There was a murmur of greeting.
“Can I offer you something to drink?” Crispin asked. And then he added, his voice half amused and half concerned— “Whatever are you doing, Hutchison?”
Hutchison was prowling, clearly. I could hear his footsteps coming closer to the screen behind which I was sitting. His voice was louder, too, than earlier. “Just making sure we’re alone.”
“My staff knows better than to gossip,” Crispin said coolly, with a hint of offense in his voice. “Or perhaps you’re worried that I have Scotland Yard stashed up the chimney?”
I couldn’t see him, of course, but I know him well enough to recognize the particular tone that went along with an arched eyebrow.
There was a pause, in which I imagined that Hutchison might have exchanged a look with Blanton and/or Ogilvie.
“But if it will make you feel better,” Crispin said, with what was surely a negligent wave of his hand, “go ahead, by all means. Look around to your heart’s content. I’ll pour. What’ll it be, gentleman? We have all the usual poisons.”
I could hear the sound of his footsteps cross the floor to the bar cart, and then the clinking of glasses and decanters.
“Gin Rickey for me,” Blanton’s voice said, “if you don’t mind.”
“I’ll have the same,” Ogilvie added.
“You know,” Crispin’s voice said, over the sound of the clinking of glasses and sloshing of liquid; as he went on, I realized he was addressing Hutchison, “you’re not the only person to show up here today with suspicions. I asked Dom to stop by this afternoon, and do you know what he brought me? A hundred grams of Turkish Delight.”
He waited for the laughter to subside. Blanton was howling like a hyena, so it took a while. “Not at all what I wanted, of course. But that’s what he brought, so I had to be satisfied with it. It’s in that bag over there, if anyone’s interested.”
There were footsteps, perhaps Blanton’s, and then the rustling of the paper bag. And a snigger.
“I wanted to talk about Dom,” Crispin added, as he handed the drinks around. “What’ll be, Hutchie? D’you want a Gin Rickey or something else?”
“Whatever you’re having is fine,” Hutchison said. He had moved away from the screen now, I was happy to hear. Blanton, meanwhile, must be the one chewing on the Turkish Delight, because all Crispin got from him was a grunt. Ogilvie said, “Thank you.”
“Brandy?” Crispin must have reached for another decanter, because I heard the clink of a glass and the sloshing of liquid. “Top off, Kit?”
“Not quite yet,” Christopher said. “Better to keep all our wits about us for this conversation, I think.”
“Hear, hear.” Crispin must have toasted him, I imagined. “I couldn’t agree more, old bean.”
From the other three, there was a rather distinct silence. “What is that intended to mean?” Hutchison wanted to know.
“Make yourselves comfortable.” I heard the sound as Crispin dropped back into his chair. “This could take a while.”
“What’s going on, St George?” Blanton wanted to know. He giggled, but he also managed to sound concerned at the same time. “What about Dom?”
“Nothing that I know of,” Crispin said. “You heard about Gladys, I assume?”
Neither of the other three said anything, which I figured meant that yes, they had all heard about Gladys.
“She turned up yesterday morning,” Crispin said, “in Kit and Philippa’s flat. Looking for reassurance.”
The way he said it made it sound like women regularly took refuge in his arms when things went wrong, and that he regularly ‘reassured’ them. I made a face at the mental image the words engendered.
“I took her home, and after I left, someone else walked in and hit her over the head. And now I’ve got police knocking on my door, thinking I did it. And all because Freddie Montrose spent the last six months putting my face all over his odious magazine so everyone in London recognizes me on sight!”
His voice started out bland, but by the time he stopped speaking, it was both injured and full of bitterness. Theatricals at Cambridge, indeed.
Ronnie Blanton sniggered, of course. Everything seemed to strike him as funny. Hutchison said coolly, “What’s this got to do with Dom? You said you wanted to talk about him.”
There was a beat of silence. I imagined Crispin eyeing Hutchison. “I didn’t ask any questions the other night,” he said. “I took Monty’s body and got rid of it, and I didn’t insist on knowing what had happened. But with the police looking at me for Gladys…”
There was another pause.
