Chapter 20

CHAPTER TWENTY

“So,” Christopher echoed. “Here we are.”

Tom nodded. And then neither of them said anything else for a few seconds while they stared at one another.

I cleared my throat. “It was good of you to come, Tom.” If I didn’t speak up at some point, I thought we were likely to sit here for rather a long time.

“Of course, Pippa.” If I had interrupted anything important, he gave no sign of it. It was Christopher who looked pink and flustered. “I can’t have people taking potshots at the two of you and not come down to have a look around.”

“And we appreciate it,” I said. “So what have you found out?”

He chuckled. “You realize that this is supposed to be me interviewing you, don’t you?”

“Of course I do. But it’s not as if you suspect us of anything, so you might as well just tell us what you’ve learned, and we’ll fill in as much as we can, with anything we know that you don’t.”

Tom nodded, and flipped the notebook open. “Let’s start from the beginning, then. Miss Cecily Fletcher died.”

“From what we think was an overdose of pennyroyal,” I confirmed. “Although I don’t know if the doctor has had a chance to confirm that.”

“He has. I saw him upstairs. He had time to get started on the post mortem before the next body dropped.”

“An overdose of pennyroyal, then. We think it might have been administered by two different people—one during after-dinner cocktails, and the other in a cup of what she thought was peppermint tea that she drank later.”

“She told you this?”

“She intimated it,” I said. “She had an upset stomach, and she mentioned, specifically, that it was peppermint tea. But when I smelled it, it smelled more like spearmint, which was why I thought of pennyroyal.”

“But that was later,” Tom said, and I nodded.

“Yes. She was sick in the lavatory, and I helped her into her room, and saw the cup of tea. After she died, I remembered it and realized that it might have been pennyroyal. At the time, I didn’t think anything of it, other than that she must have misspoken.”

Tom nodded and made a note. “Between Miss Peckham and Francis, I think I have information on everything that happened before and after she died. You already told me about the gunshot, Kit…”

Christopher nodded.

“Is there anything you’d like to add about it, Pippa?”

“I don’t think there’s anything more I can add,” I said. “It was over very quickly. One second we were standing there talking, the next a shot came from the woods. It passed between me and Francis. Christopher was a bit farther away, although of course it’s possible that someone simply has atrociously bad aim…”

Tom’s lips twitched. “But if you had to choose, you’d say it’s more likely that you or Francis was the intended victim?”

“If it was intended for anyone, yes. More likely, it was simply someone shooting off a rifle without aiming at anything at all, and accidentally coming close to us. But if I had to choose, I’d say it was meant for me. Or rather for Cecily Fletcher, since we looked a bit alike and since someone pretty obviously wanted her out of the way.”

Tom nodded. “Other than the four of you, and Miss Fletcher, and the elder Marsdens, and of course the staff, everyone else was in the woods. No one admits to shooting at the house or to seeing anyone else do so.”

No, of course they didn’t. “I don’t think it’s worth speculating over,” I said. “If—when—you figure out who actually killed Cecily, you can ask him or her whether he or she shot at me, but until then, let’s just chalk it up to an accident and move on.”

“As you wish.” Tom consulted his notes. “You went into the house?—”

I nodded. If Christopher hadn’t mentioned us crawling across the grass on our hands and knees, I wasn’t going to.

“—and upstairs to Miss Fletcher’s room, and you stayed there until she died.”

“We did, yes. Constance was still there when we came upstairs, but she ran down to phone the doctor. Francis said there wouldn’t be anything he could do, but we thought we ought to anyway.”

Tom nodded. “At that point, did you suspect foul play?”

Christopher snorted. “Pippa always suspects foul play. You should know that by now, Tom.”

“I remembered the tea,” I said, “so I suspected that it wasn’t natural causes. It was later, after Crispin said that Cecily wouldn’t have done it to herself, that I began to wonder whether someone else had done it.”

“Someone specific?”

Christopher snorted. “We have lots of theories. Just wait.”

I kicked at his ankle under the table, and told Tom, “My preference would be for you to arrest Lady Laetitia Marsden. But unfortunately, I don’t think it’s St George’s baby, so we can’t get rid of her that way.”

“We thought perhaps Lord Geoffrey?” Christopher said. “He’s a known womanizer, as you know, and?—”

Between us, we went through the entire scenario we had built earlier, featuring Geoffrey, Dominic Rivers, and Violet. Afterwards, for good measure, we also went through the same scenario again, featuring the Honorable Reggie Fish in Geoffrey’s role and Olivia Barnsley in Violet’s, with the exception that of course it was Violet who had been poisoned, not Olivia.

“But perhaps Olivia did it,” I suggested, “because Violet suspected Olivia of killing Cecily. Cecily and Violet were best friends.”

“Is that so? Even though Cecily hadn’t told her best friend who her boyfriend was?”

“That’s what Violet said. Although I suppose she might have been lying. Aunt Roz thought she was prevaricating about something. It might have been that.”

Tom nodded. “Then there are the Fortescues.”

Of course there were. We hadn’t really given much thought to them, although the same scenario worked for them as had worked for the Honorable Reggie and Miss Barnsley.

“They’ve been married for a few years now,” Tom said pensively, “and Lady Serena hasn’t provided an heir yet. If there’s a problem there, and Bilge went elsewhere, and then Cecily conceived, Lady Serena would have additional incentive for wanting her rival out of the way. Bilge might leave her and marry the mother of his child instead.”

Yes, of course he might, the bastard. “She lost a baby,” I said. “It came up over lunch. So that might make it sting more. And of course she made a point of pumping Christopher for information earlier, about what was going on upstairs.”

Christopher winced. “I don’t know that I’d call it pumping—a bit crude, that; thanks ever so, Pippa—but she did make a point of getting me on my own to ask about what Collins was up to.”

“She was clinging to your arm on her way down the stairs, too. Perhaps she’s enceinte again, and just hasn’t told anyone about it.”

“Neither of them mentioned any of this earlier,” Tom said and made a note. “Lady Serena would have known Mr. Rivers too, I assume?”

“They danced together last night,” I said, “while Bilge danced with Cecily.”

“Did anyone else dance with anyone in particular?”

“I mostly danced with Wolfgang,” I said, “because I didn’t think anyone else would do so. Francis was extremely rude, and so, frankly, was Bilge Fortescue. Christopher spent his time trying to talk Francis out of his sulk, and I don’t think he and Constance danced at all…”

Christopher shook his head. “Connie didn’t drink, either. Nellie brought her a cup of tea.”

“That’s right.” I nodded. “I saw that. Although Francis more than made up for it.”

He made a face. “And how. At any rate, I was forced into service at one point. Francis didn’t dance, Wolfgang only danced with Pippa, Crispin only danced with Laetitia—there was a dearth of partners on the floor.”

“Who did Lord Geoffrey dance with?”

Christopher and I exchanged a look. “Not me,” I said, “although I think he danced with everyone else. Cecily looked particularly uncomfortable about it, I noticed.”

We contemplated that thought in silence for a moment, before Tom said, “So that was last night. Nothing else happened of note?”

Christopher and I looked at one another. “Not aside from Natterdorff’s presence making a stir,” Christopher said, “and the ill-will that followed.”

Tom nodded. “It’s understandable. And as long as it wasn’t Natterdorff who died, it likely doesn’t have anything to do with anything.”

Likely not.

“You already know about Cecily and the cup of tea,” I said. “I don’t know who visited her room other than Dominic Rivers and St George. I saw Crispin leave her bedchamber, so I know that he was in there, but I can’t actually confirm that Rivers was.”

“Nellie said he was,” Tom said, “although there’s only Nellie’s word for that, of course. His roommate, Mr. Fish, was out with Miss Barnsley. They alibi one another. Not that anyone needs one, really.”

No, not for last night.

“What about this afternoon, when Rivers was killed? Can anyone alibi anyone else for that time?”

“You two were with Constable Collins and St George on the lawn,” Tom recited. “Francis and Constance were together. The Earl and Countess of Marsden were together. Lady Laetitia was sulking in her room?—”

Because Crispin had escaped her, no doubt. “Surely she didn’t say that?”

“Of course not. It was my own interpretation.” Tom flipped a page. “The Fortescues were together in their room.”

“And could be lying for one another. They’re married, so they might lie if one of them had committed murder.”

Unless Serena saw a chance to land Bilge with the murder and send him to prison while she kept the title and money, perhaps. If he had cheated on her with Cecily, she might consider it poetic justice.

“Bilge spent some time in France,” Tom said, “so he, at least, is no stranger to violence.”

“He called his wife coldblooded in the breakfast room this morning,” I answered.

Christopher nodded. “He said she was a crack shot, as well.”

“It isn’t likely to have been either of them in the woods, then. A crack shot wouldn’t have missed.”

Tom made a notation. “To continue, Geoffrey says he was with Violet this afternoon, but of course she can’t confirm that. Olivia Barnsley and Reginald Fish were together again.”

“But might be lying. Olivia, at least, would lie for Reggie.”

Tom nodded. “And that’s everyone.”

“Nellie was moving around the house during that time, making beds and tidying the rooms. I don’t suppose she saw anyone?”

“She says that she saw Mr. Rivers go past her and up the stairs to the second floor when she came out of Lord Geoffrey’s room,” Tom said. “Then she went into the suite at the end of the hall to prepare it for your mother and father’s arrival—” He glanced at Christopher, “and she didn’t notice anyone else going past while she was in there.”

“And when she got upstairs?”

“She didn’t,” Tom said. “Collins came tearing down the stairs after you found Rivers’s body, and told her on his way past what had happened, and for her to not touch the upstairs rooms. So she didn’t venture up to the second floor.”

I nodded. That was fine as far as it went. “She must have been up there at some point, though.”

Tom tilted his head. “What makes you say that?”

“Well, I saw her,” I said. “After all this had happened, of course. Aunt Roz and Uncle Herbert arrived, with His Grace, and Aunt Roslyn and I spoke, and then she went upstairs to look in on Olivia and Violet.”

Tom nodded. “And?”

“I eavesdropped on their conversation, and then Aunt Roz and I went into my room so I could change my clothes. I’d been wearing the same skirt and blouse all day.”

“Yes,” Tom said patiently. “And?”

“Well, when we came back out in the hallway, Nellie was replacing the vase in the alcove. Collins stuck his head out of Rivers’s room to ask her whether anyone else took care of the upstairs rooms—I think he had found fingerprints on the shards of the vase that had been used to bash Rivers over the head—and he wanted to know whether they were Nellie’s or someone else’s.”

“He’d have to take her fingerprints to make sure of that,” Tom said with a frown, and I nodded.

“And he planned to do, later. But he was alone at the time. The reinforcements from the village hadn’t arrived yet. It was just him, going through Dominic Rivers’s room and speculating.”

“And what did Nellie say?” Tom wanted to know.

“That there are two chambermaids and one parlor maid here at Marsden Manor. Jenny is the parlor maid—the one who was feeling unwell and had to put her feet up so Nellie served tea—and then there’s Edna, who takes care of the family’s bedchambers while Nellie takes care of the guests’.”

“The fingerprints on the vase are Nellie’s,” Tom said. “Collins told me. He must have had time to check them in the time since he asked the question.”

“Well, there doesn’t seem to be anything sinister about that. She probably dusted that vase every few days. Picked it up, put it on the floor, dusted the plinth, and put it back.”

“I imagine so,” Tom said, and we sat in silence for a few moments before Christopher cleared his throat.

“How did Nellie know that the vase needed to be replaced?”

“The vase with the peacock feathers?”

He nodded. “Did you see that the vase was missing when you were upstairs?”

“Twice, as a matter of fact. The first time was just after Rivers’s murder—I remember thinking that I hadn’t noticed it the first time we walked past, but I did look at it when we walked back down again, and I saw the feathers lying on the plinth. And the second time was when I followed Aunt Roz upstairs and tiptoed down the hall to listen at Violet Cumming’s door. I glanced into the alcove on my way past, and saw that the feathers were gone.”

“And then, a few minutes later, Nellie brought up a new vase.”

“It was more than a few minutes,” I said. “Perhaps ten or so. But yes, she did.”

“So sometime between Rivers’s murder and when she did that, she must have realized that the vase had been broken. Or she wouldn’t have known to replace it.”

“Perhaps Collins told her?” I suggested. “If he told her not to go upstairs because there had been another murder, and she asked what had happened, might he have told her what the murder weapon was?”

“He’s not supposed to,” Tom said. “That’s the sort of information that we can use to trip someone up. Or to determine how much they know about what happened. It’s not supposed to be shared with the public until we’re ready.”

“He’s a bit sweet on her, though,” I said indulgently. “She’s very pretty, you know, and he gets a bit flustered when he talks to her. If she asked, he might have tried to impress her.”

“That’s not how a copper is supposed to behave,” Tom said crossly. “Personal feelings aren’t supposed to interfere with the job.”

“Of course not.” I smiled sweetly. “But we all know that they do, don’t we? I don’t want to bring up nightclub raids, but?—”

“Yes, yes.” Tom waved this reminder away with a flap of his hand, but his cheekbones were flushed. “I take your point, Pippa. Say no more.”

I sniggered. “Don’t get me wrong, Tom. I’m appreciative. I’m probably more appreciative than Christopher.” Because I certainly hadn’t forgotten that low-voiced quarrel I had once overheard in our foyer in the London flat, in which Christopher had hissed that he hadn’t needed Tom’s help, and Tom had told him that well, that was just too bad, wasn’t it? “But it’s easy to get carried away when it’s personal.”

I thought about tacking an ‘isn’t it?’ onto that last sentence, but decided to hold it back. There was no sense in making things worse, after all. They were both as pink as piglets as it was, and avoiding each other’s eyes.

“At any rate,” I added, “he probably wouldn’t think of her as a suspect. Do you?”

“As far as I’m concerned,” Tom said, rallying now that the conversation had moved on from the personal back to business, “everyone is a suspect until I have proven that they’re not.”

“So you’re looking at the staff as well as the guests?”

“We’ve checked alibis for all of them, yes. None of the staff could have shot at you, of course—” He dared a glance at Christopher now, “as they were busy inside the house at the time of the shoot. The maids stayed on the first floor or below. None of them made it upstairs.”

“Except for Nellie.”

“So it seems. No one knew anything about the cup of tea for Miss Fletcher. Nellie said she took a cup of tea to Miss Peckham in the earlier part of the evening?—”

I nodded. “Different cup of tea, though. And it was hours before we went upstairs. Cecily was dancing at that point.”

“I didn’t think it was the same cup,” Tom said. “Just that that was the only cup of tea anyone mentioned.”

“The kitchen staff was probably done for the day by the time the second cup of tea was made. It was late. And if the kitchen was empty, anyone could have gone in there and made it.”

“The Fortescues and the Marsdens, elder and younger, all deny having been on the second floor at any point today. Geoffrey admits to walking Violet to her door last night. Lord St George, of course, was up there, as well.”

“But not when Dominic Rivers was killed,” I said. “He was on the lawn with us and with Constable Collins when we think that happened.”

Tom nodded. “Yes, Pippa. No one thinks Lord St George is guilty of either of these murders.”

It was my turn to flush. “My apologies.”

Tom smirked. “No matter. It’s easy to get carried away when it’s personal, isn’t it?”

“You tosser,” I told him. “That’s the last time I hold back when speaking to you.”

Christopher sniggered. “Turnabout is fair play, Pippa. And you can’t say that he doesn’t have the right.”

Of course not. “Moving on, then. What else can we tell you, Tom? Any other plot holes that need filling in?”

Tom looked down at his notebook, but before he had the chance to say anything, there was a quick rap on the door, which then opened a crack. Constable Collins stuck his nose in. “Pardon me, Sarge?”

“Yes, Collins,” Tom said.

Collins pushed the door open far enough that he was able to come through, and then he pushed it shut again behind him.

“We found this in the young lady’s room.”

He held out a hand. In it was a handkerchief, and inside that was a small glass vial. He placed it on the table, still on top of the handkerchief, and we all leaned in.

The vial was about the size of my thumb, and unmarked. The stopper was still in it, although there was nothing left to stopper, really. A smear of some clear, thick liquid in the bottom, that spread out into a slick as the bottle went horizontal, but not enough of it to reach the opening, even lying flat.

“Which young lady’s room?” Tom looked from the bottle up at Collins, who was leaning on the back of my chair with one gloved hand. “The dead one, the poisoned one, or one of the others?”

“The poor young lady who’s ill, Detective Sergeant.”

Tom nodded. “I was afraid maybe you’d come to tell me that she’d died.”

Collins shook his head. “No, sir. Doctor’s sitting with her—there’s no rush on the post mortem for the young man; we know what killed him—and so far she’s holding on.”

“But you searched her room?”

“Not to say searched, sir. It was right there on the bedside table. I saw it as soon as I stepped in to see how the young lady was doing.”

“Good work,” Tom said, eyeing it. “I don’t suppose you’ve had a chance to test it?”

“No, sir. But I’d have to say that I think it’s the same thing that killed the other young lady and knocked this one out.”

Tom nodded. “I’d have to agree with you. But we still have to test it.”

“Of course, sir. The thing I wanted to show you—other than that I found the vial—is that there are no fingerprints on it.”

Tom’s brows arched. “None?”

Collins shook his head. “No, sir. Not the young lady’s, nor anyone else’s, either.”

“That’s interesting,” Tom said, “isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

There was silence in the room while we all stared at the small vial as if waiting for it to come to life.

“Open it, Collins,” Tom said.

“Sir?”

“Pick it up—in the handkerchief, if you please—and take the cork out, and smell it.”

Collins did as bid. His face twisted into a grimace as he held the open vial up to his nose—perhaps he was afraid that the fumes would knock him out on contact—but it cleared as soon as he took a whiff (and didn’t crumple in a heap on the floor). “Mint, sir.”

Tom waved a hand. “Let Miss Darling have a sniff, if you don’t mind?”

Collins turned towards me and proffered the vial. I leaned in and inhaled. And nodded. “Spearmint. Yes.”

“The same thing you smelled in the tea last night?”

“Spearmint is spearmint,” I said, “but yes, as far as I can make out, it smells the same.”

Tom nodded. “Best go and make sure, Collins. Hand it off to the lab boffins, there’s a good chap.”

“Yes, sir.” Collins corked the vial again and carried it carefully towards the door.

“Good job, Collins,” Tom called after him.

“Thank you, sir.” Collins looked pleased as he shut the door behind himself.

Tom let the silence sit for a moment before he looked from me to Christopher and back. “You understand what this means?”

“Violet didn’t dose herself?” I said. “I didn’t think we thought she had done.”

“Of course not, Pippa,” Christopher said. “Someone dosed her, and then left the vial in her room to make it appear as if she were the one who killed Cecily. Is that right, Tom?”

“Very good, Kit,” Tom nodded.

“So…” I thought about it. “Not Aunt Roz, surely?”

“Of course not, Pippa.” Tom flipped his notebook shut and stowed it in his pocket along with his pencil. “And not you, either.”

He pushed the chair back and got to his feet. “I better go and discuss procedure with the others. See whether I’m authorized to arrest anyone.”

He headed for the door, whistling under his breath.

“Don’t you dare!” I called after him. “Tom! If you know who did it, tell us!”

He shot me a look over his shoulder. “You have the same information I do, Pippa. I’m sure you can figure it out.”

And then he winked at Christopher and disappeared into the hallway before I could say anything else.