Page 8 of Blackmail at Beckwith Place
“And she never came back?”
Christopher shook his head. “Not in the week and a bit more since.”
“Perhaps she thought Pippa was your wife, and she was afraid?”
They both glanced at me. I rolled my eyes. That was also a possibility, certainly. I hadn’t introduced myself, or explained my relationship to Christopher, so unless Evans had done the honors—and it would have been quite improper for him to give that sort of information about two of the residents to a stranger—it was quite possible that she had assumed we were living together as man and wife instead of, essentially, as brother and sister.
“She didn’t give me time to explain anything,” I said. “I asked her name, she said it was Abigail Dole, and that she was looking for Mr. Astley. I told her that Mr. Astley was out but that we could go upstairs and wait. She seemed reluctant. I told her I had photographs of Christopher, but that if she had seen Crispin, she had pretty much seen Christopher as well…”
Francis smirked.
“—and then she said, ‘I have to go,’ and went. I could have run after her, I suppose, although pelting up the pavement yelling for her to come back seemed to be an inappropriate sort of action that Aunt Roz would take amiss.”
Not to mention the attention it would have drawn to us both, which I was sure Miss Dole was just as eager to avoid as I was. If she had wanted notoriety, she would have contacted one of the news rags and gotten her story on the front page, hanging St George’s indiscretion out for all to see.
I wondered whether that approach just hadn’t occurred to her, or whether she hadn’t used it because he truly wasn’t who she was looking for.
“Mum is hardly going to be happy about this even so.”
No, I imagined not. “We don’t have to tell her.”
Christopher rolled his eyes and Francis snorted.
“No, listen,” I said. “There’s already quite a lot going on in London that Aunt Roz doesn’t know about.” Christopher’s drag balls, his relationship (or lack thereof) with Tom Gardiner, a detective sergeant at Scotland Yard, that time last month when we were driving around London in St George’s Hispano-Suiza with a dead body in the backseat… “There’s no need to tell her that Miss Dole showed up at ours. We know it isn’t Christopher’s baby. Whatever else we may or may not know, or think we do, we do know that.”
Francis slanted a look at Christopher. “Little brother?”
“I suppose,” Christopher said. “I mean… yes, we know it isn’t my baby. I suppose there’s no reason to worry Mum when there’s nothing to worry about.”
Francis nodded. “We won’t mention this to anyone, then. It’s not our problem anyway, is it? If anyone needs to deal with it, it’s St George.”
As we left Salisbury proper and headed down the road that ran past the ruins of Clarendon Castle towards Beckwith Place, Francis began to whistle.
CHAPTERTHREE
Aunt Roz’schildhood home is a small (at least in comparison to Sutherland Hall) brick house in the Georgian style. It was originally built with five first floor bedrooms and two attic bedrooms—in addition to, of course, the downstairs sitting room, study, dining room, library, kitchen, scullery, boot room, etcetera. In the early nineteenth century, a wing was added with two additional bedrooms above a drawing room, and in the late nineteenth century, two of the original bedrooms were converted to baths. As a result, when Francis pulled the Bentley to a stop, it was outside a house with seven bedrooms, including the two very small ones on the attic level, and rather a lot of guests.
“Dear me,” I said, looking around at the array of motorcars parked along the side of the driveway. “What’s all this?”
“Uncle Harold.” Francis said, pointing to the Duke’s black Crossley Touring Car as Christopher made his way out of the passenger side of the Bentley. “St George.” He indicated the blue Hispano-Suiza.
I squinted at it. “They didn’t come up together?”
Francis shook his head. “Wilkins chauffeured Uncle Harold and Crispin motored up on his own. I don’t know why they didn’t both come in Crispin’s car, or both in the Crossley, when they were going to and from the same place to begin with, but…”
I snorted. “I’m sure St George would rather die than have someone else drive him anywhere. Although I’m surprised Uncle Harold didn’t travel up with him. There’s plenty of room in the Hispano-Suiza, and he’d get here faster.”
“Maybe Uncle Harold is aware of Crispin’s penchant for taking his life in his hands,” Christopher suggested as he came to a stop next to me, both hands in the pockets of his flannels, “and he didn’t feel like dying today.”
It was as likely an explanation as any. I slanted him a look. “He hasn’t killed anyone yet. Not as far as we know, anyway.”
“But he’s come rather close to offing himself,” Christopher said.
“Under the influence of rather a lot of alcohol during a treasure hunt or some such foolishness. If he were to convey his father from Sutherland Hall to Beckwith Place in the middle of the afternoon, I hardly think that would be likely to happen. Do you?”
Christopher shrugged. “What’s your explanation, then?”
I didn’t have one, aside from what had already been mentioned. Uncle Harold knew, as did we all, about Crispin’s total destruction of his previous automobile. It might simply be that Uncle Harold preferred not to put his life at risk by traveling with his son and heir. Or it might be that he preferred not to put the future of the dukedom at risk. If he and Crispin both perished in a fiery crash, Uncle Herbert would get the title and fortune. Traveling separately would ensure that if something happened to one of them, at least it wouldn’t happen to both.
