“Of course.” Crispin returned to his usual suave self. “Of course it would be. That makes perfect sense, doesn’t it? I’m glad we had this little chat, Hutchie. It’s good that we’re all on the same page now.”
“Isn’t it?” Hutchison must have gotten to his feet, because I heard the chair squeak. “I’ll see you around, St George. Keep me up to date with anything that happens.”
“Of course, old bean.” I heard Crispin get to his feet too, and then two sets of footsteps headed for the door. “You do the same.”
Hutchison murmured something that sounded like acquiescence, and then there was the sound of the front door opening—Finchley was out of sight, it seemed, because I didn’t hear his voice—and then Crispin giving Hutchison his goodbyes. The door closed again, and I heard the sound of the bolt sliding home. Several seconds passed—I counted, and got past thirty—and then came Crispin’s voice. “He’s gone. Everyone back into the sitting room.”
He fetched his own glass on his way through the parlor, and turned off the parlor lights before shutting the door between the parlor and sitting room. Christopher came clattering down from the upstairs in slippers; he had taken the opportunity to change into a pair of pyjamas—one of Crispin’s, I assume, since we hadn’t brought a change of clothes of our own—and a robe. Tom gave him an arched brow, but no comment. If Finchley noticed, he didn’t show any signs of it.
“Make yourself at home, Kit,” Crispin sniggered.
“Just returning the favor from last night, old chap. You raided my closet, I raided yours.”
Crispin nodded. “No worries. There are plenty of pyjamas. Enough for everyone. You might have to roll up the sleeves and legs, though, Darling.”
“I’m not wearing your pyjamas, St George,” I said, while Tom told him, “We’re not staying.”
He glanced at Finchley, and added, “We still have reports to write. But very quickly… what was all that about?”
“What happened?” Christopher wanted to know, indignantly. “I didn’t hear it. Everyone else got to stay, and I didn’t get to hear what happened.”
Crispin opened his mouth, but Tom got in first. I guess he was in a hurry to get to those reports. “He still thinks that they should pin the blame on Dominic Rivers, but he wanted St George to know the truth, now that you’re all on the same side.”
“And what’s the truth?” Christopher glanced back and forth between the two of them.
“According to Hutchie,” Crispin said, “Ronnie killed Monty under the influence of cocaine and in a fit of madness that Monty was spying on Dom. Yes, Darling—” because I had opened my mouth, “that’s what it amounted to. And then Gram Ogilvie killed Gladys because she had seen Ronnie do it.”
“And Ogilvie did this because…?”
“Of his deep and abiding passion for Ronnie,” Crispin said.
I eyed him. “You sound like you don’t believe it.”
He made a face. “It’s not that I don’t. It makes sense. It accounts for everything. I can see it happening that way.”
“You can see Graham Ogilvie killing Gladys Long because she was a threat to Ronald Blanton?”
“Yes,” Crispin told Tom, who was the one who had asked. “I never had a problem with the idea of Ronnie killing Monty. It made sense, under the circumstances. I won’t say I like it, but it makes sense. But I didn’t think he would have killed Gladys. Not the way it happened. He’s just not a cold-blooded murderer. And if it happened this way, then he isn’t.”
“But Ogilvie is. Do you believe Ogilvie is capable of cold-blooded murder?”
“Easier than Ronnie,” Crispin said. “Hutchie was telling the truth about Gram and Ronnie, you know. I’ve seen them at it.”
Christopher nodded. “Ogilvie was talking about some of this on Saturday night. He didn’t name names, but it was about how someone could live openly in that kind of relationship, and whether I thought it was possible, and how does my family feel about me being the way I am…”
“We feel just fine about you being any way you want to be,” I said, and was pleased to see that Crispin nodded, too. “We just want you to be happy.”
“Thank you, Pippa.” Christopher smiled. “Anyway, it would not surprise me to hear that Ogilvie was in love with Blanton. It wouldn’t surprise me to hear that he was the one who killed Montrose, either, the way he was talking about him, and that article Montrose wrote about Blanton. Although I don’t see how he could have made it to the butler’s pantry before Blanton and Hutchison did…”
“He couldn’t possibly,” I said, “when he left the sitting room at least a minute after them. But if he would have been willing to kill Montrose over Blanton, he might have been willing to kill Gladys, too, to keep him out of prison.”
Christopher nodded. So did Crispin.
“So you’re all in agreement,” Tom said, looking from one to the other of them. “Blanton killed Montrose, but has forgotten about it, and Ogilvie killed Long because she knew that Blanton had done it.”
“Is there some reason not to believe it happened that way?”
“None I can think of,” Tom said calmly. “All right. That’s a lot of progress for one evening. Get some sleep, and we’ll talk again tomorrow.”
