“Perhaps he wasn’t shooting at you,” Christopher suggested. “Perhaps he was shooting at Francis, because of the way Francis reacted to him last night.”
Well… perhaps. Although— “That seems like a rather poor motive for murder.”
“We don’t know what someone else thinks is a reasonable motive for murder,” Christopher said, “and it might not have been attempted murder. Perhaps he shot to miss.”
“Why would he do that?”
“To scare?” Christopher suggested, with a glance at Francis. The latter was staring morosely at his brandy. “To upset someone who would get flashbacks by something like that?”
Francis grimaced.
“Or perhaps someone thought they were shooting at Cecily Fletcher,” Constance said. She had been quiet so far, so her voice came as a surprise. So did the suggestion. Crispin’s eyebrows flew up. I opened my mouth to protest, but she had already gone on. “You do look a bit alike, you know. Similar bob and hair color. From a distance, someone could mistake you for her, or vice versa.”
Crispin glanced at me and then away, his cheeks turning pink. I rolled my eyes. So he had once bedded someone who looked a bit like me. He had bedded plenty of women who didn’t look like me, as well. More of them, probably. Laetitia and I had nothing in common, for one, nor did I and Lady Violet Cummings, so it wasn’t as if it were a requirement.
“Would that be someone else trying to kill her,” Christopher ventured, oblivious to or at least purposefully ignoring his cousin’s reaction, “or the same person, not realizing that she was upstairs breathing her last?”
I shrugged. “If that’s what happened, I don’t see how it could have been Wolfgang, at any rate. He’d have had no reason to want Cecily dead.”
Crispin snorted. “I’m sure Wolfie is as innocent as the day is long.”
I bristled, but before I could say anything, he added, “At least I have an alibi. I’m sure that would be your next suggestion.”
“If you wanted to shoot anyone,” I said coldly, “I’m sure you would have potted Wolfgang in the back instead of me, St George.”
He flushed angrily. “Are you calling me a coward, Darling?”
Well, yes. I was. Not because I thought he was one—he was a well-brought-up Englishman with all the usual Anglo-Saxon morals; he would never shoot an opponent in the back—but because I knew that it would anger him. Before I could double down, however, Francis had spoken up. “Enough, Pippa. So you have no idea who might have taken a potshot at the house while you were out in the woods?”
Crispin shook his head. “Sorry, old chap. We were spread out and there were trees. It could have been anyone.”
After a second, he added, “Anyone except me. And I believe Laetitia. I had her in my sights for most of it.”
“That’s too bad,” I said with a toss of my hair. “I wouldn’t have put it past her.”
Crispin scowled. “I’m sure you wouldn’t, Darling. If you could, you’d probably pin Cecily’s death on her, too.”
I scowled back. “What do you mean, if I could? I can, quite easily.” I raised a finger. “Number one, Dominic Rivers peddles dope. Number two, someone invited him here, and for a reason. That reason might have been to get their hands on something that could kill Cecily. It wasn’t you. It’s Laetitia’s family’s house, and Laetitia’s engagement party, so she—and of course Geoffrey—are the most likely culprits.”
I waited for him to tell me that I was wrong. When he didn’t, I administered thecoup de grace. “If she thought you were responsible for Cecily’s condition, and that you might have to throw her over to make an honest woman out of Cecily, she had every reason to want Cecily as well as her baby out of the way.”
“Well-reasoned, Pipsqueak,” Francis said. “Is she your number one suspect, then?”
“She’s always my number one suspect.” I had, after all, suspected her of Johanna de Vos’s murder in May and of Abigail Dole’s murder in July, as well. If she had been in Londonlast month, I would have probably suspected her of Flossie Schlomsky’s kidnapping, too.
“It’s good to be self-aware,” Christopher told me, with a twitch of his lips.
I rolled my eyes. “I can’t help it that she always has a motive whenever anyone associated with St George is murdered.” Or kidnapped.
“I was not associated with Abigail Dole,” Crispin said, “and I’ll thank you to remember it.”
“Of course not.” I gave him a condescending smirk.
He sneered, but before he could respond, there was the sound of Laetitia’s voice from the hallway. “Crispin, love! Where are you?”
Crispin’s face took on an expression of pure panic, and I sniggered. “Better go, St George, before she comes in here and finds you fraternizing with the enemy.”
I could see his attention flick to the door in the side wall, the one leading into the study next door. But of course there was no way around it, and in credit to him, he stood his ground as Laetitia appeared in the doorway.
