There was a click of glass against wood, and I imagined Crispin putting the brandy glass on the little table next to his chair. “You heard about the raid on Rectors, didn’t you? We had to leave Monty in Hyde Park instead of in the alley off Tottenham Court Road. But he was still in the dress and ladies’ shoes, wasn’t he? So Scotland Yard have been asking questions of the people they arrested during the raid, and some of them saw us all together at Rectors.”
“All?”
I couldn’t quite make out who asked the question. Most likely it was Hutchison again, but it could have been either Blanton or Ogilvie, as well.
“I don’t know which of us—or which of you—they recognized,” Crispin said. “All I know is that they recognized me. And Kit.”
I imagine he flicked a glance at Christopher—and so did everyone else—before he continued. “And they described Monty well enough that the police identified his body from it. So now they’re thinking that I must have killed Monty, too. And if they take a close look at the H6, they might find some of his blood in there. A single drop would be enough, wouldn’t it? And if that happens, my goose is cooked.”
Nobody said anything to that. Crispin’s voice hardened. “I refuse to end up in Wormwood Scrubs over something I didn’t do. They’ve been careful not to out and out accuse me. But if they do, I’m pointing the finger at someone else.”
The pause this time was longer. Nobody broke it.
“And so we talk about Dom,” Crispin said.
Up until now, I had been all right behind my screen. I had been able to keep up with the conversation and make educated guesses about everything else based on the sounds people made. Footsteps, the clinking of glasses, the shifting of bodies. But suddenly, it was as if everything stopped. No one said a word. No one moved. I didn’t even hear anyone draw breath.
Then—
“Dom?” Blanton repeated, with a shrill undertone in his voice. Hard to say whether it was from fear or something else. “You think Dom did it?”
“It was either him or one of us. I don’t suppose anyone wants to confess?”
No one did, it seemed, because that awkward silence descended again.
“I know it wasn’t me,” Crispin said. “And I know it wasn’t Kit. And let’s be honest, chaps, Dom had more reason than the rest of us to be afraid of what Monty might write. We would be embarrassed if he wrote another article about us, and it might get us in trouble with our families or with other people whose opinions we care about…”
Here someone made a noise, and Crispin stopped talking for a moment. When whoever it was didn’t carry on with a comment, though, he picked up the sentence again, “—but I know my father isn’t likely to disinherit me over it. If he does, the title will go to my Uncle Herbert—no offense, Kit—and I can’t see Father letting that happen as long as he has an heir of his own. I don’t imagine yours is likely to take that step, either, Ronald?”
Here was where being behind the screen was inconvenient. Blanton didn’t answer with words, he either nodded or shook his head. I surmised he responded in the negative, because Crispin said, “But Dom would go to prison if word got out that he’s peddling dope. Just look at what happened to Chang. Fourteen months in Wormwood Scrubs, and deportation.”
“They couldn’t deport Dom!” Blanton exclaimed, horrified.
I imagined Crispin’s brow creeping up his forehead. “I imagine they could, you know. His mother was something in the foreign way, wasn’t she? Italian or Portuguese or something of that nature? I wouldn’t be surprised if they put him on the first boat back to Lima.”
“Lima is in Peru,” Christopher said. “You’re thinking of Lisbon.”
“Am I?”
“You must be. Lima is nowhere near Portugal.” Christopher sniggered. “That’s what comes of a Cambridge education, old chap. Should have gone to Oxford with me.”
“Then I wouldn’t have had the pleasure of beating you in the boat race,old chap,” Crispin retorted.
“Only in -22 and -24! Oxford beat Cambridge in -23!”
“By a three-quarter length,” Crispin sniffed. “We beat you by four-and-a-quarter lengths the other two years.”
“A win is a win,” Christopher said, and I had to admire how effortlessly they had introduced Cambridge into the conversation.
Blanton was still on the possible deportation of Rivers, however. “They can’t do that!”
“If he killed Monty,” Crispin said, “frankly, I don’t care what they do with him.”
Nobody said anything, and he added, “Look, I’m no fonder of The Daily Yell than you are. But I knew Monty. We went to university together, speaking of Cambridge. With you too, Hutchison. You remember Monty from school, don’t you? He was a decent chap back then, wasn’t he?”
“He was all right,” Hutchison said. “I didn’t know him well. He only attended for the first two months of my first term, I think. He got sent down after that editorial he wrote excusing what happened at Newnham.”
“But it was just a prank, wasn’t it?” Crispin didn’t wait for a response. “And it’s still not right that he was murdered. I mean, he wasn’t hurting anybody that night at your flat…”
