Page 89 of Blackmail at Beckwith Place
“Ah.” She looked partly enlightened and partly nauseated. “That poor girl.”
I nodded. “Speaking of poor girls, Tom would like a look at the baby.”
“Constance has her,” Aunt Roz said. “She’s quite good with her, as a matter of fact. Much better than I would have expected for someone with no experience with babies.”
“I don’t think we’ll get to keep her,” I said, since it was obvious that my aunt was already getting attached to little Bess.
She brushed me off. “Of course not, Pippa. I’m just ready for grandchildren, and none of you have seen fit to give me any. But hopefully Francis and Constance will get on that shortly.”
Better them than me. “I’ll take Tom in,” I said. “Do you need me to come back and help you with anything?”
“No, no, dear.” She shook her head. “Hughes and I are managing. She’s been invaluable, really.”
She beamed at Hughes, who responded with a colorless, “Thank you, my lady.”
“We’ll be off, then,” I said. “Let me know if you change your mind.”
Aunt Roz nodded. “I will, dear. But with Christopher gone, you had better stick with Thomas. Don’t let Sammy bully him.”
“Of course not.” It was far more likely—and would be much more satisfying—to watch Tom bully Sammy.
“You can let Euphemia know that it won’t be long now. She was quite put out by the lack of a tray in her room this morning.”
“Spoiled,” I said. “Like her daughter.”
Aunt Roz rolled her eyes. “I do hope poor Crispin comes to his senses before she manages to tie him down. Harold should be ashamed of himself for encouraging it.”
Yes. He should. “We’ll just have to hope that His Grace sees the light and lets Crispin have what he wants without disinheriting him,” I said. “He’s quite as spoiled as Lady Euphemia, you know. He wouldn’t last a week without his creature comforts. Truly, he probably does have the right idea about not subjecting his lady-love to himself in penury. No matter how much she might love him—if she does—I wouldn’t wish that fate on anyone.”
I turned to Tom. “Ready to go?”
He nodded.
“Let me know if you change your mind about the help, Aunt Roz.”
She flapped a hand in my direction. “We’re almost done, dear. You two go on. And if you find a way to disrupt your uncle’s plans along the way, do go ahead and take it.”
I promised her I would, and then Tom and I left the kitchen and headed for the front of the house. The study was empty this time, and so was the boot room. The stairwell to the cellars was lit up, however, with scrabbling sounds coming from below, and once we were in the foyer we could hear voices from the sitting room, as well.
“—can’t believe your cheek!” Euphemia Marsden’s voice said.
I expected her to be talking to Crispin, or perhaps to Francis, who had been known to be cheeky on occasion, too. I didn’t expect for it to be Constance who answered back.
“I’m sorry, Aunt Effie—” She didn’t sound sorry at all, “—but the constable is just doing his job. If you didn’t have the opportunity to hurt Miss Dole, you can simply say so.”
“Well, I’m saying so,” Euphemia said with a sniff. “I was in bed with my husband all night, and I do not appreciate the impertinence of being asked to verify that! I had no reason to want that unfortunate girl dead?—”
She went on in this vein for another half minute, while Tom smirked.
“Hazard of the job,” he told me, when I quirked an inquiring brow his way. “We often have to ask impertinent questions of people who think they’re too good to answer. I suppose Constable Entwistle hasn’t had much opportunity to deal with the upper classes.”
Probably not. Murders in high society aren’t plentiful here in Beckwith. Aside from the war and the occasional partridge party, we’re a peaceful group overall.
“Just go introduce yourself,” I told him. “You’ll have her eating out of your hand in no time. Sammy might even be grateful for the rescue.”
Tom gave me a jaundiced sort of look—yes, I didn’t really believe what I was saying, either—but he stepped forward into the doorway.
The sitting room went quiet as people noticed him standing there. Even Lady Euphemia wound down. Then?—
