“What sorts of indiscretions would he find if he did?”
Christopher smirked, and again looked like Crispin for a disconcerting moment. “Nothing at all. She’s as pure as the driven snow. Other than living with me, she’s not doing much of anything.”
“I can’t find a job,” I told Tom. “Nobody wants to hire me.”
He nodded. “Lots of young women up from the country looking for jobs these days.”
Yes, indeed. “Other than that, I don’t really do much of anything. I read a lot. I spend time with Christopher. I have a couple of friends, or friendly acquaintances, from Godolphin I take tea with once in a while. I try to avoid being roped into shopping with Flossie Schlomsky.”
“Who?”
“A neighbor,” Christopher said. “The American woman down the hall. I’ve told you about her.”
Tom nodded. “But nothing Simon Grimsby was holding over your head?”
“Nothing he saw fit to mention,” I said. “Why?”
He hesitated. Glanced at Christopher, glanced at me.
“What is it?” Christopher asked. “You can tell us.”
“I shouldn’t.” Tom ran a hand over his hair.
“But you can. And we won’t tell anyone. Will we, Pippa?”
I shook my head. Tom sighed.
“When we went through Grimsby’s room earlier, we found a notebook. It was full of information he must have discovered about everyone in the household.”
“Grandfather had him do the legwork,” Christopher said, “obviously. Grandfather was old and infirm, stuck in bed. There wasn’t much for a valet to do. So Grandfather sent him out on little errands. I’m sure he’d dug up dirt on everyone.”
Tom didn’t confirm or deny that. “What do you know about the rest of your family?”
I knew nothing about Uncle Herbert, but Crispin had passed the information about Aunt Roz and Francis on to me, so I figured I might as well share it. If Tom had Grimsby’s notebook, he’d know about it, anyway. And he might have already asked Crispin, who wasn’t the type to keep something like that to himself. In fact, he might have mentioned telling me, and if I didn’t tell Tom, then I’d look like I was keeping things back.
It was all quite confusing and circular. Now I understood why, in novels, the police always advised everyone to tell the truth. Once you start lying, outright or by omission, it’s awfully hard to remember what you’ve said or not said and to whom.
“Francis has a drug habit,” I said, “and Aunt Roz has been selling information to the gossip rags to help pay for it.”
Tom nodded. “Have you seen the notebook?”
I shook my head. “The late duke brought both of those things up in conversation yesterday afternoon. I heard it second-hand.”
Tom’s brows arched. “Who heard it first-hand?”
I grimaced. “Crispin. The new Viscount St George. He was hiding in the passage between the Duke’s and Duchess’s Chamber, listening in.”
“And he told you?”
I nodded, even while I registered the fact that I had apparently underestimated Crispin’s sense of family duty. It seemed as if he hadn’t shared these juicy tidbits with Scotland Yard after all. Tom must have read it in the notebook instead.
“Father probably has some gambling debts,” Christopher added. “Or if not actual debt, he’s losing a bit more than he should on the horses, I think.”
“What about your aunt and uncle? Anything you know or have heard about them?”
“Not from Crispin,” I said. “If he heard anything about his parents, he didn’t see fit to share it with me. But they lived here with the duke, so he could have spoken to them at any time. It wasn’t like it had to happen yesterday.”
“And St George himself?”
