Page 74 of Blackmail at Beckwith Place
But it was still unlikely that he could have made it out of the library and onto the lawn to kill her. Not without alerting Constance, and surely Constance would have stopped him had she realized what he was doing.
“So we’re back to where we started,” Christopher said, kicking out viciously at a particularly offending pebble. “Even if Francis got her with child—and that’s a big if, because he says he didn’t—he couldn’t have killed her.”
“That’s how it looks to me,” I agreed. “The way I see it, we have two issues here. Someone got her with child, someone who said he was the grandson of the Duke of Sutherland, and someone killed her. That could be the same person, or two different ones.”
“You mean, if Francis got Abigail with child, Constance might have killed her, because she was afraid Francis would have to marry Abigail instead of herself.”
It didn’t sound like a question, but I nodded anyway. “Or Crispin got Abigail with child, and Laetitia murdered her. Or Uncle Harold did, because he didn’t want Crispin to have to acknowledge Bess. They both had their own rooms—Uncle Harold and Laetitia, I mean—so they could have come downstairs without anyone noticing. And Constance could easily have gone outside. She was close to the back door, and Francis isn’t likely to have noticed.”
“No,” Christopher agreed. “By that measure—opportunity—it would have to be one of those three, or Geoffrey.”
“Or me,” I said.
“You had no reason to want her dead.”
“I had a better reason than Geoffrey. I don’t think he loves his sister quite enough to commit murder for her, do you? Or is invested in her marriage to St George enough for that?”
He didn’t answer, and I added, “I’m a different story. I would commit murder for you, and I’m sure Sammy knows it. We live together, and some people think we’re living in sin. You could have gotten her with child, and if you had, I might have wanted her gone.”
Christopher scoffed, and I added, “Or you and I do not live in sin, but I’m in love with St George—eeurgh! Just saying that makes my mouth pucker—so I killed her out of jealousy. Sammy perks up every time Crispin calls me Darling, as if he thinks it means something. Although honestly, if I were in love with St George—eeurgh!—I’d be more likely to go after Laetitia, honestly.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” Christopher said. “You said it yourself, he’s not in love with Laetitia. There’s no need to worry about her.”
“He seems willing to marry her, even so. If I’m in love with him—eeurgh!—I wouldn’t want that to happen.”
He slanted me a look. “You said he wasn’t.”
“Two months ago, he made it clear he wasn’t. But he’s not doing much to avoid it right now, so he must have changed his mind.”
“Maybe he doesn’t realize what she’s planning?”
“He’d have to be stupid not to,” I said crossly, since I don’t like to admit it, “and he’s not.”
We walked in silence for a moment, until Christopher said, “Perhaps he thinks he made himself clear and she won’t try again.”
I shrugged. “Perhaps. I guess we’ll have to wait and see. I just hope he won’t end up doing something he regrets later. Once she gets that ring on her finger, she’ll never let him go.”
We had reached the end of the driveway now, and peered left and right up and down the lane. It was empty, of motorcars, horse-drawn carriages, and pedestrians.
“I suppose we’d better turn around,” Christopher said. “We don’t want Sammy to think that we’re trying to escape.”
“Definitely not.” I turned my back on the lane and looked at the house. “Do you miss living here?”
“I miss Mum and Dad,” Christopher said as we started back up the driveway. “But I’m happy that we get to live our own lives in our own space.”
“If you ever find someone you’d like to live in sin with…”
He wouldn’t be able to marry whoever he found, after all. Not unless his tastes changed, and I didn’t think that was likely. Or unless the laws changed, but that was perhaps even more unlikely.
He squeezed my arm. “We’ll figure it out. You’re more likely than I am to find someone to be with, anyway.”
“Not at the rate I’m going,” I said, disgruntled. “Every man I’ve met lately has had something wrong with him. Geoffrey Marsden’s a womanizer. Freddie Montrose is dead. Ronnie Blanton’s a dope addict. Dominic Rivers is a dope merchant. Graham Ogilvie is queer. Nigel Hutchison?—”
“You know, Pippa,” Christopher cut in, “there’s always?—”
“If you say St George, I shall pummel you.”
“I was going to say Sammy, actually.”
