Page 46 of Blackmail at Beckwith Place
My nose wrinkled on the word, and Crispin chuckled. “You could have fun of your own, you know, Darling. Plenty of girls these days aren’t opposed to a bit of slap and tickle.”
Well, he’d know, wouldn’t he?
“Thank you, St George,” I said repressively, “but I prefer to wait until I find someone I want to have more than just fun with.”
He smirked. “Well, she does want more than just fun, doesn’t she? So tell me why I can’t marry her, Darling. If she wants me, and it isn’t for the title, and we both know my father won’t let me marry who I really want to marry… why shouldn’t I marry Laetitia?”
“You’ll be unhappy,” I said.
“I’m unhappy now, Darling.”
I blinked at him. Opened my mouth and then closed it again before saying, “This is a strange conversation to have over the dead body of a woman you may have gotten with child a year ago.”
“I thought you said that I seemed sincere when I told you I hadn’t.”
“You lie like a rug,” I told him. “I wouldn’t trust you any farther than I could throw you.”
He rolled his eyes. “There’s the Darling we all know and love.”
Yes, there she was. The conversation had gotten heavy, and I had become uncomfortable, and I had done what I usually did, and lashed out at him.
He turned to glance over his shoulder. “Here’s Kit. Good conversation, Darling. I’m going to go upstairs, if you don’t mind.”
He uncoiled in one smooth motion, and was on his feet. And then he walked away. He met Christopher on the stairs between the grass and the terrasse—I heard a quick exchange of, “Something wrong?” and, “Nothing out of the ordinary. I’m going up to change,”—and then he was gone and Christopher bore down on me.
“What did you say to him?”
“Nothing,” I said.
“Then why did he look like that?”
“Like what?” He had looked perfectly normal when he’d stepped away from me. “He asked me why he shouldn’t marry Laetitia if she wants him. I said it would make him unhappy. He said he’s unhappy now.”
Christopher nodded. “I got through to Tom. He said to call in the local constabulary.”
“He’s not coming?”
“He’s coming,” Christopher confirmed. “He said he’d contact Inspector Pendennis and get him to get in touch with the chief constable for the area, but we have to follow procedure. So I called the village and asked for a bobby. When he gets here, I’ll explain the situation. Tom said he’d be on his way as soon as he updated Pendennis.”
Chief Inspector Arthur Pendennis is Tom’s boss, or his team leader or some such thing. When Pendennis investigates a case, Detective Sergeant Tom Gardiner goes along as photographer and general dogsbody. There’s also a Detective Sergeant Ian Finchley who serves the same purpose, but his specialty is fingerprints. Sometimes, Scotland Yard Police Surgeon Curtis tags along with them, too.
“Tom’s coming before it’s officially Scotland Yard’s case?” I asked.
“Tom’s coming because someone in the family committed murder,” Christopher answered bluntly. “He was coming anyway, for Francis’s engagement party this evening. Now he’s just driving down a few hours early. Is that a problem?”
“Of course not. Not at all.” I’d rather have Tom investigate than some flatfooted bobby from the village. “It’s just… Aren’t you afraid it might look like… well… favoritism? Or bribery or something?”
He arched his brows. “Do you intend to pay him?”
“Of course not,” I said.
“Then it isn’t bribery.” He shook his head. “He said he was on his way, Pippa. I wasn’t going to tell him that I didn’t want to see him, was I?”
No, I imagined he wasn’t. “When will he get here?”
“Not for a few hours yet.” He reached out and flapped his hand at a fat fly that took aim at the body, probably attracted by the sticky area of blood on the back of Abigail’s head.
I averted my eyes. “Should we cover her with something?”
