Next to Francis on the other side sat Crispin, and I would have loved to be able to pin the murder—both murders—on him.
As a preference, I would have liked for it to be no one in the family, of course. A natural death for the old duke, and some unsavory associate of Grimsby’s from outside the house altogether for the valet. But with the pistol having come from the gun room—and that seemed to be a determined fact by now—the killer was someone who had access to the inside of the house. If it wasn’t one of the staff, then Crispin was the one I would most like to throw to the wolves.
But to be fair, since I knew I had a tendency not to be when it came to St George: aside from my own personal dislike of him, was there any reason to think he was guilty?
Like all of us, he knew where the guns and keys were kept.
He had left his room during the pertinent time period last night, and had been close enough to hear us knocking on the conservatory door to let us back in. The story about toasting his grandfather in the parlor was at the same time logical—why wouldn’t he do that?—and illogical, because didn’t he have liquor of his own upstairs in his own sitting room?
He had the fair Sutherland hair, and I hadn’t gotten a good enough look at the head bobbing along the maze to determine whether it was more silver than gold. Here in the dining room, Crispin’s hair was definitely a shade closer to platinum than either Francis’s or Christopher’s—I glanced at them both to make sure—but out there, in the darkness and the moonlight, it could have been any one of them.
Uncle Harold obviously knew about Crispin’s romantic entanglements, and so had the late duke. Killing Grimsby wouldn’t have helped him at all on that score. But Crispin might also have other secrets, ones we knew nothing about. Secrets Grimsby might have discovered and shared with the late duke. His Grace, Duke Henry, might have threatened to cut Crispin off from his friends in London, including the girl he loved. He might have threatened to cut off the money, or access to the car, or he might have threatened to do worse. Interfere with the girl somehow? Pay her off, so she’d go away and leave Crispin alone?
Some women would have snatched at an opportunity like that, assuming the amount was big enough. Perhaps Crispin had been afraid to lose his ladylove, and so he had decided to eliminate his grandfather before the latter could put such a plan into action. As Christopher had pointed out, Crispin had benefitted from his grandfather’s death in multiple ways. He was the Viscount St George now, one step closer to the dukedom, and an even better prospect on the marriage market.
So yes, I could definitely make a very good case for Crispin being guilty, and that was apart from my inclination to believe the worst of him.
Aunt Roz cleared her throat, and I jumped. Several of the others must have been equally deep in thought, because they startled visibly, as well. Aunt Charlotte had a grip around her knife that boded ill for someone.
“Everyone finished with dinner?” Aunt Roz wanted to know, her voice rusty, like it had been a long time since she’d used it.
We all murmured acquiescence—appetites were clearly at an all-time low—and Aunt Roz nodded to Tidwell. “My compliments to Cook, and you can start to serve pudding, if you will, Tidwell.”
“Very well, Lady Herbert.” Tidwell bowed himself out. We heard the sound of his shoes disappear down the hallway, hard soles slapping against the floor.
“Have the representatives for Scotland Yard indicated where they’ll be spending the night?” Aunt Roz asked Aunt Charlotte, her tone determinedly normal.
Charlotte looked alarmed, as if the question hadn’t crossed her mind.
“It’s getting late,” Aunt Roz added, “and I can’t imagine they’ll want to carry on through the night. If we’re to provide accommodations for them, it might be a good idea to let the staff know.”
Lady Charlotte’s face congealed, either at the idea of hosting police detectives in her house—and itwasher house now—or because Aunt Roz had been the one to take charge and suggest it.
Aunt Roz must have noticed, because she added, blandly, “Of course it’s up to you, Charlotte, dear. Sutherland Hall is your domain now. I’m just suggesting that it might be easier to let Mrs. Mason know now rather than later.”
Mrs. Mason was the housekeeper, who would be in charge of airing out the necessary linens and getting them on the beds for any unexpected guests.
“Couldn’t hurt to put’em up for the night,” Uncle Herbert grunted, and Aunt Charlotte rested her eyes on him for a moment. “Creates some goodwill, doesn’t it? And there are plenty of bedrooms to choose from, after all.”
“And young Tom Gardinerisa friend of the boys from Eton,” Aunt Roz added.
Aunt Charlotte looked from her over to Crispin, and then to Francis and Christopher. Her eyes, the same glacial gray as Crispin’s, glanced off me like I wasn’t even there.
“Of course,” she said after what felt like an eternity, and pushed her chair back from the table. Everyone except Aunt Roz and myself shot to their feet. “I’ll go talk to Mrs. Mason right now. Excuse me.”
She swept from the room after Tidwell, curls bouncing and skirts flying.
Unlike Aunt Roz, who took to bobbed hair and drop-waist dresses like a duck to water—all the better to hide the slight affluence around her waist now that she’s in her fifties and has given birth to three boys—Aunt Charlotte likes to remind everyone that she’s a decade younger than her husband. She has kept not just her trim hourglass figure, but her ash-blond curls, too. “If it’s good enough for Mary Pickford,” I heard her say the one time Aunt Roz dared to suggest that she might want to make a change.
Aunt Charlotte vanished through the door into the foyer, and all the men dropped back into their seats again. I patted my bobbed hair and was grateful that it didn’t take me an hour to give my hair the prerequisite hundred strokes with a brush every night.
I went back to my cogitation.
Aunt Roz was next. Her secret didn’t seem to be the sort someone commits murder over. She might end up snubbed by society if word got out that she’d benefitted financially from things told her in confidence. But once everyone learned of Francis’s situation, it would mitigate the scandal. People understand the motives of a desperate mother, and Aunt Roz is well liked.
On the other hand, she would definitely commit murder for Francis. Or for Christopher. Or for that matter—I thought—for me.
So yes, Aunt Roz might have shot Grimsby. Not over me, of course. But over Francis, or—if she learned that Grimsby was blackmailing him—over Christopher. There had been a lot of eavesdropping going on over the past day and a half. Who’s to say that Aunt Roz hadn’t overheard Christopher and me, or Christopher and Grimsby, talk? Her light had also been on when I’d made my way past her and Uncle Herbert’s room on my way to the east wing last night. And the light had been out when I came back. If Uncle Herbert had been asleep, there had been nothing to keep Aunt Roz from flitting down the main staircase and out the drawing room doors to the maze.
