“A shame you touched the doorknob, but I guess there’s nothing to be done about that.”
“We didn’t realize that anything was wrong until we were already inside the room,” I said apologetically. “Otherwise we would have been more careful.”
For all the good it would have done, when all the suspects were people who lived in the house, and could touch anything they wanted. Finding Crispin’s fingerprints on Christopher’s door wouldn’t prove a thing. Nor would finding Francis’s fingerprints, or Uncle Herbert’s, or Aunt Roz’s, or for that matter Uncle Harold’s or Aunt Charlotte’s. Any one of them could have come up with a reasonable excuse for having tried the handle on Christopher’s door, and I was as certain as I could be that the rifle itself would have no helpful prints at all on it.
Tom vanished out the door and down the servants’ stairs with the rifle.
“I guess it’s you and me until supper,” I told Christopher.
He nodded. “At least I can make sure nothing happens to you that way.”
TWENTY
Tom was right:Uncle Harold and Uncle Herbert did make it back to the Hall in time for supper, and after a long afternoon of riding around the estate, were quite happy not to have to dress for the meal. Uncle Herbert was shocked, of course, to hear that there had been an attempt on my life, or perhaps Christopher’s life, while he’d been gone.
“Insanity!” he exclaimed, thumping his fist on the table. “People running around taking potshots at my son and my niece in broad daylight! And what is Scotland Yard doing about it?”
“I’m sure they’re working hard,” Aunt Roz said. “And Christopher and Pippa are both just fine, Herbert. Calm yourself. Have some more veal.”
She put more veal on Uncle Herbert’s plate, and went so far as to almost force it into his mouth. It was one way to shut him up, I suppose.
Other than Uncle Herbert carrying on, it was a very quiet meal. The detectives took dinner on their own again. Francis stayed in his room, as he had done for breakfast and luncheon. I asked Aunt Roz whether we should arrange for a tray to be sent up to him, and she informed me that when he was hungry enough, he’d come out.
The same ought to be true for Crispin, who didn’t show up, either. But Aunt Charlotte was cut from a different cloth than Aunt Roz, so she prepared a tray with her own hands, from the dishes on the table, and sent it upstairs with the second footman. When he came back, he told her that he had left it in front of the door when the Viscount St George didn’t respond to his knock.
“Are you certain he’s inside?” I wanted to know.
Everyone turned to look at me, and Aunt Charlotte gave me a stare down the length of her nose that was quite well done considering that she’s no taller than I am, especially not sitting down. “Whatever do you mean, Miss Darling? Why wouldn’t he be inside?”
“No reason,” I said. Other than that I had Tom’s comment about people vanishing on my mind. But it was undoubtedly best if I didn’t articulate my suspicions of St George in present company. “And I didn’t mean to imply that he wasn’t. I more wanted to make sure nothing had happened to him.”
Aunt Charlotte gave me a nasty look. “I’m certain he’s just fine, Miss Darling.” She turned her head regally. “Alfred?”
The footman jumped when Aunt Charlotte addressed him. “Your Grace?”
“My son,” Aunt Charlotte said. “Was he inside his room when you knocked?”
Alfred nodded. “I imagine so, Your Grace. I heard sounds from inside.”
“Sounds?”
“Drawers banging, m’lady. Things moving around. Muttering.”
“Packing?” Christopher suggested, with a glance at me.
Alfred looked like he didn’t appreciate being put on the spot. “Might be, Master Christopher. Though I wouldn’t want to say for sure.”
“I’ll go talk to him,” Uncle Harold said and pushed his chair back. “No, Charlotte—”
For Aunt Charlotte had started to get to her feet, too. “I’ll handle this. You coddle him too much. He isn’t a boy anymore.”
He tossed his napkin on the table and strode out. Aunt Charlotte wound her hands together in her lap, biting her lip.
“He’ll be fine, Charlotte,” Aunt Roz said comfortingly. “Harold’s right. Crispin’s a man now. He can deal with a conversation with his father.”
Aunt Charlotte nodded, but for the next ten minutes, she merely moved the food on her plate around, instead of actually eating any of it.
Uncle Harold came back down carrying the tray, still full of food, and dropped it, almost literally, on the table. “Says he’s not hungry. If he changes his mind, he can get his own food.”
