“Wanted to wipe the smirk off his face,” I said.
Christopher nodded. “I’d say you succeeded. I guess we can conclude, at least, that if Crispin is the guilty party, he didn’t kill Grimsby because Grimsby was blackmailing him.”
“Clearly not,” I agreed, catching up to him at the top of the staircase. “Did you and Tom and Finchley discover anything useful, or was it just as you told us?”
“A bullet from a hunting rifle,” Christopher said, and fell into step with me as we headed for his room in the east wing. “It was just lying there in the grass, spent. With a bit of blood on it. Yours, we assume. But apparently that’s enough to give them a start. They were going to the gun room to see if anything else is missing, and if not, I guess they’re doing another door-to-door search for the weapon.”
“It could be outside,” I said, and Christopher nodded.
“Of course it could. And if it is, I’m not looking for it. I’ve had enough of the great outdoors for today.”
“Your father and uncle seem to be still out there. They’ve been gone a long time.”
Christopher paled. “Good Lord. You don’t think anyone shotthem, do you?”
“I think we would have heard it if someone did,” I said. “I’ll admit I was pretty distracted, but I think I only heard the one shot. Didn’t you?”
He started breathing again. “I guess so, now that you mention it.”
“They probably just have a lot to discuss. Their father just died.”
“Of course,” Christopher said, looking relieved. “I’m sure you’re right.”
“Although if they don’t come home within the next hour, we could say something to someone. We don’t want them traipsing around on horseback through the fields in the dark.”
“No,” Christopher agreed, “we definitely don’t.”
After a second, he added, “You don’t think Crispin…?”
“I have no idea. He was here at the Hall, so he’s part of the suspect pool. And if Uncle Harold turns up dead, then I’d say we should definitely consider him. But until then, I’m not sure that he’s any more of a suspect than anyone else.”
Christopher nodded and sank his teeth into his bottom lip.
By now we had turned the corner into the east wing, and were making our way towards Christopher’s room. Francis’s closed door was on the left, and I slowed my steps. “You haven’t spoken to Francis today, have you?”
“No,” Christopher said. “You don’t think…?”
“Aunt Roz said he was feeling under the weather this morning, and she told him to stay in bed. Although I don’t think it could hurt to knock, just to make sure he’s all right.”
Although now that I thought about it, that might have been just what Aunt Roz had done after she sent me downstairs with Crispin earlier. Gone to see how Francis was doing.
Christopher applied his knuckles to the wood. “Francis?”
There was no answer from within, not even a disagreeable mutter, and Christopher shot me a look.
“Try the knob,” I suggested.
He did, and when it turned in his hand, he pushed the door open. It was dark inside, with the curtains drawn across the only window, and it had that pungent odor you usually associate with sickness.
“Francis?” We tiptoed towards the bed. The drapes around it were closed, and Christopher fumbled with one until he found a place to stick his head through. “Francis?”
Now, that disagreeable mutter came, and I felt my heart kick in again.
No, I guess I hadn’t really believed that Francis had been murdered in his bed—that would be rather a lot of murders for one country house in one weekend—but given his physical state last night, I wouldn’t have been terribly surprised to learn he had succumbed to whatever drug he had been using, and had died overnight.
“Just checking that you’re all right,” Christopher said brightly, and Francis’s grumbling resolved itself into recognizable words.
“…sick, you impudent monkey. Go ‘way and let me sleep.”
