Page 56 of Blackmail at Beckwith Place
“Of course it’s important, Wilkins. Someone’s dead! But it’s none of our concern, is it? My father isn’t going to need the motorcar today—the police won’t allow him to go anywhere—so there’s no need for you to remain here. Get yourself back to the village before the constable sees you, and decides you have to stay, too.”
“Yes, my lord,” Wilkins said, and—I assumed—turned on his heel.
And had only walked a couple of steps by the time Sammy Entwistle’s voice cut through the silence. “What’s all this, then?”
Crispin sighed, and I imagined he rolled his eyes towards the heavens before he straightened and pulled the door open all the way and said, stuffily, “Wilkins is my father’s chauffeur. I told him his services won’t be needed today and that he could leave.”
“Now that’s for me to decide,” Sammy said, “and not you. I’m in charge here. Isn’t that right, my lord?”
His tone twisted the last two words from an honorific into an insult. I ducked under Crispin’s arm and opened the door wider so I could look out.
He bit back an oath, even as he gave Sammy a look that ought to have curdled his blood. I could almost feel the hairs on the top of my head sizzle. “Of course,” he said, “Constable.”
“But Wilkins wasn’t even here when it happened,” I protested. “He stayed in the village last night.”
Sammy looked at me, and his brows rose. “Is that so, miss? But he had the motorcar, didn’t he? And even if he hadn’t, the village is in walking distance. Someone could easily walk from there to here.”
Of course someone could have. That must have been how Abigail had made it here, after all.
She must have woken up in the middle of the night and realized that she was alone. Perhaps the doctor or infirmary nurse had told her that the baby had remained behind at Beckwith Place.
Then again, perhaps not. If that had been the case, surely they would have talked her into staying in the infirmary until morning. Or if she had refused, at least they would have found someone to drive her up to Beckwith Place. Surely they wouldn’t have simply let her walk off in the middle of the night on her own, in a strange place full of strangers.
No, it was far more likely that my initial thought had been correct: Abigail had woken up on her own and remembered that Beckwith Place was the last place she’d seen Bess. And then she had sneaked out of the infirmary and set out on foot to find her child.
While all this had been going through my mind, Sammy Entwistle had been addressing Wilkins. “—have to have a parley about what you know.”
Wilkins shied like a spooked horse. “Know? I don’t know anything. Why would you think I know something?”
Crispin rolled his eyes and slammed the door shut. “That was a waste of time.”
“You couldn’t know that Sammy would hear you and interrupt,” I said, taking a step back. “You were trying to help.”
His eyebrow rose. “Assigning me noble motives, Darling? Perhaps I just wanted to know what he knew.”
“Why would he know anything? He’s the chauffeur!”
And I was clearly no better than Uncle Harold. Furniture, indeed.
Crispin’s lip twitched. “My, my, Darling. How very unenlightened of you.”
“Oh, sod off, St George.” I plunged out of the boot room and into the hallway, only to fetch up in front of Uncle Harold, who gave me and then his son a narrow look. “St George?”
“Good morning, Father,” Crispin said politely. “I was trying to head off Wilkins, but the constable overheard, and now I’m afraid he’s stuck here with the rest of us.”
Uncle Harold gave him a look down the length of his nose. “Is there a reason he shouldn’t be—” his tone made quotes around the words, “stuck here with the rest of us?”
“As Darling just reminded me,” Crispin flicked me a look, “he’s the chauffeur.”
I wrinkled my nose, and he sniggered before telling his father, “We thought we’d spare him the ordeal of sitting here all day when there’s no chance that the police will let you leave.”
Uncle Harold’s brows rose while his voice lowered. “And what do you mean by that, boy?”
“Nothing.” Crispin sighed. “Absolutely nothing.”
“What St George meant,” I said, with a flicker of a look at him, “is that they aren’t likely to let any of us leave. Not while they’re investigating the murder. We simply thought there was no need to have Wilkins spend his day in the carriage house when he wouldn’t be needed.”
“Where else would he spend his time?” Uncle Harold wanted to know. He sounded sincerely baffled, as if he couldn’t conceive of Wilkins possibly wanting to spend the day anywhere but Aunt Roz’s and Uncle Herbert’s carriage house.
