He headed for the door, with a wave for Finchley to follow. “It’s the Yard for us, Finch.”
“Um…” Finchley said. “Shouldn’t I change out of his lordship’s livery?”
Crispin sniggered. Tom rolled his eyes. “Yes, Finch, let’s do that, please. I’d hate to think what the chief inspector would say, to see you come in like that.”
“Chief Inspector Pendennis is tucked up in bed,” Finchley said as he made his way towards the door, “and he’d say I was doing my job.”
He headed for the back of the house. “Back in a few minutes.”
Tom nodded. He didn’t move, nor did Christopher. Crispin eyed them both for a second before he turned to me. “Come along, Darling. Let me find you a place to sleep. Kit’s already in his pyjamas—or in mine—so you might as well plan to stay the night, too. No point in trekking back to the Essex House Mansions at this hour, when we have plenty of beds here.”
“If it’s not a bother,” I said, and let him guide me out the door to the hallway, leaving Christopher and Tom alone in the sitting room.
“No bother at all.” He gestured me to proceed up the stairs ahead of him at the same time as he called over his shoulder, “Lock up after them, Kit?”
Christopher’s voice floated out of the sitting room with the confirmation that he would do so, and Crispin and I headed up the stairs. “The last time you were here,” he asked, “did you stay in the yellow bedroom? It’s been a long time, but I seem to remember you being in there. If not, there are plenty of other chambers to pick from…”
“The yellow room is fine,” I said. “I’m really not difficult, you know, St George.”
“Of course not, Darling.” He smirked. “You’ll let me know if you’d like me to rustle up a pair of my pyjamas for you, won’t you?”
“I’m not wearing your pyjamas, St George!” I took a breath and uncrossed my eyes. “I’ll sleep in my unmentionables before I wear your pyjamas.”
He clapped a hand to his chest, as if I had mortally wounded him. Or as if his heart had done a hop and a skip in his chest. “Better not mention your unmentionables, Darling. You’ll give me palpitations.”
“Be serious, St George,” I said. “And on that note, honestly, how are you feeling about what happened downstairs? Hutchison, and Blanton, and Ogilvie?”
He didn’t answer immediately, just opened the door to what I remembered as the yellow bedroom, and gestured me across the threshold. Then he leaned a shoulder on the jamb as I looked around.
The room was fine, and I turned back to him. “I figured out that you suspected Ronnie Blanton, you know. After we talked about it earlier, I went home and thought about it, and I realized that it had to be Blanton you suspected. You wouldn’t feel as bad for either of the other two. You don’t feel as bad about the idea that Ogilvie, with malice aforethought, killed Gladys, as you do about Ronnie Blanton killing Frederick Montrose while he was out of his mind.”
He didn’t say anything at first, just watched me from the doorway with both hands sunk in his pockets. I was starting to worry that I was wrong, that it wasn’t what he had thought, when he finally answered. “That’s right. I feel terrible about Ronnie. I feel terrible about Gladys, too. She didn’t deserve to die. Nor did Monty, really. Whatever he did, wasn’t worthy of being murdered over. But I don’t feel very sorry at all for Graham Ogilvie. He did what he did in his right mind, and with calculation. Hard to feel sorry about something like that.”
Yes, it was. “He did it to protect Blanton,” I said. “There might be some mitigating circumstances in that.”
Crispin shrugged the shoulder that wasn’t up against the door jamb. “Not sure I care.”
I wasn’t sure I did, either. “Maybe they’ll end up in prison together. Ogilvie might like that.”
“I suppose he might,” Crispin said, and glanced around. “Will this suit?”
“It will suit just fine. Thank you for putting us up for the night.”
“This is Sutherland House,” Crispin said. “Kit’s as much a Sutherland as I am.”
Perhaps not quite as much, being several steps further away from the title. And I wasn’t a Sutherland at all. “Still. It’s kind of you.”
“Oh, yes,” Crispin said. “Kind. That’s me.”
I mimicked his stance, leaning against one of the bedposts. “You’re not so bad, you know.”
A corner of his mouth turned up. “Faint praise?”
I rolled my eyes and pushed away from the post. “Go to sleep, St George.”
He sniggered. “Yes, Darling. Sleep well.”
“You, too,” I told him, and shut the door as he headed down the hallway towards what I assumed was his own bedroom whenever he visited Town.
