“Sure thing, old bean.” Christopher withdrew from the drapes and twitched them shut again. “Let’s go. He’s obviously alive.”
Obviously. “One less murder to worry about, then.”
“That’s not helpful,” Christopher said as we scurried back across the carpet and into the corridor. He closed Francis’s door carefully behind us and continued down towards his own door, with a glance at me over his shoulder. “You didn’t really think…?”
“Not really, no. But with bullets flying and people dropping dead left and right, it’s hard not to worry.”
Christopher nodded and reached for his own doorknob. “At least there’s nobody we have to worry about in here.”
“Famous last words,” I said dryly, but of course he was right. There was no one else in his room, dead or alive. What there was, leaned up against the wall under the window, was a rifle.
Both of us stopped in the middle of the floor and eyed it.
It made a certain sort of sense that it would be here, of course. Christopher’s room had been empty this afternoon, because Christopher and I had been walking down the road towards the village. Francis’s room next door had not been empty, and Aunt Charlotte was around, so might have gone into her own room at any moment. Or into Uncle Harold’s, for that matter. She was the mistress of the house, and could go wherever she wanted. Much safer for the shooter to utilize a room he—or she, to be fair—would know was empty.
But this was the part of the house that faced the copse of trees and the road, so it made sense that the shot would have come from up here. I walked to the window, careful not to upset the rifle, and peered out. “Nice view from up here. Clear shot at the road as it comes out from behind the trees.”
Christopher nodded. “I should get Tom.”
“Probably a good idea. I’ll wait here.”
“Don’t touch anything,” Christopher said, and turned towards the door.
“Of course not.”
I watched from in front of the window as he ducked out into the hallway, leaving the door half open behind him. A few seconds later, I could hear the door at the end of the hall, into the servants’ staircase, open and shut, as well.
The rifle leered at me from beside the window. I scowled back.
It wasn’t difficult to figure out what had happened. Someone had walked into the gun room when Scotland Yard’s back was turned—they really ought to have locked and warded the room, although perhaps they had, and the shooter had gone in anyway—and picked a rifle and ammunition from the cabinets. The breakfast room, where the detectives were doing their work, was in the east wing, pretty much directly below this one, the better to get morning sun, while the gun room, box room, and other utilitarian spaces were all in the west wing. They would have had to set a guard to prevent it from happening, really, and of course they hadn’t brought enough personnel with them for that.
Nor did I think anyone had expected another assault on the gun room, honestly.
The shooter had most likely come up the servants’ staircase on that side of the house, the one that came out next to my room, since the likelihood was less that he’d encounter anyone that way. I was out walking, and the detectives were all downstairs. The entire west wing was reliably empty, in other words, most likely on both floors. Uncle Herbert was out riding with Uncle Harold. The only two variables were Aunt Roz and Aunt Charlotte, and I had no idea where they’d been when this was going on.
But clearly the shooter had made it to Christopher’s room unmolested, along with the rifle. He had opened the window and waited for Christopher and me to come out from behind the trees down on the road, and had aimed for us. It was a half mile by road, less as the crow—or bullet—flies. And then he had quietly put the rifle down below the window—there was no sense in risking discovery by taking it back to the gun room—and walked across the room to the door, and vanished.
Where?
Into Francis’s room next door? Sickness made a handy excuse for not facing anyone, and I imagined it would be hard to face the rest of the family after you’ve aimed a gun at your only surviving brother.
Or perhaps across the hall into Crispin’s rooms?
I’d certainly made a very convincing case for his guilt earlier, to Christopher and to myself. He’d had means and motive for everything that had happened so far, and at least he’d had means for this. Motive was a different story. I knew we bickered a lot, but killing me because of it seemed a step too far.
Although motive, as I understand it, is really of the least consideration to a detective. If someone has access to the weapon and the murder site at the time the murder takes place, their motive doesn’t much matter. And I could place Crispin in this room, with this gun, at the time when the shot fell, at least in my mind.
There was the sound of footsteps outside the door, and I turned that way as a figure appeared in the doorway. I had expected it to be Christopher and Tom, of course. When I found myself face to face with Crispin, especially after the thoughts I’d just had about him, I must admit that my stomach gave an uncomfortable sort of lurch, like all my intestines were being squeezed in a vice.
The look on his face did nothing to make me feel better. “Darling.”
“St George,” I said, and did my best to keep my voice steady.
He looked from me around the empty room. If he noticed the rifle, he gave no sign of it. Perhaps I had inadvertently put myself in front of it.
When his attention returned to me, he asked, “Waiting for Kit?”
“He went downstairs to fetch Tom Gardiner.” I might as well make it clear that there were reinforcements coming, and soon, in case he decided to strangle me on the spot.
