Page 49 of Blackmail at Beckwith Place
“That’s Constable Entwistle to you,” Sammy said, and rose to his full height of almost six feet, chest out and shoulders back.
I put my hands on my hips and glared up at him. “I don’t care who you are, you prat?—”
He smirked. “That’s abusive language, that is. I can arrest you for that.”
“I’d like to see you try,” I began, but Christopher seemed to think that this had gone on for long enough, because he interrupted.
“Constable Entwistle. I’m Christopher Astley. And that’s the victim.”
He pointed to Abigail. Sammy looked at her as if this was the first he’d noticed her lying there.
“Whacked her over the head with a croquet mallet, did you?”
“Wedidn’t,” I said, “for God’s sake…”
Christopher stepped on my foot. Thanks to the fact that I was wearing brogues and he was wearing slippers, it didn’t hurt, but I could feel the pressure. “Listen,” he said, “Constable Entwistle. I have already rung up a friend at Scotland Yard…”
Sammy’s face twisted into another sneer. “Friends with Scotland Yard, are you? Well, untilmychief constable decides thatweneed help with this investigation…”
“He’ll be here by midday,” Christopher cut in. “I suggest you prepare yourself. Until then, we realize that you have a job to do. But?—”
Sammy scowled. “Who do you think you are, ordering me about? Just because you’re one of the Astleys from Beckwith Place, thinking you can get away with murder by involving yourfriendsfrom Scotland Yard…”
“You’re being ridiculous,” I told him. “We followed procedure. Christopher called the local constabulary. They sent you. Now I suggest you get on with your job.”
He gave me a look. “And what do you think my job is?”
I wanted to roll my eyes so hard that I could see the inside of my skull, but I refrained. “If it were me, I would start with the body. You’ll find Crispin’s fingerprints on her throat, where he checked for a pulse. Neither Christopher nor I touched her. And no one touched the murder weapon.”
Sammy eyed the croquet mallet. “How do you know that that’s the murder weapon?”
I didn’t. But— “Educated guess? There’s blood and hair on the head of it, and it’s lying next to the body. I made an assumption. Anyway, you should take a look at it.”
Sammy made an irritating, humming little noise. “Refresh my memory,” he said. “Who’s Crispin?”
Seriously? “Viscount St George,” I told him. “Future Duke of Sutherland. Christopher’s cousin. Him.”
I nodded towards the house and the door to the terrasse, which had opened far enough to let Crispin slip through. He was dressed for the day in tweed and plus-fours, with his hair slicked back and his best supercilious look firmly attached to his face.
Sammy looked him up and down for a moment before turning back to me. “And why did he have his hands around the girl’s neck?”
His voice was pitched high enough that Crispin could, undoubtedly, hear every word.
“He didn’t have his hands around her neck,” I said, “you imbecile. Don’t you listen? He had his fingertips against her throat to check for a pulse. Besides, does she look strangled to you?”
Sammy glanced at her, blankly. Maybe he truly didn’t know what a victim of strangulation looked like. My mind served up an image of Johanna de Vos sprawled across the Dowager Lady Peckham’s bed, and I gagged.
“Listen, Constable—” Christopher began, eyes narrowing.
“Easy, Kit.” Crispin must have seen the look, because he put a hand on Christopher’s shoulder for a moment before he came to a stop next to him. “Constable.” He directed a look down the length of his nose at Sammy. “I’m Lord St George.”
And he sounded every bit of it, I must say, with his posh vowels and condescending tone.
Sammy sneered. “Of course you are.”
Crispin arched a brow. And waited.
“So you touched the victim,” Sammy said, when nothing more was forthcoming.
