“What’s to talk about?” Hutchison moved, subtly but clearly, to put himself between Crispin and the duo of Ronnie Blanton and Graham Ogilvie.
Crispin opened his mouth, and then closed it again. And shot a look at Christopher and me.
We knew, of course, but the others didn’t, that detectives from Scotland Yard had heard every word that was said in Sutherland House last night. They had no idea that even now, Detective Sergeants Gardiner and Finchley, and presumably Chief Inspector Pendennis, were planning to move, with all the force of the law, against Ronald Blanton, to arrest him for the murder of Frederick Montrose.
And we couldn’t tell them, not without admitting our own involvement with Scotland Yard. Something which didn’t seem sensible, just now. There were three of them and three of us, but in an out-and-out fight, they’d presumably come out victorious, since I couldn’t really hope to match strength with any of them.
“Was it one of you,” I asked, “who stopped by the Essex House Mansions last night, looking for me?”
All three of them looked nonplussed.
“Is that where you went, Hutchie?” Blanton giggled. “We wondered where you got off to. Not that we didn’t appreciate the privacy, old man.”
“Any time, old bean,” Hutchison retorted, but without actually admitting that he was the one who had tried to get hold of me. I eyed his hair, which wasn’t what I’d call fair, although I suppose in the dark, and under a hat, Evans might have made a mistake.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t home when you called,” I said. “I was at Sutherland House with Christopher and Lord St George.”
There was a beat of silence. “We didn’t see you,” Hutchison said.
I smiled sweetly. “You weren’t meant to. I was behind the telephone screen in the corner.”
“I checked—” He cut himself off, but not quite quickly enough.
“Only the second time,” I reminded him. “St George stopped you before you got that far the first time, if you’ll remember.”
Hutchison subsided, scowling.
“Second time?” Ogilvie echoed. “What’s this, Nigel? Did you go back there after you dropped Ronnie and me off here?”
Hutchison looked like he didn’t want to admit it, which I assumed he didn’t. His lack of response was as good as an admission, however, and Ogilvie added, belligerently, “Why?”
“He wanted us to have the whole story,” Crispin said, eyes flickering between the two of them, “now that we’re all on the same side.”
“What story? What did he tell you?”
“That Ronnie killed Freddie Montrose and you killed Gladys,” Crispin said. “And I have to say, Ogilvie, that?—”
But that was as far as he got, because now Ronnie twisted in his chair to face Ogilvie. “You killed Gladys?Youdid? Why, Gram?”
“To protect you,” Graham Ogilvie said, as if it were obvious. He glanced at Nigel Hutchison, a quick flicker of a look, before he added, persuasively, “She saw you hit Montrose, and she needed to be silenced before she could tell anyone what she’d seen.”
The persuasion seemed to miss its mark, however, judging by the expression of horror on Ronnie Blanton’s face. “You killed Gladys, Gram?Youdid? How could you?”
“She knew that you killed Montrose—” Ogilvie began again, but he was interrupted by a wild scream from Ronnie.
“I did not kill Montrose! I did not! I didn’t kill anybody!”
“He was on the floor of the butler’s pantry,” Hutchison said, his voice even but with a faint tremor, “and his head was bashed in, and there was blood everywhere, and you were standing over him with the rolling pin in your hand, the marble one?—”
“Was not! Was not!”
Ronnie was clearly beside himself, and as Ogilvie went to calm him down, he pushed him away and got to his feet. There were tears running down his cheeks and his face was red, but he kept Ogilvie at a distance with a stiff arm as he continued to yell at Hutchison. “You’re lying! You’re a liar! A liar! That’s not what happened! He was on the floor, and his head was bashed in, and there was the blood, and the rolling pin, but I didn’t hit him! I didn’t! I didn’t! I was in the lav, and when I came in…”
“You’re imagining things, Ronnie,” Hutchison said. “You don’t remember what happened. You followed Montrose to the butler’s pantry, and you picked up the rolling pin, and?—”
“Did not! Did not! I went to the lav! He said he wanted the lav, so I went to the lav, and when I came out?—”
There was a tug on my arm, and when I looked up, Christopher was gesturing to me. I slid out of my chair and toward him, and he slipped an arm around my waist and pulled me backwards, away from the fray. Crispin slipped quietly off his own chair and followed. He put himself half in front of me, which I didn’t appreciate—for one thing, I wanted to see what was going on, and for another, I certainly didn’t want or need him to protect me—but it didn’t seem like the right time to get into a row about it.
