroyal—is fatal in large doses. But someone might have just tried to induce a miscarriage, not kill her. The murder might have been an accident.”

“It’s still murder,” Collins said coolly. “And in case you’re unaware, just procuring the means to induce an abortion is a crime, too.”

Yes, of course it was. “I wasn’t quarreling,” I said blandly. “As for who is here, you already know a lot of us. Lord Geoffrey Marsden is local, of course.”

Collins made a face, one he tried to smooth out a moment later, a bit too late.

“He gets around,” I added, “as I’m sure you know. I don’t think anyone would be surprised if it turned out to be his baby.”

Collins shook his head.

“You probably know him better than I do—I’ve only met him a few times—so you might know better than I would whether dosing someone with pennyroyal is something he’d do if he found himself in this position.”

Collins’s eyes were distant, as he undoubtedly thought about whether Geoffrey was capable of such a thing or not.

“You met Christopher and Francis Astley, me and Lord St George at the Dower House in May. I can assure you that neither Christopher nor Francis was responsible for what happened. Francis is engaged to Constance Peckham now, so in that sense he might have had motive, but he didn’t know Cecily Fletcher.”

Collins nodded.

“And Christopher is… well, you’ve met Christopher. Miss Fletcher wasn’t his type.”

Collins’s lips twitched, but he didn’t say anything.

“She absolved Lord St George of involvement,” I added. “He told me that he hasn’t had anything of that nature to do with her for six months, and she confirmed it. She showed no outward sign of being pregnant, so whenever this happened, it was less than half a year ago.”

Collins nodded.

“Dominic Rivers is here, as I told you. He’s well known to this group, and provides them all with dope. I don’t know whether that includes things like pennyroyal, or if he sticks with cocaine and opium and the like, but it would be worth asking him about it. I also don’t know who invited him here. Lord St George said he hadn’t done, and I know that Christopher or I didn’t. I don’t think Francis or Constance knew who he was. He arrived with the Honorable Reginald Fish, so it might have been him.”

Collins scribbled it down. I took a breath and continued. “I know nothing about the Honorable Reggie. We met for the first time yesterday. He looked and sounded like the typical young man about town, and I have no reason to think he isn’t. He danced a dance with Cecily last evening, so I know they know one another, but beyond that I can’t tell you what their relationship might have been like.”

“But it’s possible he was the father of the child?”

“It’s possible from where I’m standing. It’s also possible that it was Dominic Rivers or Lord Geoffrey Marsden.”

Collins nodded. “Who else is here? There was another young gentleman, wasn’t there?”

“There were two,” I said. “The blond is the Graf von und zu Natterdorff?—”

“German.”

There had been no emotion in Collins’s voice, but I bristled nonetheless. “My cousin, as it happens. Or so he says.”

Collins didn’t comment, just waited with his pencil stub poised over the page of the notebook. When he didn’t say anything else, I continued grudgingly. “As far as I know, he’s never met Cecily before. As far as I know, he’s never met anyone here, except for me, Christopher, and Crispin.”

“Did Lord St George invite him?”

“I think Laetitia did,” I said. “I can’t imagine any world in which Crispin would have wanted Wolfgang here. They don’t get along.”

“But you can imagine why Miss Laetitia would have wanted that?”

I couldn’t, honestly. In her position, I would have done it to irritate Crispin, but there was no reason why Laetitia would have wanted to irritate her new fiancé, and it wasn’t as if she would have done it to do me any favors, either, since she and I don’t get along.

Besides, his being here was upsetting Francis, and apparently also Bilge Fortescue, so inviting him at all was a thorn in a lot of people’s sides.

“You’ll have to ask her,” I told Collins. “But that’s Wolfgang. The last gentleman in attendance—other than the Earl of Marsden—is Bilge Fortescue.”

Collins’s eyebrows rose as he wrote it down.

“William,” I corrected myself. “William Fortescue and his wife, Lady Serena. Apparently he’s nicknamed Bilge because he talks a lot of rubbish.”

“What information do you have about Mr. Fortescue?”

“Not much beyond what I’ve already told you. He and Francis went to Eton together. And then to France. He married Lady Serena a few years ago. My cousin didn’t go to the wedding, and I don’t imagine he has seen Bilge Fortescue in years. Mr. Fortescue was rude to Wolfgang when he and his wife first arrived, but so was Francis, so I can’t really complain about that, I suppose.”

“It’s natural,” Collins said absently, still writing, “for someone who served in the War.”

“I suppose. At any rate, that’s the whole group. Or the male half of it, anyway.”

“What about the female half?”

“There’s Constance Peckham and Laetitia Marsden. You know both of them. There’s me. There’s Bilge’s wife, Lady Serena. There was Cecily Fletcher. And there’s Lady Violet Cummings and the—apparently—Honorable Olivia Barnsley. I’ve seen Violet Cummings before—I recognized her face in the ballroom yesterday—but I’ve never met Olivia Barnsley.”

“Can you tell me anything about either of them?”

“Olivia spent the evening with the Honorable Reggie,” I said, “or so Nellie told me. Lady Violet seems to be making up to Geoffrey Marsden.”

Collins made a face. “Nellie told you this?”

“The maid, yes. I assume you know Nellie?”

“We’ve met,” Collins said. “She has been here for a few weeks now.”

The tips of his ears were red, from which I deduced that he might think Nellie was pretty.

He was a nice young man, however, so I decided not to twit him about it. I wouldn’t have extended Christopher or Crispin the same courtesy, for the record. Not that either would have reacted with red ears to a pretty girl: Christopher because he doesn’t swing that way, and Crispin because he has far too much experience with women to blush simply because someone’s pretty.

“As for what else I know about them,” I said instead, “it’s not much. Like Cecily Fletcher, Lady Violet at one time had a fling with St George. Olivia Barnsley might have done, as well.”

“Gets around, doesn’t he?”

And then Collins blushed, as if he hadn’t intended to say anything, but the words had simply slipped out. I smirked. “You’re not wrong. Although from now on, Laetitia will keep him on a much shorter leash, I’m sure.”

Collins muttered something. He was bent over his notes, and the back of his neck was red.

“Before I go back to the dining room,” I added, “I ought to let you know that someone shot at me earlier. Or at us, I suppose I should say. It might have been Christopher or Francis who was the intended victim and not me.”

He raised his eyes from the notebook to look at me. “Why would anyone want to shoot at any of you?”

“I have no idea,” I said. “The suggestion was made that I look a bit like Cecily Fletcher from a distance. Perhaps the murderer—if there was one—thought the pennyroyal had failed to kill her and decided to take a more active role.”

“Poisoning is active enough,” Collins said. “When and where did this take place?”

I gave him the details, and added, “The bullet should still be in the wall outside. Or on the grass below the wall. We didn’t stop to pick it up.”

“Would you show me?”

“I’d be delighted.” I gestured him down the hallway towards the boot room and the exit to the outside. A minute later we were standing there in the warm sunshine, at the back of the house, and I had to fight back the shiver that ran down my spine as I recalled the sound of the bullet whistling past my ear and embedding itself in the wall.

“We were standing there.” I pointed to a spot a few feet out from the wall and to my right. “I had come out through this door. It was just after Constance and I had found Cecily. She was still alive, but not doing well. I ran downstairs to find Francis. He and Christopher were setting up wickets for a game of croquet for those of us who didn’t want to shoot partridge. Over there, see?”

I pointed out the already-standing wickets, and the ones that had been tossed to the grass when the two men had dropped everything to come towards me.

“The shot came from the trees. I’m not certain where. But the bullet ended up in the wall… somewhere over there.” I waved vaguely to the gray stone. “It passed within a foot of my head, and not much farther from Francis’s.”

Collins gave me a look on his way past, as he headed for the wall to look for the bullet. “What happened next?”

“We dropped to the ground and crawled to the door,” I said. “It was quite undignified. But there were no more shots. And it might have been an accident. Someone in the woods being careless.”

Collins hummed something that might have been agreement or its complete opposite. “Here we are,” he said. I wandered closer, and saw where a chip of stone had been taken out of the wall, sometime recently. The wound was lighter in color than the rest of the stone around it.

Collins squatted down and began looking around for the bullet. “You may go back to the dining room, Miss Darling,” he told me. “Would you tell your cousin I would like a word with him?”

“Of course. Which cousin do you want to see?”

“The younger Mr. Astley,” Collins said. “Ah. There we are.”

He eyed with satisfaction a piece of ground just to the left of his knee. I peered at it, too, and saw a glint of metal.

“Is that the bullet?”

He nodded. “Go fetch your cousin, Miss Darling. In the meantime, may I borrow a handkerchief?”

“Of course.” I pulled it out of my sleeve and gave it to him. “I’ll be right back.”

“Just your cousin, Miss Darling. You know how this goes. Separate statements.”

I made a face. “Of course, Constable.”

I headed for the door to the house, leaving him squatting there on the grass like a gnome, handkerchief in hand.