Page 106 of Blackmail at Beckwith Place
Publicly, I mean. We’d all know, I assumed. At least the family, which at this point included Constance. But perhaps we could keep it from the Marsdens, at least. It was none of their affair, after all.
I put my arm around Christopher’s waist to give what comfort I could. I’m not sure he noticed, but it was all I could do, so I did it. Perhaps when Tom could remove himself from the other constables and come over, it would help. But until then, it was up to me, so I did what I could.
“He must have picked her up in the village last night,” I said softly, “and offered to drive her up here. He had no reason to be here last night otherwise. And instead of helping her find Bess, I guess he decided to get rid of her once and for all, somewhere where there were a lot of other Astleys who could be blamed.”
“She might have said something to him,” Christopher said distantly. “Perhaps she made some sort of threat.”
He glanced at the car and the pair of legs protruding from it again, before he added, “I guess we’ll never know.”
Not unless we could piece it together ourselves, no. We probably wouldn’t.
For a moment, I wished fervently that Tom had forced Wilkins to speak in the study, that he had maneuvered the chauffeur into a chair so perhaps we could have gotten a few answers before it was too late.
But it was what it was, and we had to be satisfied with what we already knew.
And it wasn’t as if we didn’t have most, if not all, of the answers. Or like we couldn’t extrapolate the rest. The man had killed himself rather than be questioned: he must be guilty. Tom had filled in the backstory in broad strokes for Uncle Herbert while we’d listened, and Uncle Herbert had done the same with the earlier story for Tom. I don’t know what Wilkins could have told us, apart from how the murder had come about, or the reason for it, that we didn’t already know. Abigail might have threatened to have him sacked, or she might have insisted that he marry her when he didn’t want to, or he might have had another girl he wanted instead and this one was in the way…
I shook it off and turned to Christopher. There was no sense in us standing out here staring at a tragedy we could do nothing about. Not when there was something helpful we could do inside.
“Let’s go check on your father. He can probably use a visit from one of his sons right now.”
Christopher glanced at Tom, still in conversation with Sammy and the other constables, and then at Crispin. A moment passed, then?—
“Topping idea,” Crispin said. “Let’s all go.”
He stepped backwards, out of the doorway, and I nudged Christopher into the boot room ahead of me. I closed the door behind us, and when I turned back, I heard Crispin say, softly, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”
Christopher gave a harsh bark of laughter, one with not even a trace of humor in it. It might have been a sob, and not laughter at all; I don’t know. “I don’t blameyou, Crispin. You found out… when? Two months ago?”
Crispin shrugged, and Christopher added, “I imagine it must have been a shock to you, too. And it isn’tyourresponsibility to keep me up to date on Father’s shenanigans. Even this. Besides…”
He hesitated. “If you had told me back then, or even between then and now, I might have resented you. And now I don’t. And I’m glad I don’t. So it’s better this way.”
Crispin didn’t respond, but as they set off down the hallway towards Uncle Herbert’s study, he nudged Christopher’s shoulder with his own and got an answering nudge back. If all wasn’t perfectly well with the Astleys at the moment, at least it looked as if they’d get through this tumult in time and be all right for it.
EPILOGUE
Tom leftwith little Bess in the late afternoon. Ian Finchley had come back from Whitechapel with the names and location of the Dole family, information which he had passed to Tom via telephone, and Sammy was only too happy to relinquish the responsibility both for the baby and the death notification.
He had his hands full with the new crime scene, the one in and around Uncle Harold’s Crossley. The official responsibility for going to Southampton and telling Maisie Wilkins that her son was dead would be his, although by the time Tom left, Uncle Herbert and Francis had already set off in the Bentley on that errand. Maisie shouldn’t hear about her son’s death from the constables if he had the opportunity to tell her himself, Uncle Herbert said, and Aunt Roz agreed with him, so off they went. She would have gone herself, I think, had she not had a house full of guests she had to attend to.
She wanted to keep Elizabeth. She did, however, realize that we had no claim to the baby, or if we did, it would be much better for everyone if we pretended we didn’t. So Bess was off to the Doles, with the promise of a substantial monetary settlement from the Astley family, ostensibly because the Duke of Sutherland’s chauffeur had seduced and then murdered their daughter.
That was really all they needed to know, and it was all we were prepared to share with them. If Abigail had told them that the baby’s father had told her he was an Astley, it could easily be explained away by his employment, and there was no need for them to know any more of the sordid details.
Aunt Roz impressed upon Tom, anxiously, that he must tell her if there was any reason at all to think that little Bess wouldn’t be safe or happy in the Doles’ care, because if so, to hell with the conventions and what people thought: she would bring the baby up herself rather than leave her somewhere unsafe, and the whole world could think—and say—whatever it wanted about it.
“Promise me, Thomas! If you get any inkling, even just a feeling, that something isn’t right, you will take her out of there, and bring her back here. I won’t be responsible for anything bad happening to that precious baby!”
Tom assured her that he would not leave Bess with people who wouldn’t take care of her, and then he set off in the Tender with Hughes beside him, allegedly so she could help with the baby, but really because she couldn’t wait to get away from us all, and we—mostly Uncle Herbert—couldn’t wait to be rid of her.
He impressed upon her the need to get in touch with us with a forwarding address once she was settled—and used the missing Lydia Morrison as an excuse—but I heard it, and I’m certain Hughes did as well, as an assurance that the cheque for a thousand pounds would be forthcoming.
Her blackmail had lost rather a lot of its sting with these last few events, of course, although I suppose giving her the hush money still made sense. Uncle Herbert had it to spare since Uncle Harold was coughing up the settlement for the Doles. I guess perhaps the new Duke felt somewhat guilty over his late father’s actions and wanted to contribute something.
“I’d still like to know how that trench club ended up in my bedchamber,” I commented, after the Tender had vanished down the lane behind the Bentley with Uncle Herbert and Francis. “It makes no sense that Wilkins would have put it there. He had the opportunity, I suppose, but why would he frame me, out of everyone here? I had nothing to do with any of this, and he couldn’t possibly have known that I didn’t have an alibi. He wasn’t here last night when we went to bed. And there was no reason why he’d single me out. There was no bad blood between us.”
There was a beat, then?—
