“You were stuck in the country, as I recall,” Rivers answered. “It was during that period after your grandfather died.”
Of course. Uncle Harold had kept his only son chained up in Wiltshire between the murders and the funerals so he wouldn’t scandalize society by appearing on the front cover of the Tatler—or, I suppose, The Daily Yell—with a drink in one hand and a wench in the other before his mother and grandfather were in the ground.
“I rather thought I might hear from you at that point,” Rivers added, “but alas…” He spread his hands.
Because a Crispin who was mourning the death of his grandfather and his mother might have wanted the oblivion found in some of what Rivers was peddling, I assumed. It didn’t make me like Rivers any more.
But at any rate, deprived of his favorite subject, Freddie Montrose must have decided to write about Ronnie Blanton instead. I hadn’t seen the article either, or if I had, I hadn’t thought to remember any details about it.
“What did Monty write about Ronnie?”
“The usual claptrap,” Rivers said. “The drinking, the parties, the dope. There was a treasure hunt that weekend—sorry you missed it, old chap—where everyone got up in fancy dress and tried to climb Cleopatra’s Needle...”
“Cleopatra’s Needle isn’t climbable,” Crispin said coolly. “I’ve tried. So drinking, parties, dope. Women?”
It was Rivers’s turn to snigger. “Not for Blanton.”
I waited for Crispin to glance at Christopher. He didn’t. “Ronnie’s queer?”
“Who knows?” Rivers shrugged. “He’s working hard to hide something.”
“Other than the murder?”
Rivers didn’t respond, and Crispin added, “Have you seen him since Saturday night?”
“Saw him yesterday afternoon,” Rivers said. “He’s in bad shape.”
Yes, he had been. We had seen him yesterday as well, and he had absolutely been in bad shape. But at least now we knew that Rivers had been out in his red Morris Oxford yesterday. Whether that meant that he had also gone to see Gladys Long, was of course a different story.
The conversation lagged for a moment, and I waited for Tom to make himself known. When he didn’t, and when no one else said anything, Rivers spoke up again. “Is there anything else I can do for you? Otherwise, I’m going to take my leave.”
“Feel free,” Crispin said, waving a hand at the door. “How much do I owe you for the Turkish Delight?”
Rivers smirked. “Keep your money. It was worth it to see the look on your face when you saw what was in the bag.”
Crispin nodded. “Let me walk you out.”
“When you can just summon the butler to show the riff-raff out? Don’t bother.”
“It’s hardly like that—” Crispin began, but Rivers was already on his way toward the door to the foyer. Crispin must have decided against running after him.
We all waited—I know I did—for Tom to do something. To stop Rivers, to follow him. But nothing happened. We could hear Rogers materialize in the foyer with Rivers’s outer garments, and then the door closed on Rivers’s heels with a, “Good day, sir,” from Rogers. I stayed where I was while I listened to the Morris’s engine engage in the courtyard, and then the sound of it rolling away.
“Are you still awake back there?” Crispin asked, and that was when the legs of Tom’s chair scraped as he got to his feet. Crispin added, “It’s all right, Darling. You can come out. He’s gone.”
“I’m aware.” I rounded the door jamb into the green parlor. “I heard every word. I thought you wanted to talk to him, Tom?”
“There was nothing I could do,” Tom said, with frustration and unwilling amusement mingled on his face. “We all know he deals dope. But we can’t prove it. Not from that conversation. Clever bastard.”
Crispin nodded. “He didn’t say a single word you could use to hold him, did he?”
Tom shook his head. “Not a one. Did you suspect he was going to do this?”
Crispin snorted. “Of course not. I’ve bought from him before; I thought he’d jump at the opportunity to take my money again.”
“The look on your face,” Christopher said with a gurgle of laughter, “when you looked into the bag and saw the Turkish Delight…!”
“The look on Christopher’s face,” I said crossly, “when you popped whatever it was in your mouth. Really, St George, have you no concept of the way we worry?”
