Crispin glanced over at him. “I don’t imagine so. My mother can be overly dramatic, but she isn’t stupid.”
Christopher nodded. “We have to assume, then, that he’s truly dead. What’s next, do you suppose? Ringing the doctor?”
“The doctor won’t be able to do anything if he’s dead,” I pointed out, and they both turned to look at me.
After a moment, Crispin said, “Aunt Roslyn will know what to do. She seems to be handling this better than either of us.”
Probably because there was no love lost between Aunt Roz and her—presumably dead—father-in-law, either. It’s easier to be pragmatic when your feelings aren’t involved.
“Where’s Uncle Harold?” Christopher wanted to know, and Crispin shrugged.
“I have no idea. Uncle Herbert?”
“No idea, either. Pippa and I spent the afternoon together, but we didn’t see either of them.”
“Perhaps they’re together?” I suggested. “Perhaps they decided to have a walk down to the village pub after all the yelling this afternoon?”
There was a moment while we all contemplated the yelling. Crispin was undoubtedly thinking of the row Christopher and I had overheard between him and Uncle Harold in his rooms earlier, but of course he didn’t know that we knew anything about that.
“I can’t imagine Uncle Harold and my father lifting a pint together in the Fox and Hare,” Christopher said, and Crispin shook his head.
“Father may have locked himself in his study. He does that sometimes, when something’s on his mind. And I suppose Uncle Herbert might be in there with him. Although it’s surprising that neither of them seemed to have heard my mother carrying on.”
By now we had reached the open door to the Duke’s Chambers, and all our feet checked for a moment as the conversation fizzled.
Christopher and Crispin exchanged a glance.
“You’re older,” Crispin said, and Christopher rolled his eyes.
“Are we doing this again?”
“I’ll go first,” I told them. “I’m older than both of you.”
Which was true, even if it was only about four months in Christopher’s case, and about six in Crispin’s.
I dropped Christopher’s hand and stepped across the threshold before either of them could stop me. I’m not sure they would have tried, although Christopher’s hand twitched when I let it go, and Crispin’s mouth opened for a second, then closed again.
This is probably where I admit that I had only been in the duke’s bedchamber once or twice before. It had been off-limits during those long-ago games of hide-and-seek, and I had rarely been called on the carpet before him. Not earlier today, and only a very few times previously. Usually, it had been when one of us had accidentally managed to break some heirloom or other during play, and we were summoned as a group to make account.
The chamber looked the same as I remembered it. Old and stuffy, full of heavy, dark furniture that likely hadn’t changed in the two hundred years since the Hall was built. The bed had velvet draperies that matched the dark blue and gold damask that covered the upper half of the walls, above where the wainscoting—the one that hid the secret door—ended. The bed itself was huge, mounded with pillows and blankets, and the bottom right corner also held a tray with a teapot and cup, cream and sugar, tongs, and plate of biscuits. Aunt Charlotte must have put it down somewhere semi-safe before succumbing to the vapors.
After taking in all that, I could no longer avoid looking at the occupant of the bed.
He was half sitting, half lying against the pillows, and from where we were standing, just inside the door, he didn’t look particularly dead. More surprised at our entry. His jaw had relaxed, and it gave him a look of open-mouthed astonishment. It was only when one stepped closer, and realized that the cloudy blue eyes didn’t follow our approach towards the bed, that the thought of death would have presented itself. And of course, once we got closer, it became more obvious, too. The skin was waxy and a bit yellow, the pupils dilated, and the eyes bloodshot and staring, while the narrow chest below the striped pyjamas didn’t expand or sink with breath.
Crispin’s hand shook when he reached out and put it against his grandfather’s throat.
“Cool,” he said after a moment, and his voice shook, too. We each took a step back, as if we had synchronized it. Crispin brushed his fingers against the outside of his trousers once and then again.
“I don’t see anything to indicate foul play,” I remarked, looking around. “No sign of a struggle, no odor of almonds.”
Crispin’s eyebrow inched up, and he looked at Christopher, who told him, “Detective fiction.”
Crispin’s lip twitched in a sneer. After a moment, Christopher added, “The excitement probably killed him. All that yelling and carrying on. Telling everyone what to do and how to do it. And then the disappointment when we didn’t all immediately jump when he said to.”
“He was quite an old man,” I agreed. “He must have been close to ninety, surely?”
Christopher nodded. “Not surprising at all if his heart should give out at that age, after an afternoon of browbeating his descendants.”
