“All of London is, I think.”
We walked another few steps in silence before I added, “Christopher and I overheard some of the conversation you had with your father yesterday afternoon, for your information.”
And yes, the biggest reason I brought it up was to wipe that annoyingly self-satisfied expression off his face.
I hadn’t expected a stumble, nor did I get one, but his steps did check for a fraction of a second. Just long enough for me to notice the lack of smoothness. When he turned to look at me, he had lost a little color. “What did you say?”
“You and your father had a conversation yesterday afternoon, in your sitting room. After the incident with you and me and the secret passage in the Duchess’s Chamber.”
“Oh.” On the face of it, it looked as if he might be relieved by that explanation, which was interesting. Perhaps there had been a different conversation—one that had included his grandfather? The conversation that had sent him hurtling down the corridor and into his room in the first place?—and that was what he’d been afraid we would have overheard?
“Christopher and I were passing by your room,” I explained, “and we heard your voices.”
“Without putting your ear to the door at all, I assume?”
“Totally without.” I grinned at him. “Neither of you was precisely quiet, you might remember. So who have you lost your heart to, St George? Flossie Schlomsky and her dime-store empire? Or some unsuitable waif from darkest Calcutta with no money and fewer prospects?”
He gave me a look down his nose that could have wilted the yew hedges, just as we escaped from the entrance to the maze and started to make our way towards the Hall. “Neither. And I’ll thank you to keep your impertinent questions to yourself, Darling. It’s none of your business who I...”
He stopped, with a sound like he was gagging.
I giggled. “It’s all right to admit you have feelings, St George. It’s hard to believe, I agree, but—”
“For God’s sake, Darling, have you no sense of decorum? You can’t ask a man about his feelings the same way you ask if he’d like butter with his crumpets.”
He yanked on one of the double doors to the drawing room and, when it opened, pushed me through. The room within was empty, and Crispin gave it a single comprehensive look before he raised his voice. “Tidwell! Where are you? Tidwell!”
A moment passed, and then there was the sound of running footsteps outside in the hall. When the door into the drawing room burst open from the other side, though, it wasn’t Tidwell in the doorway, but Christopher. He stood framed in the opening for a second, eyes wild, before he took a couple of long steps into the room and yanked me away from Crispin. “Pippa! What happened?”
“Grimsby,” I said into his shoulder. “Dead. In the maze.”
It was Christopher’s turn to stagger, and yes, it was absolutely a stagger. I grabbed for his arm, and so did Crispin, so for a second we were both keeping Christopher upright. Then he shook us both off. “How?”
“Shot,” Crispin said, which was news to me. I honestly hadn’t thought about it, or looked around for a weapon. Or noticed one. There had been no knife handle sticking out of Grimsby’s chest—I would have noticed that much—so a bullet made sense.
I grabbed Christopher’s arm again. “The shot. Last night, when you were—”
He snapped his eyes to me, and I stopped. For a second, no one said anything. Then…
“You heard a shot last night?” Crispin asked. His voice was pleasant, not demanding at all.
I nodded, and made a point not to look at Christopher as I did it. “Around eleven-fifteen or eleven-twenty, maybe. We thought it came from farther away. That it was poachers. But now…”
“Now it looks very much like we heard the shot that killed Grimsby,” Christopher said grimly. “We’ll have to… Oh, Tidwell. There you are.”
“Mr. Astley.” Tidwell gave him a look, before he glanced past me, “Miss Darling,” and fixed his attention on Crispin. “My lord.”
Crispin blinked. Perhaps it was the first time he’d been addressed as such. “Tidwell. Grimsby has been shot. He’s in the middle of the garden maze.”
“Dead,” I added, since I didn’t feel that part had been clear from Crispin’s explanation.
There followed a humming sort of moment, before Tidwell said, “Very good, my lord. I’ll call the constabulary in Little Sutherland, shall I?”
“If you please, Tidwell. And let my father know?”
“Of course, my lord.” Tidwell withdrew, as placid as if murders in the garden maze was a weekly occurrence.
We stood in silence for a moment, until— “I need a drink,” Crispin said.
