At that, he sat up, eyes widening. “Me?” The brandy sloshed around in the glass, and he moved it over to the table before turning back to me. “Why on earth would you suspect me, Darling? It was clearly all about the secrets, and I don’t have any. My life is an open book.”
That was nowhere near true, of course, and I had my mouth open to tell him how very wrong he was, but Christopher got in first.
“We thought Grandfather wouldn’t agree to let you marry… um…”
He hesitated, seeming to search for the right terminology, unless he was hoping Crispin would slip up and provide a name. Crispin must have thought so, because he arched a brow. I rolled my eyes at them both. “We thought the duke wouldn’t let you marry this girl you seem to have convinced yourself you want, and so you decided to eliminate him. But Grimsby saw you do it, and so you had to get rid of him, too.”
“Ingenious.” Crispin put his head back against the sofa again. “Your idea, Darling, I’m sure?”
“Of course,” I said grumpily. “Christopher actually likes you, you know. And you can’t really blame me, St George. The indications were all there. Who else but you would want me dead?”
He opened his mouth, but Christopher spoke over him. “Did your mother confess to shooting at Pippa and me yesterday, too?”
This time, Crispin hesitated. “I don’t know. Maybe in the latter part of the letter? I didn’t read the whole thing. Once I got to the confession, I thought it was better off with Tom.”
“So was it someone else, then?” Christopher asked.
Crispin shook his head. “I’m sure it was my mother. I wouldn’t shoot at either of you, and Francis was in no position yesterday to aim a gun. That leaves my mother and yours.”
He eyed Christopher. “I don’t think your mother did it. So it must have been mine.”
Christopher nodded, since neither of us believed it was Aunt Roz on the other end of the rifle, either. “I wonder why she found it necessary?”
“Probably imagined Darling knew more than she did,” Crispin said with a look at me. “You made some fairly cryptic comments from time to time, you know.”
I made a face. “If I did, I directed them at you, not at her. But I suppose that’s possible.”
“Or perhaps she knew you suspected Crispin,” Christopher suggested, “and she tried to get you out of the way to protect him.”
“Surely there were better ways to do that than shoot at me? Especially when he’d be on the suspect list, too?”
Neither of them answered. Until Crispin reached over to the table, grabbed the glass of brandy, and tossed back what was left inside. Then he breathed out with a whoosh, his eyes glassy, but at least there was color in his cheeks again. “I’m sorry, Darling.”
“It was her doing,” I told him, “not yours, so no apology necessary.”
He grimaced, but didn’t say anything else. We were still sitting there in silence several minutes later, when Chief Inspector Pendennis walked through the door and gave us all a look, including the glass, before fastening his eyes on Crispin. “If I could ask you to come with me, Lord St George?”
It was posed as a question, but was clearly not meant to be one.
Crispin nodded and got to his feet without looking at either of us. I thought about throwing a “Good luck,” at his back, but I didn’t think he’d need it—there was no danger for him in this conversation, even if it would surely prove to be uncomfortable—and besides, it might give the wrong impression.
I did send the well wishes after him silently, though. I still wouldn’t say I liked Crispin much better than I had before this weekend, but I did feel sorrier for him right now than I would have thought possible. He’d lost his mother on top of losing his grandfather, and he knew that she was responsible for two murders. And then there were the other issues I had read about in Grimsby’s notes: the drinking, the carousing, the women. All in all, he had quite a lot of burdens heaped on his shoulders. Add in my own guilt over having assumed him capable of murder when he wasn’t, and I was feeling quite bad, indeed.
They passed through the door and into the hallway, and Christopher and I looked at each other.
“Go upstairs and pack?” Christopher suggested. “If we hurry, we can catch the 14:21 from Salisbury and be home before tea.”
I thought about it. That sounded like a lovely plan, and now that Pendennis and company had a viable suspect in their sights—even if she was dead, or maybe especially because she was dead—there was no reason for Christopher and me to hang around Sutherland Hall any longer.
“Do you think they’ll let us leave?”
Crispin and Uncle Harold would have their hands full with funeral arrangements shortly, not to mention the task of downplaying Aunt Charlotte’s crime to society, I assumed. I had no desire to get mixed up in it.
“I don’t see any reason why not,” Christopher said. “We had nothing to do with any of it, and all our statements are on file.”
“Tom knows where to find you anyway, if he needs you.”
“I’m not sure I want to contemplate what you mean by that,” Christopher said, “but certainly, Pippa.”
