Page 67 of Blackmail at Beckwith Place
“I can’t think of anything.” I peeled off my own gloves, or Aunt Roz’s, while we turned towards the entrance. “This is all very upsetting. I can’t imagine how we’re going to figure out what’s going on. The only people with a reason for wanting Abigail dead are people I don’t think are guilty. Where am I supposed to go from here?”
Christopher opened his mouth, but before he could speak, another voice said, rather gloatingly, “I suggest you go inside and stay there until I call for you.”
CHAPTERFIFTEEN
It wasn’t St George.Of course not.
No, it was Sammy Entwistle, God only knew how.
“Where did you come from?” I wanted to know. The Duke’s Crossley was not back from the village, yet Sammy was here.
“I’ve been here all along.” He smirked.
I shook my head. “You can’t have been. We looked for you.”
Or at least I thought that I had. He hadn’t been on the lawn with the body, and he hadn’t been in the driveway with Wilkins, and the Crossley had been gone, and I guess I had put those three things together and assumed that Sammy had gone with it, when there had been absolutely no proof of that anywhere but in my own mind.
“I heard you come out of the house,” he said now, with a triumphant look at both Christopher and me, as if he believed he’d caught us doing something we shouldn’t be, “and I was curious, so I kept an eye on you. What were you looking for in the motorcars?”
“Nothing.” I refused to share a guilty look with Christopher, even though I could feel him trying to catch my eye.
“Planting evidence?”
“Of course not!”
Sammy hummed doubtfully. “I suppose we’ll see.”
I stuck my hands on my hips. “We absolutely will. Besides, what sort of evidence do you suppose we might want to plant? Everything is out in plain view. The body’s on the lawn with the murder weapon right next to it. What could we possibly have that we’d want to plant?”
“An alibi for your brother?” Sammy suggested with a glance at Christopher, which was proof positive, if we had needed it, that he was eyeing Francis.
I snorted. “How do you plant an alibi, pray tell?”
His brows lowered, and I added, “If you’re talking about Francis, he already has one. Wilkins drove him back here, three sheets to the wind, from the village pub last night. He fell asleep in the library and didn’t stir again until this morning. Constance spent the night with him.”
“But she’d lie,” Sammy said, as if there was no question about that.
I blinked and opened my mouth, but Christopher got in before me.
“That’s a bit cavalier, isn’t it? To assume that she’d lie before you’ve even spoken to her?”
Sammy snorted. “I’ve seen her around the village. Well-bred, mealy-mouthed little thing.”
“She’s not—” I began, irately, and then I stopped, because, yes, she was.
Sammy smirked. “I suppose it’s high time I have a talk with everyone anyway.”
It absolutely was. We’d been sitting in there, chatting about anything and everything, for the past two hours. He really should have corralled us all and written down anything anyone said right from the start.
“They’re all in the sitting room,” Christopher said, gesturing to the house, while I asked, incredulously, “Are you just going to leave the body there, on the lawn?”
Sammy looked at me. “What do you want me to do with it? Doctor White is on his way. He has to look at it next.”
“Can’t you at least cover her with something? There are insects and—I don’t know—birds?” Not to mention that there was us, having to look at Abigail every time we turned our eyes to the croquet lawn. “I’m sure Aunt Roz will give you a sheet, if you didn’t come prepared.”
“Doctor will be here soon,” Sammy said indifferently.
I stomped my foot. It did absolutely nothing, because we were standing on the grassy verge of the driveway. My voice, however, was both loud and demanding. “I insist that you cover her with something! Her daughter is inside the house, and while we have no idea how much babies understand…”
