Page 6 of Blackmail at Beckwith Place
“Francis’s type, then.”
“If Francis’s type is Constance Peckham,” I said, “then yes. That’s who she looked like.”
Christopher nodded, looking troubled. He opened his mouth, but was interrupted by the buzzer from the lobby before he could utter whatever was on his mind (as if I couldn’t guess perfectly well).
“Telegram for you, Mr. Astley,” Evans’s voice said.
Christopher turned pale, and so did I. A telegram is rarely a good thing, and we had both dealt with rather a lot of tragedy over the past few months. Neither of us was looking forward to more.
“Open it,” I said, “if you please, Evans.”
Christopher made an aborted sort of movement, but he didn’t end up saying anything. And I understood where he was coming from. Really, I did. It wasn’t any of Evans’s business why someone might have sent us a telegram. But he’d learn about it, whatever it was, fairly quickly anyway, I figured, and if we’d just put up with him finding out now instead of later, we’d get the news two minutes faster and wouldn’t have to worry as long.
There was the sound of paper ripping, and then Evans’s voice. “DEAREST KIT AND PIPPA STOP SHE SAID YES STOP ENGAGEMENT PARTY BECKWITH PLACE NEXT WEEKEND STOP BE THERE END.” He cleared his throat. “There’s no signature.”
I blinked. Christopher did the same.
“Thank you, Evans,” I said. “I’ll be down in a minute to fetch it.”
Evans rang off, and I looked at Christopher. He looked at me. “No one died.”
I shook my head as I pushed to my feet.
“Francis proposed to Constance.”
“So it seems.”
“Who did you say this young woman looked like, again?”
“Constance,” I told him over my shoulder.
Christopher nodded. “That’s what I thought you said.”
Beckwith Place,the childhood home of Christopher’s mother, my Aunt Roslyn, and also of her younger sister, my own mother, is located in Wiltshire, in an easterly, south-easterly direction from Salisbury. More east, less south-east than Sutherland Hall, but in the same general area. There’s less than an hour’s drive between the two, and also less than an hour’s drive from Salisbury to Beckwith Place. When Christopher and I exited the railway station in Salisbury on Friday afternoon the following week, Uncle Herbert’s black Bentley Tourer was waiting outside, with Francis at the wheel.
My eldest cousin is almost thirty: so close, in fact, that he could probably taste it. He’d turn the big three-zero in the middle of next week, and the family gathering this weekend was partly engagement party, partly birthday celebration.
Francis looks like an older version of Christopher: a bit heavier with muscle, but with the same blue eyes and wheat-blond hair. In personality, he falls somewhere between Christopher and Crispin. Louder and more boisterous than the former, not as cutting as the latter. Bantering with Crispin when he’s in a mood is an exercise in avoiding injury. Bantering with Francis is mostly good fun, as he doesn’t go out of his way to hurt one.
“Hullo, Pipsqueak!” he hollered when I passed through the doors from the station and into the relative warmth of the July afternoon. “This way, Kit!” He waved energetically.
I rolled my eyes, but headed towards him, raising my voice. “You know what I’ve told you about that, Francis.”
It’s an abominable nickname and I wished he wouldn’t use it. Not that my wishes on the subject seem to make any difference whatsoever.
“I know, Pippa.” He put an arm around my shoulders and gave me a squeeze before he took the bag out of my hand. “Let me take that for you. Hullo, little brother.”
He gave Christopher a squeeze, as well.
“Francis.” Christopher twitched out of the embrace and stuck out a hand. “Congratulations, old chap.”
“Thanks, old bean.” They shook and then Francis opened the door to the back of the Bentley. “Pipsqueak?”
I sighed, but crawled in next to the luggage. “Why do I always end up in the backseat?”
“You can have the front, Pippa,” Christopher offered, but I shook my head.
“You go ahead. But drive slowly, Francis, so you can tell us all about the proposal.”
