I nodded. “And Frederick Montrose, in his editorials for The Granta, passed off the events of 20 October as a rag and a bit of fun, and said how it was the male undergraduates who were the real victims in the conflict. And when Nigel Hutchison was faced with him in Ronnie Blanton’s butler’s pantry on Saturday night, I’m sure that that was in the back of his mind, too.”
There was a pause.
“So even he isn’t a complete blackguard,” Crispin said. The thought seemed to depress him.
“They rarely are,” Tom answered. “Every murderer—or almost every murderer—is a human being first. Someone’s brother or sister or best friend. You should know that better than anyone.”
After a second, less than that, he seemed to realize that the comment might have been a bit too pointed, and he added, “You three.”
There was another pause, longer this time.
“So what happens now?” I asked, and Tom turned to me, seemingly relieved to have something else to talk about.
“There’ll be the inquests. You three will have to give evidence. Nigel Hutchison and Graham Ogilvie will go to trial. Graham Ogilvie’s defense will be that he was trying to protect Ronald Blanton, so that will be a big scandal.”
“Unless Blanton Senior manages to pay him to keep his mouth shut,” Christopher muttered.
Tom nodded. “The jury might feel sorry for Ogilvie and let him off with a lesser sentence. Or not. That remains to be seen. Ronnie didn’t actually do anything criminal—he uses dope, but he doesn’t sell it or distribute it—so he’ll get off with a warning.”
“He helped cover up a murder,” I pointed out.
“So did the three of you,” Tom retorted, “and we can’t charge him if we don’t charge you, can we?”
“For the last time,” Christopher said, “we were going to tell you?—!”
Tom waved him to silence. “His family will get him to a doctor who will help him kick the dope habit. Whether it sticks will be up to him. But if he picks it up again, he’ll have to find a new supplier. We haven’t collected Dominic Rivers yet, but it’s only a matter of time. A few days of following him around, and we should have enough evidence to arrest him for dope-dealing.”
“And will he be going to Portugal,” I asked, with a look at Crispin, “or Peru?”
“He’ll be going to Wormwood Scrubs,” Tom said. “But he’s an English national, unlike Billy Chang, so we can’t get rid of him entirely, I’m sorry to say.”
“But he’ll be off the streets,” I said, “and that’s something. You’ll have to find someone else to supply your candy, I suppose, St George.”
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” Tom remarked, while Crispin scowled.
“I haven’t indulged in anything illegal in months, I’ll have you know, Darling.”
“You’ve indulged in plenty of other things,” I shot back, and Christopher smirked.
Tom pushed to his feet. “I should go. Plenty to do. What will the rest of you be doing?”
“I’m for Wiltshire until I’m needed,” Crispin said. “Father has already sent two telegrams asking when to expect me back.”
“Doesn’t Uncle Harold realize that you’re helping the cause of truth and justice?”
“Apparently not, Darling,” Crispin said.
I huffed. “Besides, you’re with us, aren’t you? It’s not as if you’re spending your time with unsuitable women.”
“No, Darling.” The corner of his mouth turned up, and so did Christopher’s. Tom, for some reason, coughed.
“Good luck with it,” he told Crispin, and the latter grinned.
“Thanks, Gardiner.”
“Can I give the two of you a lift?” Tom turned to Christopher and me.
We exchanged a glance. “I don’t mind if you don’t,” Christopher said, and I nodded and pushed to my feet.
