“Nellie, for instance?”
“We might as well start with Nellie,” I agreed. If Laetitia had used the Marsden Manor kitchen to brew pennyroyal tea, Nellie might know something about it.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
When Constable Collinscame to relieve us of duty, it wasn’t with immediate effect, however. Before he allowed us to go, he insisted on having me there while he gave a quick look through my room, since he hadn’t had a chance to do it so far.
“It’s not because I suspect you of anything, Miss Darling,” he assured me as he dug through my unmentionables; I think his complexion turned pink, but he had his back to me, so all I had to go by were the tips of his ears and what little skin I could see between his collar and the dark hair. “We all three know that the two of you were with me when it’s likely that Mr. Rivers was killed. But in thoroughness, I ought to look.”
“Of course you ought,” I said, making myself comfortable on the edge of the bed while I waited. Christopher, meanwhile, leaned against the wall just inside the door. “I don’t mind at all. There’s nothing here that I’m worried about anyone seeing.”
“Tell me, Collins,” Christopher said as Collins withdrew his hands from my drawer and pushed it shut with a relieved breath, “what is happening downstairs?”
“Nothing much, Mr. Astley,” Collins answered, and pulled open the doors to the wardrobe. I had brought two evening frocks this weekend—the ivory from last night, plus an applegreen that I adored, in spite of the fact that Crispin had informed me that it made me look like a Bramley. There was also a peachy-pink afternoon frock with a pleated skirt (it had been intended for today, but due to the excitement of this morning I was still wearing the skirt and blouse I had put on for breakfast), a pair of blue satin pyjamas, a matching dressing gown, and another blouse to exchange for the one I was currently wearing. They were all hanging where I had placed them, neatly side by side in the wardrobe. Below stood my two pairs of evening shoes and one pair of slippers—the footwear I had brought in addition to the brogues on my feet.
Collins made short process of sifting through it all before he shut the doors and turned back around to finish answering Christopher’s question. “The drinking has started, although given what this day has brought so far—two deaths and a murder investigation—I’m not certain I can blame anyone for that. I can’t imagine it’s what Miss Laetitia had planned for her engagement party.”
Probably not, and for a moment I felt almost sorry for her. But then I remembered whose ring was weighing down her finger, and how she might have killed Cecily to keep it, and I sniffed instead. “No more than she deserves, if you ask me.”
Besides, there had been plenty of alcohol last night, so it wasn’t at all certain that the drinking had anything at all to do with the tragedies.
“Now, now, Pippa,” Christopher admonished, but his voice was uneven with suppressed laughter.
Collins glanced at me but didn’t comment. “Your German friend appeared to be involved in an exchange with your cousin—” His eyes flickered to Christopher.
“Oh, dear,” I said. “Francis, I suppose, not Crispin?”
“The elder cousin,” Collins said. “Not Miss Laetitia’s fiancé. And I think your parents may have arrived.”
Christopher’s brows rose. “My parents?”
“I don’t know,” Collins said. “I’ve never met them. But there was a middle-aged man with fair hair and a lady with a brown bob.”
That definitely sounded like Uncle Herbert and Aunt Roz. “It’s a shame they arrived in the middle of all this mess,” I commented, and Christopher nodded.
“I imagine Uncle Harold isn’t far behind, then, and he’ll be the cherry on the cake.”
I winced. He probably would be, at that.
“Your parents didn’t behave badly,” Collins said. “In fact, your mother took the German gentleman off somewhere to look for a plaster.”
A plaster? “What did Francis do to him?”
“Nothing of note,” Collins said. “A bit of fisticuffs. Scraped knuckles. It sounded more like an excuse than anything else.”
Of course. Aunt Roz would want to know what was going on between Wolfgang and Francis, and since someone had undoubtedly brought me up—Crispin, at a guess—she would want to plumb those depths, too, and learn what the connection was.
“We should go downstairs and greet them,” I told Christopher, who nodded.
“Are we done up here, Constable?”
“Go on, then,” Collins told him. “I have to stay with the crime scene, but you two may feel free to move around. We’ll get a signed statement from you at some point.”
“We’ll be here.” I tugged Christopher after me into the hallway. “Come along, Christopher. Don’t dawdle.”
“Afraid of what your boyfriend is telling Mum?” Christopher wanted to know, but he tripped along behind me.
I flicked him a look over my shoulder. “He’s not my boyfriend, Christopher. But yes, I admit that I am, a little bit.”
