Page 69 of Blackmail at Beckwith Place
He cleared his throat. “No, Constable. Just trying to prevent her from getting herself arrested for verbal assault, you know. She can be quite mouthy when she’s riled up.”
“You’re vile, St George,” I informed him, but without any heat whatsoever.
He flicked me a cool look. “Likewise, Darling.”
Sammy, meanwhile, fastened his eyes on little Bess. “So this is the babe.”
Aunt Roz clutched her a bit tighter. “This is she.”
“Belonged to the dead lady, did she?”
“So we believe,” Aunt Roz said.
Sammy nodded. He looked from Crispin to Christopher, who was draped on the Chesterfield with one leg folded over the other, elegantly. Neither of them turned a hair at the examination.
Then it was Francis’s turn. When the latter narrowed his eyes under the constable’s examination, Sammy looked pleased that he had gotten a reaction. His voice was practically a purr. “Astley.”
“Entwistle,” Francis growled.
Sammy’s smirk widened and his attention dropped to where Constance was clutching Francis’s hand. Her engagement ring, an heirloom ruby surrounded by small brilliants, sparkled in the sunlight. “I understand congratulations are in order.”
Francis’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t speak, just gave a short nod. He might be afraid of what would come out of his mouth if he opened it.
“Thank you,” Constance breathed. I swallowed a sigh. I love her, really I do—or at least I’m beginning to, now that it looks like she’s going to be my cousin’s wife—but does she have to be so meek all the time?
“Brand new, isn’t it?”
“Last week,” Francis grunted.
“Happy, I assume?”
“Of course,” Constance said. The firmness of her tone was somewhat compromised by the fact that her voice shook.
Sammy looked at her for a moment and then turned his attention back to Francis. “Anything you’d like to tell me about the dead lady?”
“No,” Francis said.
“Didn’t know her?”
Francis shook his head.
“Yet she came here, where you live? And brought her child?”
There was nothing any of us could say to that, of course, so nobody tried.
“Had you met her before yesterday?” Sammy wanted to know.
“I didn’t meet her yesterday,” Francis answered, with the air of someone who was forcing the words past his teeth. “She staggered onto the lawn and collapsed. I picked her up and carried her inside. She never woke up.”
“But you hadn’t met her before?”
“No,” Francis said. “I’ve never met her.”
Sammy eyed him in silence for a few seconds. “You know the penalties for perjury, don’t you, Astley?”
“It’s hardly perjury,” I said, offended. “Perjury is when?—”
It was all I got out before Crispin shifted on the chair and accidentally—or perhaps not so accidentally—swept me off the arm and onto the floor. I landed with a squeal, and he gave me a bland, “My apologies, Darling,” as I scrambled to my feet. Sammy took a moment to admire my legs—they’re quite good, according to Christopher—while Laetitia and her mother exchanged a cautiously pleased glance that I pretended not to see.
