“Don’t bother,” he told Tom. “I don’t think it’s anything I want to read again.”
“Come on.” I tucked my hand through his arm. “Let’s go downstairs and find something to drink. Brandy sounds good.”
“It’s ten in the morning,” Aunt Roz said, mildly shocked.
“We’ll mix it with tea, then.”
I tugged, and Crispin came away from his mother’s bedside with something of the feeling of a cork from a bottle. Reluctantly at first, and then more easily the farther away from the bed we got. “Come on, Christopher. Give me a hand.”
Christopher nodded. Uncle Harold watched us until we had passed him, but he didn’t move forward or address his son. Perhaps he was simply too overcome with shock and grief himself, which would be understandable, although it seemed to me that he could have spared some comfort for his only child.
The three ofus ended up downstairs in the library. Christopher opened a bottle of brandy and poured a stiff drink into a glass, which he pressed into Crispin’s hand. As far as I was concerned, there was no point in diluting the medicinal effects of the alcohol with tea, and Christopher seemed to agree with me. Crispin appeared to still be in shock, because while he accepted the glass, he made no move to lift it and drink.
“Go on,” I told him, wrapping my hand around both the glass and his fingers and attempting to raise it to his mouth. “Have a sip.”
His eyes snapped to me, and they were empty, too. Until something sparked, some indication of life, and he finally looked at me like he knew who I was, but had no idea how I’d gotten there. “Darling?”
I nodded. “Drink, St George. It’ll help.”
He looked from me to the glass in his hand, like this was the first time he’d noticed that it was there, and then—finally—he raised it to his lips and took a sip. And let his breath out with a shudder.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said, formally, now that I knew he was capable of hearing me.
“Thank you, Darling.” He finally started to behave like a normal human being, if not quite like himself, and leaned back, putting his head against the back of the sofa. “My mother is dead.”
I nodded. “I’m sorry.”
“My mother killed herself.”
I exchanged a look with Christopher, who was perched on the edge of the sofa on the other side of Crispin. “So it seems.”
“Did the letter say why?” Christopher asked tentatively, and Crispin rolled his head to look at him.
“She confessed to killing Grandfather and Grimsby.”
“Why?”
“He’d been digging up secrets,” Crispin said, staring up at the ceiling. The glass was resting on his stomach, but his hand was wrapped securely around it. “She had one. Apparently Grimsby found out, and told Grandfather. She wanted to make sure my father didn’t find out.”
“What was the secret?” Christopher wanted to know, but personally, I thought I could make a good guess. There are only so many secrets married women keep from their husbands. An accidental-on-purpose pregnancy to force a proposal is at the top of the list, but of course that wasn’t the case here. Aunt Charlotte and Uncle Harold had already been married quite a long time before Crispin was born, as both Doctor Meadows and Aunt Roz had assured me.
No, she had probably had an affair at some point, and she had been afraid her husband would cast her out if he found out about it. With the title and all the money on the line, it made sense—in a twisted sort of way—that she’d murder her father-in-law and his valet rather than face the consequences of a misstep like that. Especially since removing the late duke would only improve her position anyway. She had died being Duchess of Sutherland.
“I guess it must have been Aunt Charlotte I saw in the maze the night Grimsby was shot,” I said, and Crispin turned his head to look at me.
“I suppose so? She would have had to have been there in order to shoot him.”
“I can’t imagine why I didn’t think of her. I knew it was someone with fair hair, but I didn’t even think about your mother…”
Not until this morning, at any rate.
“And why would you?” Crispin asked disagreeably. “It would be quite impolite to suspect your hostess of murder, wouldn’t it?”
Of course it would. And just as bad to suspect her son, when he hadn’t been guilty. “I’m so sorry.”
“You already said that. Why do you continue to apologize?”
“Well,” I admitted, “I guess it’s because up until this morning, I mostly suspected you.”
