“I’m a bit worried about Francis,” I admitted.
Christopher squinted at me. “How so?”
“Well, there’s the dope. That’s enough to worry anyone, I imagine. St George made it sound like it wasn’t a big deal, but I don’t like the idea of it.”
“I’m sure Crispin has seen plenty of dope of his own,” Christopher said, “but I agree with you. I don’t like the idea of it, either.”
“And the light in his room did go out while I was standing in the conservatory last night. Before we heard the gunshot.”
“So Francis might have turned out his light, left his room, and gone to the garden maze,” Christopher said. “Is that what you’re saying?”
I nodded. “He knows how to use a gun.” Something neither Christopher nor I did, as far as I knew. But Francis had been in the war, and the idea of settling things with a pistol might have come quite naturally to him.
“Ugh,” Christopher said with a grimace. “I don’t like this. I know we aren’t as close as we used to be, but he’s still my brother. I don’t like to speculate on his viability as a murderer.”
I didn’t, either. “Perhaps we should just talk about something else entirely. I wonder how long we’ll have to stay here before the police let us go home?”
“I imagine once they’ve arrested someone,” Christopher said. “Just in case one of us did it, they wouldn’t want us haring off to London and perhaps places further afield, where they might lose track of us.”
“A good thing neither of us have plans for tomorrow, then.”
Christopher nodded. “A very good thing.”
Once the contingentfrom the maze—Christopher’s friend Tom and the old man I assumed was the police surgeon—made it back into the house, things started to move forward. We were all gathered together in the drawing room, from all different parts of the house—the above-stairs, I mean; the servants had their own gathering in the kitchen or staff room, I assumed—and everyone was introduced.
“Doctor Curtis,” the bulldog-faced man said shortly, with a nod at the older gentleman. “The Yard’s medical examiner. Detective Sergeants Gardiner and Finchley. And I’m Chief Inspector Pendennis. We’ve been called in by your local Chief Constable to investigate the deaths of Simon Grimsby and the late Duke of Sutherland.”
A whisper of fabric ran around the room as we all shifted on our chairs.
“My father’s death?” the new duke said blankly, and his wife added, “There’s something to be investigated in my father-in-law’s death?”
“When two deaths occur within a few hours of each other, in the same place and involving the same cast of characters, they both need to be investigated.”
Pendennis folded his hands on top of the table, while we all processed being described as a cast of characters. Aunt Roz mouthed the words visibly, her brows creeping up her forehead.
I glanced at Christopher, who shrugged. Across the table, Crispin was looking unusually sober, while Francis looked sick. Physically so.
“We’ll start the questions with everyone in the same room,” Pendennis said. “Gardiner, take notes.”
Tom Gardiner nodded, and pulled out a notebook and pencil. “Just ignore me,” he said, with a flash of a boyish grin that wasn’t directed at anyone at all. So far, he hadn’t even glanced at Christopher, and Christopher hadn’t looked at him, either.
“If you’ll go around the table,” Pendennis said, “and introduce yourselves for the record. Your name, your address—if it isn’t here—your relationship to the deceased. We’ll start with you.”
He nodded to Aunt Roz, who drew a breath. “I’m Lady Roslyn Astley. Wife to Herbert, mother to Francis and Christopher. The late duke was my father-in-law. I had no relationship to his valet. I don’t live here. My husband and I live at Beckwith Place, which was part of my inheritance from my late mother.”
Pendennis nodded and turned to Uncle Herbert, who cleared his throat.
“Lord Herbert Astley. Roz’s husband, Harold’s younger brother. Francis’s and Christopher’s father…”
And so it went, around the table. When it was my turn, I said, “I’m Philippa Darling. Twenty-three years old. No relation to the late duke, or the current duke or viscount. Niece to Lady Roslyn through her sister, cousin to Christopher and Francis. I share a flat in London with Christopher.”
The pencil that was scratching across the paper hesitated for a moment, or so I thought.
“We came down for the weekend at Christopher’s grandfather’s request,” I added.
Pendennis looked up. “When was that decided?”
I glanced across the table at Crispin, and then away again. “Mr. Crispin Astley—Lord St George now—stopped by the flat on Friday evening to let us know that Christopher’s presence had been requested for Saturday afternoon.”
