Page 107 of Blackmail at Beckwith Place
“Probably thought he was framing Astley,” Geoffrey grunted. “Someone who had been in the war and could have brought home a club of his own. Someone who could have been the baby’s father.”
I blinked. That was a very sensible suggestion, and I was rather surprised that Geoffrey, of all people, had come up with it. Up until now, I had been convinced of his utter uselessness. But it made sense, at least as far as Wilkins’s hypothetical motivation went. Frame Francis, not just because he had been in the war and knew how to use a trench club, but because Francis was the firstborn legitimate son, the one who had taken Wilkins’s place.
“Shouldn’t he have put it in the room on the other side of the landing, then? That’s where Francis was supposed to sleep. Or the library, where he actually slept? Or even the room Uncle Harold was in, which is Francis’s usual room when the house isn’t full of guests?”
There was a moment’s silence. Then the Duke cleared his throat.
“I don’t imagine you’ll ever discover the reasoning behind it, Miss Darling,” he said smoothly. “The man’s dead, and can’t tell us.”
I smiled politely, even as I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Talk about pointing out the obvious. “Of course.”
He eyed me down the length of his nose. “Surely there can be no question that he did it? Who else would have had access to the weapon?”
He clearly meant it as a rhetorical question, although I could think of one other person who might have had access to it. Harold, Duke of Sutherland, might have found the trench club in his own room after Wilkins put it there with the idea of framing Francis.
That would mean that my courtesy-uncle-by-marriage had deliberately tried to frame me for murder. And while I had always suspected that he and Aunt Charlotte didn’t like me much, that seemed rather like a serious accusation.
Unless he, too, had tried to frame Francis. He wouldn’t have wanted to put it in the other upstairs room, after all, where Crispin had been asleep. Nor would he want to wander all over the house with it, I assume. Nor admit that he had it at all.
And he was right, anyway. Maybe Wilkins had done it. We’d never really know.
While I cogitated, His Grace turned to Crispin. “I’ll have to travel back to Sutherland with you, St George, since the Crossley—and Wilkins—is unavailable.”
“I suppose we’ll need a new motorcar after this,” Crispin said brightly. “Can I talk you into one of the New Phantoms? Overhead-valve straight-six engine and four gears? Ninety miles an hour at top speed?”
Uncle Harold looked somewhere between revulsed and fascinated despite himself.
“Looking for more and better ways to kill yourself, St George?” I wanted to know, which was really quite a stupid turn of phrase under the circumstances. At least half the room flinched.
Crispin, who has no finer feelings to speak of, merely gave me a supercilious look. “Not at all, Darling. I’m a changed man. From now on, it’s the straight and narrow road for me.”
“If you say so,” I said dubiously.
Laetitia tinkled a little laugh. “Oh, Crispin,” she cooed, fluttering her eyelashes, “you’re so droll.”
I saw no reason to refrain this time, so I rolled my eyes with abandon. Crispin smiled, and Uncle Harold said jovially, “Why don’t you come back to Sutherland Hall with us for the rest of the weekend, Effie? Maury? With Francis gone, the engagement party is surely off?—”
Surely, and not just because Francis had motored to Southampton.
“—and Roslyn undoubtedly has other things to think about than keeping us entertained.”
Like the fact that her husband’s son, whom she hadn’t known about until today, had killed her grandchild’s mother and then himself on the grounds of her childhood home.
“Of course, Harold,” Aunt Roz said peacefully. I’m sure she was as eager to get rid of them as they were to leave.
Euphemia said herself willing to share the amenities of Sutherland Hall for the next few days, and so the following thirty minutes were spent in a mad dash as everyone gathered up their belongings and beat a hasty retreat out the door to the remaining motorcars. Laetitia got in beside Crispin as if she belonged there, and left Uncle Harold to choose between squeezing into the back seat, or going with the Earl and Countess. He chose the latter, and ended up in the back of the Daimler with Geoffrey. I guess they all trusted that Laetitia and Crispin could do without a chaperone for the trip, or if not that, that a chaperone was unwanted, because they’d all like to see them married and would do whatever seemed necessary to affect that outcome.
“Be careful,” I said as we stood outside seeing them off. “No sudden moves, St George.”
“Don’t worry, Darling.” He flicked me a glance. “I’ll drive as carefully as if I had a dozen bottles of port in the boot.”
For once I wasn’t worried about his driving—if he wanted to put Laetitia in the hospital on the way to Sutherland Hall, he had my permission—but of course I couldn’t say that with her sitting right there. Especially when she told me, with utter condescension, “How kind of you to concern yourself, Miss Darling. But I’ll take care of him.”
She put a possessive hand on his arm. I eyed it for a moment, but since she’d have to move it anyway as soon as he started driving, I didn’t bother to say anything sarcastic. I could have, so I gave myself full marks for restraint. Although I did take a step back from the vehicle to avoid further temptation. “Safe travels.”
Crispin nodded and let out the clutch. The Hispano-Suiza rolled off down the driveway followed by the Daimler.
“Aren’t you afraid they’ll be engaged by tomorrow night?” Constance wanted to know. She came up to stand next to me as we watched the cars turn the corner into the lane, one after the other, leaving only the Peckhams’ Crossley parked in front of the carriage house.
