Page 44 of Mischief at Marsden Manor
It was much likelier that someone had a misfire, I supposed. There was no reason why anyone would shoot at me, after all. More likely that someone would have shot at Cecily. But that only made sense if the pennyroyal poisoning had been deliberate. If that had been an accident, the shooting was no doubt accidental, as well. And Wolfgang seemed to want my attention, so I shoved all the questions and all the speculation into the back of my head and smiled up at him. “Luncheon must be ready by now. Shall we go and partake?”
He smiled back. “Let us do so.”
Christopher headed for the door, and left Wolfgang with the job of offering me his arm and escorting me out of the room and down the hall towards the formal dining room.
CHAPTER TEN
The atmospherein the dining room was subdued. There was a lot of chatter, but most if it took place privately. Constance and Francis had their heads together and were conversing in low tones over the roast beef. Francis glanced our way occasionally, at me sitting next to Wolfgang, and scowled, so I thought I could guess what their discussion was about.
Laetitia was whispering sweet nothings in Crispin’s ear—or whispering something, at any rate, whether it was sweet or not. From his expression, I would guess not. At one point he looked across the table and saw me staring, and crossed his eyes in my direction. He stopped short of sticking his tongue out, but I thought he might have wanted to. Then Laetitia noticed my looking, and shot me a glare that could have dropped me dead where I sat, before she turned back to Crispin and hissed more intensely, directly into his ear. He winced.
I rolled my eyes and turned my attention to the rest of the table.
After last night, one might have expected to see Lady Violet Cummings pressing her advantage with Lord Geoffrey, and Olivia Barnsley likewise with the Honorable Reggie Fish. Such was not the case. Geoffrey flirted expertly with Lady Serenawhile her husband watched sourly, and Violet and Olivia were engaged in what looked like a tense conversation of their own, that involved a lot of sideways glances at the rest of the table—or more specifically, at the men present. If I had to guess, I would say that they were discussing Cecily, and perhaps who might have been responsible for her predicament.
Reggie, meanwhile, kept his attention on his plate, and didn’t say a word to anyone. So did Dominic Rivers, who—it must be said—looked a bit the worse for wear this morning. One might even use the word ‘hunted,’ if one were so inclined. He was wan under the olive skin, and when he caught me looking his way, his eyes got wide and he shied like a spooked horse.
Beside me, Christopher gave a snort. “That’s a sign of a guilty conscience if I ever saw one.”
I nodded. “Chances are the pennyroyal came from him originally, whether Cecily bought it herself or someone else did. I’m sure he’s worried that someone will figure it out.”
Christopher tilted his face to give Rivers another contemplative look. “I wonder whether he would be inclined to share that knowledge?”
I shook my head. “Not likely. It’s a crime, isn’t it? Not on par with actually using it on someone else, but still a crime. And he’s avoided getting caught in one of those so far.”
Not for lack of trying on Tom’s part.
After a second, I added, “Besides, I don’t get the impression that the local constabulary is terribly interested in investigating this as a homicide.”
So far, they hadn’t asked any of us any questions beyond the very obvious, and nothing they had asked had led me to believe they thought Cecily’s death was anything but a tragic—if self-induced—accident.
“Hard to blame them for that,” Christopher said fairly. “I’m sure murders don’t come along very often here.”
No, of course they didn’t. It was rather surprising that there had already been another one, actually, so soon after the events at the Dower House the first weekend in May.
Back then, there had been no question at all that what had happened had been a murder. Johanna de Vos had been found in the Dowager Lady Peckham’s bed with her tongue sticking out and a scarf wrapped around her throat. This was much more ambiguous.
And besides, back then, a representative for Scotland Yard had been right there to take charge. Such was not the case this time.
And speak of the devil?—
“I wish Tom were here,” Christopher muttered.
I nodded. So did I. And not only because it would be uncommonly nice to have a professional on site again, one who can recognize a homicide when he sees one, but because I like Tom, and so does Christopher.
Thomas Gardiner is a Detective Sergeant with Scotland Yard in London. Back in May, we had just discovered Johanna’s dead body when Tom arrived from Sutherland Hall to inform the Peckhams—Constance and her brother Gilbert—that their mother had died. She had been at Sutherland visiting Duke Harold for her late friend, Duchess Charlotte’s, funeral, and had succumbed in her sleep. (That turned out to be a murder, too, but of course we didn’t know that at the time.)
Tom, bless him, had volunteered to make the drive from Little Sutherland in Wiltshire to Marsden-on-Crane in Dorset to deliver the news of Lady Peckham’s death personally. He’s rather fond of Christopher, too, which was partly why he had done it, I thought. I’m not entirely sure whether that fondness is romantic in nature, the way Christopher is sweet on Tom, or whether it’s simply because Tom was Robbie’s best friend at Eton, and Christopher is Robbie’s little brother. But in eithercase, he had made his way to the Dower House, and when he had, he had taken charge of the investigation into Johanna’s death.
He was not here this time. Had it been up to Crispin, I wouldn’t have been surprised to see him—they were friendly, if not as friendly as Tom and Christopher; Crispin, it must be said, is not as loveable as Christopher is, nor is he Robbie’s brother—but I was sure Laetitia would have put her foot down on any suggestion of inviting a policeman to her home and her engagement party.
“We could ring him up and ask him to come?”
Christopher sighed. “We’ve been over this, Pippa. One cannot simply ring up Scotland Yard and tell them they’re needed. Only the Chief Constable can do that.”
I glanced around the table. “Surely the senior Marsdens must be friendly with the local Chief Constable? Could we perhaps prevail on them to intercede?”
“Not if they believe Cecily’s death was an accident,” Christopher said, “and everyone here has incentive to believe that.”
