“There’s no need to disturb the Duke,” Tom told Tidwell. “We’ll just head on down the hallway and have a talk with Lord St George.”
Tidwell looked torn, as if the police showing up to talk to Crispin was something Crispin’s father really ought to be informed about—and it probably was—but at the same time, he wasn’t any more eager to disturb Uncle Harold’s beauty sleep than the rest of us.
“It’s all right, Tidwell,” Christopher said. “We just want to see that he’s all right. Pippa’s been worried.”
I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t very well deny it, so I didn’t try.
Tidwell eyed me for a moment before he turned back to Christopher. “Anything else, Mr. Astley?”
Christopher shook his head. “We’ll just find Crispin. Can we stay the night, Tidwell, or should we plan to drive to Beckwith Place after this?”
“I’ll inform Mrs. Mason to have the usual rooms made up,” Tidwell said.
I made another face—sleeping in my usual room would put me at the far end of the west wing across from Tom, and would put Christopher at the far end of the east wing across from Crispin, an arrangement Aunt Charlotte had come up with before she died, God knows why—but I didn’t complain. It was better than getting back into the Crossley to drive to Beckwith Place in the middle of the night.
“Thank you, Tidwell,” Christopher said. Tidwell inclined his head and withdrew. Christopher turned to Tom and me. “Shall we?”
I twitched my elbow out of his grip. “I think we should. And before he gets so soused that he won’t be able to speak sense anymore.”
I didn’t wait for the others, just headed down the hallway towards the parlor at a good clip, my heels clicking against the floors.
“Is that you, Sadie?” Crispin’s voice oozed out of the parlor as I approached the door, and my eyes narrowed.
“You utter bastard, St George.”
He was sniggering when I appeared in the doorway. “Good evening, Darling. I thought that would get you.”
It had, but I wasn’t about to admit that to him. Instead, I put both my hands on my hips and scowled. “I suppose you saw us arrive through the window, did you? Do you have any idea how worried we’ve been? We haven’t seen or heard from you for almost twelve hours?—”
“You didn’t see or hear from me for several weeks prior to that,” Crispin pointed out. He was lounging in his chair with a glass of what looked like brandy lazily balanced on his stomach, and he looked quizzically at me. “Why on earth would you?—?”
But by then first Christopher and then Tom had appeared in the doorway behind me, and Crispin’s face lost the smug expression and he sat up. The brandy sloshed against the edges of the glass and he moved it to a little table at his elbow with the air of someone bracing himself. “Now what?”
“Gladys Long is dead,” Tom said, without any attempt to soften the blow at all.
It was probably deliberate—he wanted to get Crispin’s honest first reaction—but I could have told him that it was a bad idea. It isn’t easy to stagger while sitting in an easy chair, but Crispin managed it. He turned as white as a corpse—not difficult to do when you’re naturally pale to begin with—and his lips parted in something that was part inhalation, part the sound you make when you’re unexpectedly hit in the stomach.
“For God’s sake,” I told Tom irritably as I crossed the floor, “was that necessary?”
“I rather think it was.” He sounded not remorseful at all.
“Well, I hope that display convinced you that he knew nothing about it.” I dropped down on the arm of Crispin’s chair and faced Tom.
Even Christopher seemed to think that Tom had gone a step too far this time, because he came to perch on Crispin’s other side. “Honestly, Tom…”
“It’s just as well to be certain,” Tom said. He looked from one to the other of us, and then turned his attention squarely on Crispin. “Have a sip of brandy, St George, and prepare to answer some questions.”
“You absolute tosser,” Crispin told him, breathlessly. “How dare you spring something like that on me?”
He had to stop to catch his breath, and I put a hand on his shoulder, and accidentally made a shiver run through him.
“Buck up,” Tom said unsympathetically. “We don’t have time for your dramatics. You were seen leaving her flat just before one o’clock this afternoon. You’d better have a good explanation, or I’m going to have to haul you back to London and book you on suspicion of murder.”
There was a pause, and then Crispin blew. “How dare you talk to me like that, you wanker? You show up here, with my cousin and my… my…”
He didn’t seem quite able to articulate what I was to him, which was fair considering our relationship, and so he went on without specifying, “—and you dare to accuse me of being a murderer? To my face? In my own home? You absolute, utter?—!”
“Shhh.” By this point he was practically hyperventilating, and I did something I had never expected to do, and put an arm around his shoulders before I tilted my cheek against his temple. “It’s all right, St George. He didn’t mean it.”
