There was more buzzing.
“One moment, Tidwell,” Rogers said, and dropped his hand from his ear to address Christopher. “Tidwell says that his lordship has not yet made it home. His Grace got there several hours ago.”
As he should have, if he had left London when he said he was going to. Crispin had taken Gladys home after that. Although he ought still, in my estimation, have made it home by now. Or at least he ought to be close to it.
“Let me talk to him,” Christopher said and reached for the ear piece. After a moment he added, “Please.”
Rogers relinquished it, although in my opinion he did it reluctantly. Christopher put the receiver to his ear. “Is that you, Tidwell? This is Christopher Astley. Is my cousin not home yet?”
The receiver quacked.
“M-hm,” Christopher said. “M-hm. Well, I tell you what, Tidwell?—”
But Tidwell must not have wanted to be told what, because he spoke again.
“I see,” Christopher said. “Yes, I quite understand, Tidwell. But listen here?—”
Tidwell didn’t want to do that either, obviously, because he continued to speak.
“Give him to me,” I said impatiently and snatched the receiver away from Christopher’s ear. Really, if you want something done right, you’re better off doing it yourself. “Tidwell, this is Pippa Darling. Is St George not home yet?”
“No, Miss Darling,” Tidwell said.
“Well, something’s happened here in Town that he needs to know about. When he comes in, will you tell him that Christopher or I shall find a telephone box later this evening, and ring back? And for him to make sure he’s available when we do?”
Tidwell said he’d pass on the message whenever Crispin (at long last) showed up, and I thanked him and was about to disconnect when something crossed my mind. “Tidwell?”
“Yes, Miss Darling?”
“At what time did Uncle Harold come back this afternoon?”
“His Grace arrived at four-fifteen,” Tidwell said. “In the Crossley with Wilkins.”
Not enough time for Uncle Harold—or I suppose Wilkins the chauffeur—to have murdered Gladys Long, then. Not that I thought either of them would have wanted to. But it was just as well to have it established that they couldn’t have.
“Thank you, Tidwell,” I said. Tidwell assured me that he was happy to be of service, and we hung up on mutual goodbyes.
“What on earth, Pippa—” Christopher said, appalled, and I shrugged.
“It’s just as well to be certain.”
“Why on earth would Uncle Harold want to murder Gladys Long?”
Rogers choked on what must have been an inhalation, and Christopher glanced at him before he turned his attention back to me. “It wasn’t as if Crispin was serious about her, you know. And even if he were, Uncle Harold might actually approve. She’s an Honorable, after all, and one hundred percent British.”
Yes, she was. Unlike yours truly, not to mention whoever the girl was that Crispin fancied. That was part of what Uncle Harold had against her, apparently. She was both foreign and common, according to what we—Christopher and I—had heard Uncle Harold hiss at his son through Crispin’s sitting room door back in April. Gladys was—had been—neither foreign nor common, so truly, the whole thing had probably been a bit of obsessive madness on my part.
And speaking of obsessive madness…
“Rogers,” I said. “Tell me about the girl with the baby.”
Rogers looked partly appalled, probably at the suggestion that Uncle Harold had killed anyone, and partly nonplussed. The conversation must be moving too fast for him. “Pardon me, Miss Darling?”
“The girl,” I said. “With the baby. The one who showed up here a few months ago and suggested that St George was the baby’s father.”
The one I had learned about back in April, and whom I had been curious about ever since.
Rogers’s face cleared, although he said, “That’s not precisely what happened, Miss Darling. The young woman showed up looking for His Grace’s grandson.”
