“It’s probably just a coincidence,” I said. “I don’t know why my mind connected the two.”
“It’s a point of fact,” Tom answered. “The victim as well as two of the suspects?—”
Christopher and I both grimaced.
“—were at university together when something traumatic happened there. There might be a connection. When I get back to Town, I shall have to look into everyone’s background and determine whether anyone else in this case has a connection to Cambridge. And when we get to Sutherland Hall?—”
He eyed me in the mirror. “—St George can tell us what he was doing during the storming of the gates, and perhaps that will set your mind at ease.”
I made a face. Knowing that Crispin hadn’t taken part in terrorizing female students in 1921 would certainly make me feel better about that particular aspect of the situation. But my mind wouldn’t be at ease until I knew who had killed Montrose, and now Gladys, and that no one I knew or cared about was likely to hang for it.
CHAPTERFIFTEEN
We droveinto the courtyard at Sutherland Hall well past supper. It was closer to eleven, actually, and I was surprised to see lights above the ground floor of the house. I would have expected Uncle Harold, at least, to have gone to bed by now.
“Crispin’s lights are out,” Christopher said, glancing up at the dark windows on the first floor of the east wing where his cousin lives.
“I suppose we could check and see whether the H6 is in the garage.” I peered out into the darkness beyond the courtyard, into the area where I knew the old carriage house to be.
“Someone’s coming,” Christopher said, and after a moment, my eyes made out what he had already seen: a dark figure moving towards us across the grass. For a second, the moon glimmered on a head of fair hair, and then the figure came close enough that I recognized Wilkins, the chauffeur.
He did a sort of double-take when he saw Christopher. “Mr. Astley?” His attention moved from Christopher to me and then Tom, whom he must have recognized from the last time Scotland Yard was here. Wilkins looked even more concerned.
“Wilkins,” Christopher said. “Is my cousin home?”
Wilkins’s eyes flickered towards the windows on the upper story. “He ought to be, Mr. Astley. He brought the H6 back a couple of hours ago.”
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, and Tom slanted a look my way.
“Shall I put the car away?” Wilkins added, with a glance at the police Crossley.
Christopher deferred to Tom, who shook his head. “Just leave it. We may not be here long.”
“Go on off to bed, Wilkins,” Christopher added. “If we want the motorcar moved into the carriage house, we’ll do it ourselves.”
Wilkins didn’t look too pleased about that—I guess perhaps he felt that the carriage house and the vehicles inside it were his domain, and he didn’t want anyone else to deal with them—but he nodded.
“Let’s go,” Christopher added and took my elbow. “Come along, Pippa. Tom.”
He headed for the front door to the Hall, which, by now, Tidwell the butler had pulled open.
“Mr. Astley?”
“Good evening, Tidwell.” Christopher pulled me across the threshold into the Hall, while behind us, Wilkins left the courtyard in the other direction, to make his way back to his rooms above the garage. “You remember Detective Sergeant Gardiner, of course.”
“Detective Sergeant.” Tidwell gave Tom something between a bow and a nod. “And Miss Darling.”
“Hello, Tidwell,” I said. “We’re looking for St George.”
“His lordship is in the parlor.” Tidwell glanced down the east wing hallway.
I scowled. “Let me guess. Is he drinking his supper?”
“His lordship ate first,” Tidwell said, which meant that yes, he was drinking. But at least he wasn’t doing it on an empty stomach.
“What about Uncle Harold?”
Tidwell turned his attention to Christopher. “His Grace went up to bed, Mr. Astley.”
