Page 77 of Blackmail at Beckwith Place
“Would you like us to take you to the village?” I asked. It would be an opportunity to look around. An opportunity to get away from Beckwith Place for a few minutes, too, with an excuse that Sammy couldn’t use to haul us off to jail. “Or do you want to go inside and see Aunt Roz and the baby, and maybe get a cuppa before you head back?”
Doctor White looked like he might have been tempted, but he shook his head. “My wife’s waiting. And so is the body. I’d better get to work.”
“I’ll find Wilkins.” Christopher glanced around. The Duke’s Crossley was definitely still parked in front of the carriage house, so Wilkins must be somewhere on the premises.
“If Christopher can’t find Wilkins, we’ll take you to the village ourselves,” I assured Doctor White. “We both know how to drive a motorcar, even if we don’t get much practice these days. There are four thousand double decker buses in London, and the underground train we can use, not to mention all the taxis.”
Doctor White nodded. “It’s been a few months now, hasn’t it? Do you like living in Town?”
I did like living in Town, and told him so, as I watched Christopher peer into the Crossley, which must have been empty, before he ducked into the carriage house. “Wilkins?” I heard his voice faintly. “Are you in here? Wilkins?”
“We were happy to see Francis bring Miss Constance home,” Doctor White commented. “He’s had a rough few years since the war. It’s nice to see him finally move on.”
Yes, it was. “The events of this weekend surely haven’t helped. He was a wreck at Sutherland Hall, after Duke Henry and Lady Charlotte died.”
“He’s better now,” Doctor White said. “I haven’t had to prescribe any morphia for him in a few months. This may have been a small setback, but overall, he’s doing much better.”
“That’s good. I think he became scared after Aunt Charlotte killed herself with the Veronal, you know? But then he met Constance, and I’m sure that made a big difference.”
He’d been so busy making sure that she was all right after losing her mother, and making sure that Christopher was all right after being poisoned, that there hadn’t been much time, or need, for any pain-numbing of his own.
“He’ll be all right,” Doctor White said, as Christopher came back out of the carriage house again, by himself. “In a week or two, this weekend will be a memory, too, and he’ll marry Miss Constance and they’ll live happily ever after.”
Hopefully he was right about that. The alternative was that Sammy would find some way to arrest Francis in spite of his alibi, and that he’d find the evidence to convict him in spite of his not having had the opportunity to kill Abigail, and then there would be no marriage and no happily ever after. But it didn’t seem worthwhile for me to say all that, not out loud, and besides, by then Christopher had reached us.
So what I said instead was, “No Wilkins?”
Christopher shook his head. “He must be inside with Uncle Harold. Or perhaps on the lawn with Sammy. Or somewhere else. But he isn’t here.”
“I guess it’s up to us, then.” I eyed the row of cars. “I don’t suppose the Marsdens would be very happy if we took their Daimler, although it would be great fun to drive it…”
“There’s no ‘we,’” Christopher told me, sternly. “I have an alibi for last night. You do not. If you leave Beckwith Place, Sammy would have an excuse for arresting you. You’re staying here.”
“But it’s just a trip to the village?—”
“In a borrowed car,” Christopher said. “Which will not be the Daimler, by the way. And I’ll spare my cousin’s feelings, too, since I know how much he loves his Hispano-Suiza.”
I sniggered. “He’d marry it before he’d marry Laetitia.”
Christopher nodded. “Mum and Dad won’t mind if I borrow the Bentley. We’ll take that.”
He waved the doctor to follow him down the gravel path towards the Astleys’ motorcar.
“Be careful,” I told him as I trailed behind. “It’s been a while since you had the chance to motor anywhere…”
“I motored home from the village yesterday,” Christopher said, “remember? And it was just fine. It’s like riding a bicycle. You don’t forget.”
“I could run inside and fetch St George…”
“No,” Christopher said, as he started the Bentley with a growl of the engine. “You’re just looking for an excuse to get Crispin away from Laetitia. Just be honest about it. You don’t need an excuse.”
The doctor perched his bag on his lap and eyed me over the top of his glasses. “Like that, is it?”
“Absolutely not,” I said. “I abhor St George. I just like Laetitia Marsden even less. I don’t want him to marry her. But it’s absolutely not like that.”
“I’m perfectly capable of handling this,” Christopher told me. “If anyone asks, I’ll be back in half an hour.”
I nodded. “Be careful, please.”
