Page 89 of Mischief at Marsden Manor
I nodded. “I think you are. It would have been an elaborate plot to get rid of Crispin, I imagine.”
Uncle Harold fidgeted on his chair, as if this line of discussion made him uncomfortable, but he didn’t say anything, so I went on, spinning mad webs of intrigue with no basis in reality. If Christopher wanted to know who the least likely suspect was, I’d oblige. It was something to talk about, and more entertaining than going over the actual facts of the case yet again.
“You would have waited until Cecily was ginned to the eyebrows,” I said, “I imagine, and then you would have convinced her that you were your cousin, at a time when she was too sozzled to know better. But now that she’s with child, you can’t have anyone find out what you did, so you had to kill her.”
“And how does this get rid of Crispin?”
“You frame him for her murder,” I said, “obviously. You contacted Rivers, again pretending to be St George, and invited him here. Then, when he arrived, you went to him as yourself, told him that Crispin had sent you to fetch the stuff and pay for it, since Laetitia wouldn’t appreciate Crispin doing it—I don’tthink Rivers would quibble over that, do you? He knows who you are and that you and St George are close—and then you poured the pennyroyal into one of Cecily’s drinks last night and waited for her to die. Perhaps you’d get lucky and it would happen while Crispin was in her room. Wouldn’t that be lovely?”
Christopher furrowed his brows. “I think we should all be grateful that you’re not with Scotland Yard, Pippa. That’s frightfully convincing.”
I shook my head. “Don’t be silly, Christopher. Tom knows better than to think you’d do any such thing. Besides, what would be the purpose of it? You won’t actually gain anything by getting your cousin arrested. In a novel, I could ascribe you some sort of motive—you were pathologically jealous, or you knew some sort of secret that would enable you to inherit if Crispin were out of the way?—”
All three of them winced, and I added, “but in real life, you’re not next in the succession. You’d have to deal with your father and your brother first, and I know you wouldn’t harm either of them. Nor would you harm St George. You love him, mad as that is.”
Christopher nodded.
“So who doyouthink the least likely suspect is?” I asked. Everyone looked a bit uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation, and I thought I might change the subject away from the idea that Christopher would do anything to Crispin for the inheritance. Mentioning it, even as a joke, seemed to have bothered all three of them.
“Not you,” Christopher said. “You’re much too bloodthirsty.”
“Oh, yes. I’m probably close to the top of the list, actually. Or I would be, were this a novel and you could ascribe me motives I don’t actually have.”
“Anyone who claims to abhor my cousin as often as you do, is certainly worthy of a second look,” Christopher nodded, smirking. “The lady doth protest too much, methinks.”
Uncle Herbert smothered a chuckle. Uncle Harold gave me a gimlet stare. I rolled my eyes. “Shakespeare, Christopher? Really?”
“I was going to say Wolfgang,” Christopher continued without responding to my complaint. “Excepting you, me, and Crispin, he has never met any of these people before. In a novel, he would turn out to be the guilty party for certain.”
“Make your case, then,” I invited, and Christopher drew a breath.
“He’s young, handsome, and titled. He lives in London, or at least he spends a lot of his time there.”
I nodded. We had no idea where Wolfgang lived, not really. I thought he had lodgings at the Savoy, since we had seen him there on multiple occasions, not always by design, but I had never actually asked.
“He might have known Cecily and Violet. He might have gotten Cecily with child. He might have known Rivers. They’re all based in London. And Rivers gets—or got—his dope from somewhere. Perhaps Wolfgang is engaged in the dope trade. He must be doing something with his time, and I don’t know what it is. Do you?”
I didn’t. Not specifically. Although— “I don’t see why he must be doing something, Christopher. You and I don’t. Nor does Crispin or Francis, nor, I’m certain, the Honorable Reggie Fish. Nor Cecily or Violet, if it comes to that.” Or Laetitia or Geoffrey or Constance or any number of other young people of our station. We’re all lazy layabouts who live off family money. Or in my case, off Christopher’s family’s money.
“He’s in England,” Christopher said stubbornly. “He must have a purpose for being here.”
“I’m sure he does,” I agreed. “Although I don’t think it’s peddling dope. But for purposes of the imaginary plot, I’ll allow it. So Wolfgang is a dope dealer who killed Cecily because of the baby and then he killed Rivers because Rivers knew that Wolfgang would have had access to the dope?”
Christopher shrugged. “Something like that.”
“Of course. Well, it’s not a bad plot. Although neither of us accounted for the gunshot. Is it your contention that it was Wolfgang, then? Shooting at me because he thought I was Cecily?”
“Or at Francis,” Christopher said, “because Francis knew that Wolfgang was in the dope trade.”
“Of course.” I nodded approvingly. “Francis has been doing business with Wolfgang in the past, and their animosity is really just a cover for the fact that they know one another.”
“It’s been done before,” Christopher said, a bit defensively.
I nodded. “You’re right, it has. InThe Mysterious Affair at Styles, Alfred Inglethorp and his cousin Evelyn pretend to be enemies in order to kill Alfred’s wife and inherit the money.”
A moment passed, and then I shook my head. “What am I saying? Of course it wasn’t Francis. And I’m certain it wasn’t Wolfgang, either. It’s a good plot?—”
“Not as good as the one you made up.”
