“Of course.” He sat himself and his plate down across from me and eyed me across the heaped serving of eggs, sausages, and toast. His eyes were a clear gray, and for once they held no malice or artifice whatsoever. “I wouldn’t poison you, you know.”
“I believe you,” I said, even if I didn’t, wholly. But since he was being semi-polite, or at least cordial, to me this morning, I figured I could return the favor. “I guess you never did end up eating anything last night, did you?”
He shook his head, sending a lock of fair hair flopping over his forehead. Between the casual bags and the pullover, I guessed he hadn’t taken the trouble to thoroughly brilliantine his hair this morning, either. “Mother sent some dinner up to my room, and then Father came and took it away again, as punishment for bad behavior. As if I’m still nine years old. So I stayed in my room and drank my dinner, since I’m an adult and I can do that.”
I tilted my head to look at him. “Have you considered that you might have a problem?”
“With alcohol?” He shook his head. “Francis has a problem. I can stop any time I want to.”
“Isn’t that what they all say?”
“I don’t know,” Crispin said, “is it?”
I didn’t know either, so I didn’t respond. “I’m sorry I put you on the spot yesterday,” I told him instead. My revelation about the girl with the baby was, at least partly, what had put him in such a bad mood and had gotten him in trouble with his father—and no dinner—so I felt I bore some of the responsibility. “I shouldn’t have done it.”
“It’s all right. I don’t enjoy having you—having anyone—know everything about my affairs. But I guess that’s what I get for making Sutherland House my base in Town. I should have done what you and Kit did, and gotten my own flat.”
“Something to consider for the future,” I said lightly, while I tried not to think about the fact that if I was right about him, he had no future to speak of. At most it would be a cell at Wormwood Scrubs, and at worst, a trip to the gallows.
Besides, when he acted like this—like a normal human being, and one who didn’t go out of his way to antagonize me—it was hard to reconcile him with the murderer I had convinced myself he was.
“Excuse me,” I told him. “I think I’m ready for some food now.”
He nodded, and devoted himself to his breakfast while I wandered over to the sideboard and filled a plate of my own. Slowly, while I considered the situation yet again, just in case I’d been wrong.
Someone had murdered Duke Henry and Grimsby, and had shot at me and Christopher.
If not Crispin, then who?
It hadn’t been Aunt Roz in the garden maze, because her hair was dark. And it hadn’t been Uncle Harold or Uncle Herbert with the rifle yesterday, because they’d both been out of the Hall when the shot fell.
Besides Francis, who else was there?
And what was my subconscious trying to tell me with that trip back to the tea table and the poisoned cup of tea I had dreamed last night? I had taken it as proof of Crispin’s guilt, that my subconscious agreed with conscious me, but what if I had been trying to tell myself something different?
In the dream, Crispin had clearly been offering me poisoned tea. But in reality, the tea had not been poisoned. Or at least the tea he had slopped into the fresh cup, and doctored with milk and sugar, and put in front of me, hadn’t been. The tea Aunt Charlotte had poured was what had ended up soaking into the tablecloth after Crispin had knocked it out of my hand.
And out of his mother’s hand.
His mother, who had fair hair and access to the gun room, and who had been home yesterday while Christopher and I had been walking to the village.
That’s as far as I got before Christopher joined us, just ahead of Aunt Roz and Uncle Herbert. My mind was still trying to grapple with the problem, but it got harder as people started talking all around me.
“Francis is still among the living,” Christopher said as he sat down beside Crispin. “I checked before I came down. Morning, St George.”
Crispin grunted something, but didn’t respond beyond that. His mouth might have been full, to give him the benefit of the doubt.
“Well, really, Christopher,” Aunt Roz sniffed, “was there any doubt?”
Christopher looked at me, and I at him. Neither of us said anything. Aunt Roz turned to Uncle Herbert.
“Now, listen here, Kit—” Uncle Herbert began, clearly about to do his duty as head of the household and take his recalcitrant son to task for his flippancy. But that was as far as he got before there was a clatter of footsteps on the stairs and then across the foyer.
“St George,” Uncle Harold’s voice called out, and Crispin raised his eyes towards the doorway. “St George, where are you?”
He burst into the doorway and skidded to a stop, breathing hard. “St George!”
“Good morning, Harold,” Aunt Roz said pleasantly. “Coffee? Tea?”
