Page 94 of Blackmail at Beckwith Place
“Just to get away from that thing,” I said, already on my way towards the outside. “Some fresh air. Excuse me.”
I stumbled through the front door, shut it behind me, and dropped onto the step, where I closed my eyes and fought air into my lungs in slow inhalations as I struggled to keep the nausea at bay. Images of the head of the trench club colliding with the back of Abigail’s head, of blood spatter and the noise of eggs cracking under the pressure of a spoon, filled my head, and I swallowed hard against the feeling of bile rising in my throat.
It didn’t come as a surprise to hear the door open again just a few seconds later. I should have known that someone would come after me. If not Christopher, to check on how I felt, then Sammy, to make sure I wasn’t trying to make my escape. I must look quite guilty at this point, with the murder weapon hidden in my room.
But it turned out to be neither of them. It was Francis. And when I thought about it, I guess it made sense. Tom was inside, sticking close to the investigation, and so Christopher had stayed inside to stick close to Tom. Crispin probably couldn’t leave Laetitia even if he had wanted to, and there was no reason to think he’d prefer my company to hers or that he’d be concerned about how I felt. Constance was holding the baby, and had Aunt Roz for backup. But Francis had been just as fazed, if not more so, by the trench club as I had been, and it wasn’t surprising that he might want some fresh air, as well.
“Cigarette?” He held an open case under my nose.
I shook my head. “Thank you, but no. I really do want fresh air.”
“I find that smoking settles my nerves,” Francis said. He chose a cigarette and then closed the case and dropped it back in his pocket. “I’ll probably have nightmares about trench raids tonight.”
His hand was trembling when he pulled out a lighter and lit the fag before sucking in a deep lungful of smoke.
“I wouldn’t blame you,” I said. “I might, too, and I never took part in them.”
“Be glad you didn’t. Nasty business.” He blew the mouthful of smoke out.
“I’m sure of it.” I hesitated a moment, and then I told him something I’d never told anyone else, not even Christopher. “Sometimes I wonder what happened to my father. I know he died—he was on the casualty list, my mother told me that much before the influenza took her—but I don’t know the details.”
Of course, he had been on the other side, in the German trenches. But if it hadn’t been in a battle, then it might have been in a trench raid, with a whack on the head by someone wielding the kind of weapon that had killed Abigail.
“Better if you don’t think too much about it,” Francis advised.
I nodded. “I don’t often. It isn’t pleasant. And sometimes I feel like that was someone else’s life. That I’ve always been here with you and Christopher and Aunt Roz and Uncle Herbert.”
Francis took a seat next to me on the step. He didn’t look at me, just sat by my side and stared at the bushes on the other side of the lane while he smoked his cigarette.
“But then something like this happens,” I added, “and I remember that my father died in the war, and that it wasn’t very long ago at all—less than half my life, really, and I haven’t lived that long—and then I start to feel a little strange about it all.”
“Sometimes I think about that, too,” Francis admitted. “Sometimes I worry that I killed him.”
I slanted him a look, and he met my eyes for a second before he added, “I probably didn’t. So many people died, on both sides. So many people were involved. It would be a very big coincidence if it was me. But sometimes I worry.”
We sat in silence a moment before I leaned into him so I could put my head on his shoulder. “Sometimes I’m afraid that my father was the one who killed Robbie. We’d never know it if he did. And I know he’d never have wanted to. He didn’t want to be there. But it’s possible that he’s the one who did it.”
Francis didn’t say anything.
“Even if you did,” I told him, “even if you were the one who killed my father, I forgive you. I’d never not forgive you, Francis. You and Christopher are my brothers in every way that matters. There’s nothing I wouldn’t forgive. Even this.”
He didn’t answer, and I added, “You did what you had to do. So did he. Neither of you had a choice. You were there, and you had to make the best of it. You had to survive. And now it’s over and you did. You came home.”
“And he didn’t.”
I shook my head. “No, he didn’t.” Whether the ‘he’ he was talking about was my father or Robbie, or perhaps both. “But he—neither of them would have wanted you to spend the rest of your life miserable over what you had to do. You were drafted, Francis. You didn’t choose to go to war. And since you came back, the only person you’ve hurt has been yourself. It’s all right to be happy now. You deserve Constance, and marriage, and all the happiness in the world. If anyone’s earned it, you have.”
He nodded. “I didn’t kill her, you know.”
“Abigail? Of course you didn’t. I never thought you had.”
“Sammy thinks I did.”
“Sammy wants to think you did,” I corrected. “You have an alibi, so you couldn’t have. Of anyone in the house, you’re the one least likely to have done it.”
“Sammy would say I’m the most likely.”
“Sammy doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” I said. “Constance was with you all night, and you were too drunk to move from the sofa. I saw you, don’t forget. Several of us did. I know you couldn’t have done it. You’re still hung over now.”
