Page 82 of Blackmail at Beckwith Place
“I didn’t realize it was up to me to prevent that,” I said.
“Someone has to,” Uncle Herbert answered, which wasn’t an answer, although it was at least nice to know that someone else shared my reservations.
“I’ve tried to speak to him about it. Two months ago, he was adamant that he didn’t want to marry her. I don’t know why he isn’t putting up more of a fight now.”
“Try again?” Uncle Herbert suggested.
“I suppose I’ll have to, if nothing changes. Although he might be more inclined to listen to you. Crispin’s never liked me much, you know.”
“I doubt that,” Uncle Herbert said, surely in response to my first statement and not my second. He shook his head. “I can’t go behind my brother’s back, Pippa. Crispin’s his heir, and Harold seems to want him settled down. And I can’t say that I blame him. The boy’s running wild.”
No question about that. “But surely sticking him in an arranged marriage he doesn’t want isn’t going to make him any less likely to play the field? He’ll just be more unhappy and more likely to act out, won’t he?”
“I imagine so,” Uncle Herbert admitted, “but it’s up to my brother what he arranges, and up to Crispin what he’ll accept. Perhaps just encourage him not to do anything rash?”
I had no idea why he thought it was my responsibility to affect this, and furthermore, I had no expectation that Crispin would listen any better than he had the last few times I’d brought it up, but I didn’t want Laetitia as part of the family either. “It can’t hurt to try again, I suppose. I’ll try to get him alone at some point today.”
“Perhaps we can just hope that Lady Laetitia was responsible for what happened to the poor young lady,” Uncle Herbert said, “and Constable Entwistle will take her off to prison for us.”
That would be nice. However— “That’s what I hoped would happen when Johanna de Vos died. But alas.”
Uncle Herbert chuckled. “You’ll figure it out, Pippa.”
I had absolutely no expectation that I would, but I told him, “Thank you, Uncle Herbert. I’ll see you later, then. I’m going to get some air before Christopher gets back.”
“He took Doctor White into the village in the Bentley, you said?” Uncle Herbert looked pained. He must have finally realized what I had told him earlier.
I nodded. “I’m sure he’ll be fine, Uncle. Wilkins let him drive Uncle Harold’s Crossley back from the village yesterday, and that was no problem.”
“Let’s hope so,” Uncle Herbert said. “I’ll go join the others. Don’t go far, Pippa.”
I told him I wouldn’t, and then I let him shut and lock the boot room door behind me as I set off down the driveway in the direction of the lane.
CHAPTEREIGHTEEN
This wasa pretty pickle I found myself in, I admitted to myself as I kicked small pieces of gravel out of my way as I walked. Having to keep things from my best friend—my flat-mate, my cousin, my other half. And worse than that, I nowknewthings about his family that I had no business knowing. Personal things that Christopher didn’t even know, and that I couldn’t share with him, both because I had promised, and because Uncle Herbert was right: knowing would only hurt Christopher.
But even as my conscience fought with itself, my logical brain was telling me that this opened the field of suspects by two. If Abigail Dole had been Uncle Herbert’s daughter from his second affair, the Sutherland hair and Astley eyes that little Bess inherited would be adequately explained.
And if Abigail was not Uncle Herbert’s daughter, then there was Maisie Moran’s child, who would be older than Francis by now. If that child had been a boy—and the Astleys did run to a lot of boys—he could be little Bess’s father. He could have met Abigail Dole at the Hammersmith Palais, and told her that he was the grandson of the Duke of Sutherland, and it wouldn’t even have been a lie.
Of course, Uncle Herbert’s second illegitimate child might have been a boy, as well. The one Aunt Roz knew about, because there were extenuating circumstances, whatever that meant.
And he would be younger than Francis. As young as Christopher, even, Or anywhere between thirty and twenty-three.
A head of red hair intruded on my inner vision, followed by the rest of Sammy Entwistle’s freckled face. Moran was an Irish name. Maisie might have had red hair that she passed on to her child. He did have blue eyes. And it would explain Sammy’s ongoing resentment towards all the Astleys, but especially Robbie. The legitimate son who was the same age as himself.
God—I winced—that would explain rather a lot, wouldn’t it?
“No.” I shook my head. “Surely not. That can’t be. Not Sammy.”
Only to be interrupted by a disembodied voice from my left. “Dear me, Darling, what are you muttering about? Surely not Sammy, what?”
“Oh.” I managed to swallow my heart back down to where it belonged, although it was still beating hard enough to hurt my chest. And the palm I pressed against it didn’t help at all. “St George. I didn’t see you there.”
“That’s rather the point, Darling, don’t you think?”
He was crouched on the running board of the Hispano-Suiza, out of sight of the house and with a lit cigarette dangling from his fingers.
