Page 65 of Blackmail at Beckwith Place
“I imagine her staking her claim works better when we’re all there to see it,” Christopher said and closed the door to the Daimler’s driver’s side. “I don’t see anything inside.”
I nodded and followed suit. “I don’t, either. It’s more likely that Geoffrey would have used Constance’s Crossley anyway. He drove it up here, didn’t he? And his father might have had something to say about it if he took the Daimler to the village pub.”
We headed for the burgundy saloon car.
“Anyway,” I continued, picking up the thread of the conversation where we had dropped it, “I just don’t see why her mother and father put up with it. Aunt Roz wouldn’t put up with me brazenly petting a young man in polite company. I don’t think she would let Constance behave that way towards Francis, either, and they’re engaged. It’s simply not proper.”
“There’s a reason for that,” Christopher answered as he pulled open the door to the Crossley. “The Countess has her eye on the Sutherland title. I’m sure she’ll put up with her daughter’s behavior for as long as she has to, in the hopes that it will turn into an engagement.”
I ran my eyes over the leather seat of the Crossley, burgundy to match the exterior paint. “Do you think it will?”
“I think,” Christopher said precisely, “that the longer he lets it go on without saying anything about it, and the longer the rest of us do the same, the more likely it is that he’ll have to come up to snuff at some point.”
“Should we say something, then?”
“He’s capable of saying no himself if he wants it to stop, Pippa. If he doesn’t, he mustn’t mind.”
“Hard to believe,” I said. “It would be different if he cared for her. Then he’d presumably enjoy the public petting. But he isn’t in love with her. So what does he get out of it?”
“I imagine it must feel pleasant,” Christopher said without looking at me, “and of course there’s the fact that he can flaunt it in everyone’s face.”
“So he simply enjoys making us all squirm? I don’t know why we should have to put up with that.”
“Feel free to say something to him about it,” Christopher said. He was running his fingers between the seat cushion and the back of the driver’s chair, not looking at me. “I imagine he’d get rather a kick out of it if you did, actually.”
I scowled at him. “You know very well that I can’t do that. He’d certainly take it the wrong way, and then he’d never let me live it down.”
“Best leave it alone, then,” Christopher said, “and simply stop looking.” He straightened up. “There’s nothing here that I can see.”
I shook my head. “It was a bit of a long shot, anyway. Mostly I just wanted to get out of the sitting room. It was uncomfortably close in there.”
Christopher nodded and leaned his posterior against the front of the motorcar. “This situation is going to get ugly, you know, Pippa. Sammy Entwistle is almost certainly going to try to pin this on Francis. He’s the one with the new fiancée, and I imagine Sammy will think twice before he tries to accuse the future Duke of Sutherland of murder.”
“There’s you,” I said.
He nodded. “But between the two of us living together, and the fact that I’ve never been one to run after the local girls, I’m sure people have drawn their own conclusions.”
He shot a glance my way. “Sammy is welcome to try to pin it on me—in fact, I wish he would; much better me than Francis—but I don’t think he’s going to.”
Likely not. “So it’s Francis we have to worry about.”
He nodded, and glanced down the driveway towards the road. “I wish Tom would get here.”
“It’s a bit of a trek from London,” I said. “And he might have got caught up with Pendennis before he was allowed to leave. If he was allowed to leave at all.”
“He’ll come,” Christopher said. “He may not be able to take over the case. Sammy might think he can handle it without help, and if they don’t ask, Scotland Yard can’t cut in. But Tom will want to be here. He won’t let us deal with this on our own.”
“I hope you’re right,” I told him, as I turned to look at the doors to the carriage house. “Before we go back inside, let’s look in there, too.” It was where the croquet mallet had come from, after all. “Maybe there’s a clue in there.”
“Better put the gloves back on, then.” He pushed off from the Crossley and headed for the doors to the carriage house. “And hope we don’t leave any clues of our own to what we’ve been doing. Sammy won’t like us interfering with his investigation.”
No, he wouldn’t. Given how he felt about the Astleys in general and Francis in particular, he’d undoubtedly take it very amiss, and would also do his best to make something of it. Something like, we were trying to do away with evidence that would implicate someone in the family.
That didn’t stop me from moving forward behind Christopher. Sammy might be determined enough to blame Francis for the murder, or certain enough that Francis was guilty, that he would overlook something pertinent. We owed it to ourselves, and to Francis, to discover everything we could.
And yes, I quite realize that I was basing that opinion on nothing but worry and old history. Sammy had done nothing so far to indicate that he was interested in railroading Francis, or for that matter anyone else, into a murder charge. But better safe than sorry, and all that. When Christopher ducked inside the dusk of the carriage house, I followed. For a couple of steps, before I stopped.
“Where are you going? The croquet set is over here, by the door.”
