Page 23 of Evil at the Essex House
I turned back to Tom. “Had she cashed the cheque?”
“That all happened last month,” Tom said. “Of course she had. And opened herself a nice, fat account with a local bank for the money. It was still there. Or most of it was.”
“So if it wasn’t for the money, and it wasn’t for…” I hesitated, “amorous purposes, why kill her?”
“Who knows?” Tom said. “It’s the Bristol PD’s problem, not mine. They didn’t want my help with the case, just with information. When they found my card, the local constables rang up the Yard and I went down to Bristol to give them what information I could. Which was precious little, other than how she came by my card.”
“Did you happen to mention…?” I trailed off delicately.
“They assumed the money had been severance,” Tom said evenly, “or perhaps a settlement in Lady Charlotte’s will, and as her possession of it didn’t seem germane to her death, no, I didn’t see the need to bring it up.”
There was a moment’s pause before he added, “I stopped at Beckwith Place on my way back to Town. Your mother put me up for the night.”
It took a second, but then Christopher flushed up. “Checking my father’s alibi? Really, Tom?”
“Not just his,” Tom said coolly. “But you don’t have to worry, Kit. They were all home together on the night in question. Your father, your mother, Francis, and Constance.”
Christopher eyed him like this wasn’t really the point, and of course it wasn’t. Or it was only part of it: the other part was that Tom had dared to suspect them in the first place.
“Well, of course they were,” I said. “Uncle Herbert would never kill anyone, and besides, he probably didn’t even know where Hughes had ended up. He and Francis had already left for Southampton when you and Hughes took the baby to Bristol.”
Tom nodded.
“That still doesn’t mean I appreciate it,” Christopher declared with a scowl.
Tom sighed. “I’m a detective, Kit. It’s what I do. Margaret Hughes blackmailed your father out of a thousand pounds. It would be a motive for murder for anyone. If she did it once, she could do it again. Anyone would want to avoid that, and some people would kill to do so.”
Christopher couldn’t dispute that, of course, since it was obviously true, but he still stuck his bottom lip out in a pout.
“At this point,” I said, “what Hughes was holding over Uncle Herbert is pretty well out in the open anyway. We all know about the affair with Maisie Moran and what came of it, and as for the other thing, Uncle Herbert assured me that Aunt Roz already knew and that there were extenuating circumstances…”
Christopher and Tom exchanged a look.
“Yes,” Tom agreed after a moment. “I suppose that’s true. Your uncle isn’t the one who has the most to lose there, in any case. Nor is your aunt.”
Perhaps not. I wasn’t up on the details of that particular issue, since Uncle Herbert hadn’t seen fit to confide the details to me. I looked from one to the other of them—Tom certainly knew, and I suspected that Christopher knew more than I did, too—but now didn’t seem like the best time to bring it up for clarification, so I didn’t.
“I don’t think I care who killed Hughes as long as it wasn’t someone we care about,” I said instead. And then I realized how cold that sounded, so I added, “I mean, I don’t wish murder on anyone, of course, but?—”
“I get it,” Tom nodded. “The Bristol police are working the case. I told them what I could—it wasn’t much—and left them to it. It’ll probably turn out to be quite simple. People kill for a lot less than we think sometimes. She might have had ten pounds in her reticule, and for some people, that’s enough to justify murder.”
We sat in silence a moment.
“Was everything all right at Beckwith Place?” I asked.
“Everything was perfect,” Tom answered. “I stayed for dinner and spent the night. Francis looks healthier than I’ve seen him since the war, and Constance was glowing.”
“Well, I’m sorry to have interrupted your discussion.” I pushed to my feet. “Carry on with what you were doing before I came in. I’m going to go to my room and change.”
“I was just updating Kit on what had happened in Bristol,” Tom said. “Feel free to come back and sit with us. I’d like to hear more about your evening.”
Christopher nodded. “Yes, please, Pippa. Every word.”
“Of course.” I headed into the hallway towards my room and left them alone.
Wolfgang did not senda note that night. He didn’t send one the following morning, either. I tried not to think unkind thoughts about Crispin, whose fault it surely had to be—I had been a delight, hadn’t I? We’d had a perfectly lovely time all through dinner, and it wasn’t until St George showed up outside the Savoy and started to throw his weight around that things had taken a turn for the sour, wasn’t that so?—but as the hours passed with nothing, I started to second-guess my own appeal, too. Perhaps I hadn’t been fawning enough? Perhaps Wolfgang was used to women who succumbed to his charms in short order, and the fact that I had gone off with another man at the end of the meal instead of upstairs with him, had grated?
Christopher told me I was being ridiculous, that Wolfgang would be contacting me again, I just had to be patient. It wasn’t as if he’d want to look too eager, was it, when I had left him to stand there outside the Savoy whilst I left with another man, which made perfect sense. I kicked myself again, mentally, and did the same to Crispin. What was his problem, anyway? It wasn’t any of his affair if I had dinner with a handsome gentleman who evinced interest in me. He had his hands full with Laetitia Marsden, not to mention all the other women who buzzed around him like bees around a flower, and he had no business whatsoever to meddle in my affairs.
