Christopher nodded. “I know you’re right, Pippa. I don’t necessarily like it, but I know you’re right.”
“Then go get some sleep,” I told him, “so we can be of some use to Tom tomorrow if he needs us. Or Crispin, if he needs us. Or anyone else who may need us.”
He nodded. “Good night, Pippa.”
“Good night, Christopher,” I said, and then I proceeded to lay awake for half the night myself, thoughts spinning, until the square of the window started to get lighter with the rising of the almost-midsummer sun.
CHAPTERTWENTY-TWO
“I thinkwe should go see Ronnie Blanton,” I told Crispin over breakfast.
He arched a brow, and so did Christopher. They exchanged a look.
“And tell him what?” Crispin wanted to know. “That Nigel Hutchison says he’s guilty of murder even if he can’t remember doing it?”
“I suppose something like that. I feel badly for him. I understand that if he did it, Tom has to arrest him. If he’s done it once, there’s the possibility that he might do it again, to someone else. For as long as he keeps sniffing cocaine, he’s going to be a danger to himself and others if indeed he committed this crime, but…”
“There’s that ‘if’ again,” Christopher said. “Twice.”
I shushed him. “But does he even know that Hutchison says he did it? Does he know he did it? Has anyone explained to him that he did it? Or does he really remember it all, and when we spoke to him Sunday afternoon, he was simply pretending not to remember? If that’s the case, I would feel a lot better about the whole thing. Wouldn’t you?”
“I wish I had been there for that conversation,” Crispin said thoughtfully. “I might have been able to tell whether he was fibbing or not.”
“I wish you had been there, too.” Instead of driving Gladys home and getting caught up in her murder and giving us all such a scare for the rest of the day. “But we can fix that this morning, by going to see him again. And you can look at him and try to determine whether you think he’s lying or telling the truth.”
“I’d be delighted,” Crispin said. “He should know what’s being said about him. Are you in, old man?”
“Whatever you want,” Christopher said. “I suppose we’ll be going by the flat first, so Pippa can get into something other than a robe or yesterday’s gown?”
I hadn’t thought that far ahead, to be honest, but yes, I suppose we had better. It wouldn’t look good to show up in Ronnie Blanton’s flat in yesterday’s gown. I wasn’t looking forward to doing the walk of shame in front of Evans, either, to be honest. I’m not used to coming home after breakfast the next morning, the way I had been doing for the past few days.
“There might be something around here that would fit you,” Crispin began, “if you’re not?—”
“—averse to spending the rest of the day in one of your girlfriends’ castoffs? Good Lord, St George, do you run them off so quickly that they don’t even take the time to put on their clothes?”
He sniggered. “I was thinking of something of my mother’s, Darling. She left a few things here.”
“I don’t think your mother’s clothes would fit me, St George,” I said, and pushed away the instinctive revulsion that the idea caused. “Nor would I look very good in them, I imagine.”
Aunt Charlotte had been a silvery blonde with the gray eyes her son had inherited and an hourglass figure that she liked to enhance with tight waists and prominent bosoms. I was half her age, with brown hair and green eyes and what’s generally called a boyish figure. My looks lend themselves well to the current tubular fashions. Aunt Charlotte would look ridiculous in my clothing, and I would look ridiculous in hers.
“It’s kind of you to suggest it,” I told Crispin, “but I’m afraid you’re just going to have to make the detour to the Essex House Mansions.”
“Of course, Darling. The image of you in mutton sleeves and corsets will stay imaginary for now.”
It absolutely would. “I’m starting to worry about you, St George. First it was Christopher’s evening suit…”
“That was your own idea, Darling.”
“Then it was a maid’s uniform. Then your pyjamas. And now it’s mutton sleeves and a corset? Do you have a burning need to make me a laughing stock?”
“Yes, Darling,” Crispin said, while Christopher shook his head with a sigh. “It’s my one goal in life. I will take you to the Essex House Mansions so you can dress in your own clothes. Then we will go see Ronnie. Does that make you happy?”
“Quite,” I said.
“Then my life is complete.” He reached for the marmalade.
“When do we leave?”
