Page 47 of Blackmail at Beckwith Place
“Hard to say,” Christopher said. “Some coppers would appreciate us preserving the evidence and keeping the body mostly untouched. Others would be upset because we didn’t leave it alone.”
I eyed him. “Is there a reason you’re suddenly overly concerned with this?”
Christopher made a face. “Would you happen to remember a local boy by the name of Samuel Entwistle?”
“Of course.” He was a few years older than Christopher and I, and had lived in the village for as long as I could remember.
And then I made the connection. “Oh. He’s Constable Entwistle now, isn’t he? Did he answer the telephone at the constabulary?”
Christopher nodded.
“So he’s the one coming? Is that going to be a problem?”
“He and Robbie never got along,” Christopher said.
“That’s a shame. But—forgive me—Robbie’s gone.” Christopher’s elder brother, younger than Francis by a couple of years, had died in the Great War.
“I know that, Pippa.” Christopher sounded impatient. “However, Francis is not. And whenever Sammy picked on Robbie, it was Francis who hit back. Twice as hard.”
“So Sammy doesn’t like Francis.” I knew that, actually. I had lived here for a long time, after all. It was just that a lot of this history had happened before I arrived, before the beginning of the war, so I hadn’t been here for it.
Christopher shook his head. “And Francis is very much alive. Not to mention a prime suspect in this murder.”
Yes, of course he was. “We’ll just have to make sure Sammy thinks someone else is guilty, then.”
He huffed. “And who do you think we should throw under the bus, Pippa?”
“Well,” I said, thinking about it, “not me or you, obviously.”
He shook his head. “No, let’s not. Nor Crispin, if we can avoid it.”
I supposed not. There was no part of me, not anymore, that wanted to see St George go down for murder, especially one he hadn’t committed.
“I’d rather it not be Aunt Roz or Uncle Herbert, either. Who does that leave?”
“Laetitia or Constance?” Christopher proposed. “Or Uncle Harold, because he thought she was after Crispin?”
“I’d rather not take Constance away from Francis,” I said thoughtfully, “although I’d be all right with framing Uncle Harold.”
I’d be more than all right with it, in fact. Truthfully, the idea was not unpleasant, and came with benefits other than just fixing on a suspect for the murder. If Uncle Harold was sent away to prison, it would rid us all of the prospect of Laetitia Marsden as part of the family, and it would also get Crispin out from under his father’s thumb. He might be able to marry who he wanted to marry, which might give him a shot at being happy, or as happy as he could be with a father who was incarcerated.
Yes, framing Uncle Harold was an idea with merit.
“I like my cousin better than my uncle,” Christopher agreed, “so if I’m going to throw one of them to the wolves, it’ll be Uncle Harold. Although it’s probably not either of them, you know.”
“Guilty, do you mean?
He nodded.
“Well, if it isn’t Uncle Harold or Crispin, and it isn’t Constance or Laetitia, and it isn’t you or Francis or your parents, then who is it?”
He smirked. “I don’t suppose it’s you, Pippa?”
I stared at him, appalled, and he continued, “You had a room to yourself. You could have seen her from the window, and come down to talk to her, and lost your temper. You have one, you know. And you swing a mean croquet mallet.”
“Surely you’re not serious, Christopher?”
He sniggered, and sounded like his cousin for a moment. “No, Pippa. Although I don’t doubt that you would viciously attack anyone who threatened me or Francis, or even Crispin.”
