Page 86 of Blackmail at Beckwith Place
He set off for the front door. I watched for a moment before I headed down the driveway to look for Christopher.
When a vehicle appeared,however it was not the Astleys Bentley. It was yet another Crossley, one of the less luxurious and more utilitarian Tenders that the London Metropolitan Police had invested in after the war. From behind the wheel beamed the handsome face of Detective Sergeant Thomas Gardiner with Scotland Yard. “Hullo there, Pippa. Waiting for me?”
“Waiting for Christopher, actually,” I said, “although I’m happy to see you.”
“Hop in, I’ll give you a lift back up to the house.”
It was a three-minute walk, no more, but it seemed silly to let him drive it alone while I ran after the motorcar, so I swung myself up into the passenger seat and watched him let out the clutch. Once we were moving again, he slanted me a look. “Is Kit not here?”
“He drove the doctor down to the village in Uncle Herbert’s car,” I said. “You must have passed it on the way.”
“I wasn’t paying much attention. I was concerned with getting here as quickly as I could.”
“And we appreciate it,” I said. “You can park just over there, with the others.” I waved to what was essentially a car park in front of the carriage house. “We have more motorcars than we know what to do with right now. Uncle Harold and St George motored up separately, God knows why, although it looks like Wilkins took the Crossley back to the village, actually…”
It wasn’t with the others, anyway, so unless he’d made a run for it, the black Crossley was likely parked in front of the pub. He must have gotten away while I’d been eavesdropping on Uncle Herbert and Hughes.
“The Marsdens brought their Daimler up from Dorset, along with the Peckhams’ Crossley, since I guess that belongs to Constance now…”
Tom didn’t say anything, just slotted the Tender into the spot where the Duke’s Crossley had been, turned it off, and let me ramble.
“The only ones with no vehicles are the constables. They’re getting around on bicycles. But the vehicle from the mortuary was here earlier and picked up the body and the croquet mallet…”
Tom nodded. “Would you like to tell me what’s going on before we go inside? Kit didn’t have time to go into much detail when he rang up this morning.”
“Of course.” I took a breath and let it trickle out again. “Where would you like me to start?”
“At the beginning,” Tom said. “That’s usually best.”
Right. The beginning.
I thought back, over what he might reasonably know and what it was likely that he didn’t. Tom had been there during the weekend at Sutherland Hall when Duke Henry and Grimsby were killed, when I’d first heard about the girl with the baby. Crispin had known about her earlier, of course, but that was my introduction to the subject, and I assumed it had been Tom’s as well, so I decided to start there, with a recap of that story and then everything that had happened since.
“And this morning she was dead on the lawn?” Tom asked when I had gone through it all. “You saw her through the window?”
I nodded. “I knocked up Christopher and Crispin, and we all went down together.”
“Was there a reason you thought you might need reinforcements?”
“I suppose…” I hesitated. “They were there, just across the hall. We were all three of us on the top floor. It seemed silly not to wake them while I was up there, that way I wouldn’t have to run back in and up three flights of stairs if I needed them later.”
Tom nodded.
“But also, it was a bit eerie to see her again, so similar to yesterday afternoon. Sprawled on the grass in almost the same spot. I suppose I was, subconsciously at least, thinking that someone might have to carry her inside.”
“You didn’t see the blood until you came outside?”
I shook my head. “It’s a long way down. And her hair was brown. It blended. And the sun wasn’t fully up yet, either. And I don’t think there was much blood on the grass, just on her head.”
Tom nodded, and I added, “By the way, Doctor White came and looked at her, and he said that the croquet mallet wasn’t the murder weapon. Someone hit her with something else first, something metal, and then fetched the mallet and—” I winced, “rubbed it in the wound so it would look like the murder weapon.”
“Cold,” Tom commented.
I nodded. Yes, indeed. Not only to take the time to replace the actual murder weapon with something else—and in full view of half the bedrooms in the house, too, even if it probably had been the middle of the night and we were all asleep—but to dothatto it!
“I suppose I should go introduce myself to the chap in charge,” Tom said.
“Are you taking over the investigation?”
