Unlike the rest of the family, her hair was not fair, however. Then again, could I be a hundred percent certain of what I’d seen? It had only been a glimpse, out of the corner of my eye, in the dark. With the moonlight gleaming on it, perhaps Aunt Roz’s brown hair might have looked more gold than dark for a moment?
I didn’t think it had been her, was fairly certain it hadn’t been, but I couldn’t completely disregard the possibility, either.
Uncle Herbert…
He was sitting next to Aunt Roz, and was fiddling with his flatware. Occasionally, he would look up and across the table, and then look down again, with a sort of pained expression on his face.
Uncle Herbert probably knew what was going on with Francis. I’m sure it pained him. How could it not? We had all watched Francis struggle since the war. I hadn’t realized he was self-medicating to the degree that he was, but I had known about the shell-shock, the nightmares, the nerve elixirs, and the drinking. And there was Robert’s death, and the survivor’s guilt that had surely come with it.
So yes, Uncle Herbert had to be aware of what Francis was dealing with. He might have known what his wife was doing to help pay for it, as well. Unlike Uncle Harold and Aunt Charlotte, Uncle Herbert and Aunt Roz had always seemed to have a good relationship.
He had never struck me as someone who would lash out with violence, though. He didn’t like to discipline his children; certainly not corporally. It was Aunt Roz who was the disciplinarian, and she did it by withholding privileges, not by wielding the switch or cane. Going into his father’s gun room, removing a pistol, and proceeding to shoot dead the man who had blackmailed his younger child, or might have threatened his older one, didn’t seem like something Uncle Herbert would do.
Besides, if he and Aunt Roz shared a room, and she was awake, there was absolutely no way he could have removed himself without letting her know about it.
On the other hand, they might have been in it together. Uncle Herbert might have run out to the maze while Aunt Roz read in bed and gave him an alibi. There was no reason it couldn’t have happened that way.
Next to Uncle Herbert was the empty seat where Aunt Charlotte had sat. The napkin she had left on the table looked like she might have been clutching it in her hand with the same death grip she’d had on her fork. It was all crumpled and lined with wrinkles. Then there was Uncle Harold. I watched him out of the corner of my eye, since it would be quite noticeable to turn my head to look at him.
Like Uncle Herbert, he’s fair-haired, although they were both starting to turn silver at the temples now that they were into their mid- to late fifties. And they have the same fair complexion, with blue eyes and slightly pointed noses.
Which reminded me…
“Would you say my nose is pointy?” I whispered to Christopher.
He looked at me. And then at my nose. And then he whispered back, “Not particularly. More turned-up, isn’t it?”
“That’s what I’ve always thought.”
“So?”
I made a face. “Crispin told me earlier to keep my pointy nose out of his business.”
On the other side of me, Francis smothered a laugh.
“I was speaking metaphorically, Darling,” Crispin said from down the table. He didn’t even bother to turn and look at me, just offered the remark to his plate.
His father’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t be familiar, St George.”
Crispin’s lips compressed for a second, whether at the admonition itself or because his father had addressed him by his title and not his given name. Then he said, blandly, “It’s her name, Father.”
“Her last name, even,” Aunt Roz added. “He’s hardly presuming, Harold.”
Uncle Harold grunted something.
“It’s all right,” I said, with a glance down the table that ought, rightly, have made the bane of my existence drop dead where he sat. “I have no need to be any more familiar with St George than I already am. He can keep his formal form of address, and I’ll keep mine.”
“That works for me, Darling,” Crispin said.
I nodded. “Good. As you were, then.”
“Yes, Darling.”
He smirked. I sneered. Francis chuckled, and Aunt Roz shook her head, but smiled fondly. Uncle Harold didn’t. He glared at his only son and then turned his attention back to his own hands. They were folded very tightly on the edge of the table. I wondered who he fantasized about strangling. If it was Crispin, I could certainly relate.
Aunt Charlotte returned shortly after this exchange, and took her seat between her husband and Uncle Harold. Then there was Tidwell with the puddings, before we were given leave to retire for the rest of the evening. Christopher offered me his arm, and I tucked my hand through his elbow and let him escort me towards the door. “Where to?”
“I have no idea,” Christopher said. “I don’t know which rooms are off-limits and which are in use by the police. Can we sit in the library if we want? Or the billiards room? Anyone for a game of whist?”
