Chapter 4 #2
His voice was halfway cynical and halfway amused. I sniffed, offended. “Of course not. I was curious, however. Am curious. People don’t just vanish.”
“No, they don’t. She’s somewhere. We just haven’t found her yet. But it’s just a matter of time.”
He made himself more comfortable in the armchair. “What did you think?”
“About Newlands Corner? Or the Silent Pool?”
“Either. Both.”
“That she most likely got lost on her way to Godalming to tell her husband and his mistress off, and when she ran off the road and had a chance to think about it, she decided to make it look like her husband did something terrible. She’s most likely holed up somewhere enjoying the attention.”
“It’s as good an explanation as any,” Tom agreed. “So the two of you and His Grace—”
“Call him Crispin,” Christopher interrupted, “for God’s sake. Anytime anyone says His Grace, all I see is Uncle Harold.”
I nodded. “It’s going to be a while before I’m comfortable addressing St George like that.
And before you say anything—” I fixed Tom with a look, “—he said I could keep calling him that. I know he’s not the Viscount St George anymore, but we all know he’s not legitimately the Duke of Sutherland either, and we’ve both got a problem using each other’s given names. ”
“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Tom said blandly. “You can call him whatever you want.”
Yes, thank you. “And so can you. I agree with Christopher: you’ll have to call him Your Grace when you talk directly to him, I suppose—we don’t want to give anyone the wrong idea, after all, unless Crispin decides to relinquish the title himself—but when it’s just us, call him Crispin.”
Tom nodded. “The three of you spent the day together, then?”
“And last night. He was here when we came home from tea at Lyons yesterday evening. Evans had let him up. No offense, Tom, but I wish he wouldn’t let all and sundry into our flat when we aren’t home.”
“I don’t mind,” Christopher said, and I rolled my eyes, but refrained from comment. He continued. “Yes, we spent the day together today. And last night, from about six o’clock on. He slept in Pippa’s bed. We headed out around nine this morning. I’m sure Evans told you.”
Tom nodded. He didn’t have his notebook and pencil out, but I still got the very distinct impression that this wasn’t idle talk.
“Has something happened?”
“That depends,” Tom said. “The two of you were at a Lyons Corner House for tea yesterday?”
“The one on Coventry Street. It was full of people, if we need an alibi. I’m sure the Nippy at least will remember seeing us.” And surely some of the guests would do, as well. The place had been packed, and there’d been a chap at the next table who had looked over more than once.
Of course, I had no idea who he’d been, or how we might be able to find him again, but that would be Tom’s problem, and not mine.
“Can you tell me what you talked about?”
“Over tea?” I stared at him. So did Christopher, although his blue eyes were a bit more adoring than mine were.
I wasn’t sure he’d even caught the implications yet.
He’s not stupid, of course, but he does tend to lose a few brain-cells whenever Tom’s around.
“All manner of things. The weather, the Agatha Christie case, the family, the wedding…”
“Did you happen to touch on murder?”
“I’m sure we did,” I said steadily, even though I didn’t like where this was going.
“There’s at least a chance that Mrs. Christie is dead, wouldn’t you say?
I’m not sure whether that would be murder or something more like suicide or an accident, but she’s a murder mystery writer, so I’m certain the subject came up. ”
Tom’s lips twitched. “Any murders of your own?”
“We’ve been involved in quite a few of them lately,” I said, with a glance at Christopher, “so I wouldn’t be surprised. I can’t recall any specifics, honestly…”
But from Duke Henry and Grimsby the valet in April to Lydia Morrison and Alfie the footman in November, and the half dozen others in the time period between, we’d had plenty of fodder.
“Did you by any chance mention the possibility of murdering Lady Laetitia Marsden?”
Tom looked like he had a hard time keeping a straight face now.
I rolled my eyes. “Yes, I’m sure we did.
We discussed the wedding, and ways that we could get Crispin out of it.
Getting rid of Laetitia was one of them.
Murder would be a rather extreme solution, I’ll admit, and we didn’t talk about it seriously—we’re not murderers, Tom! —but I’m sure the subject came up.”
Tom nodded. “Anything to add, Kit?”
Christopher shook his head. “Just to reiterate what Pippa said. We talked about it as a joke. You know we wouldn’t actually kill anyone.”
For a second nobody spoke. Then I asked, “What’s this about, Tom? Did someone actually report us to Scotland Yard for plotting a murder in a Lyons Corner House?”
“As a matter of fact,” Tom said, “I received a letter from a concerned citizen this morning, which said that he—or perhaps she—had overheard you talking about it and thought he’d better warn us.”
“The bloke at the next table,” I said, “I suppose. He did seem more than usually interested in us.”
Tom nodded. “The handwriting looked more like a male hand than a female, so I would guess you’re right. There was some question as to whether you were having tea with Crispin or Christopher, but no question at all about the fact that you were plotting murder.”
“Of course it was Christopher,” I said. “I would never suggest murdering Laetitia to St George. Not while they’re engaged, at any rate. Perhaps after they’re married.”
Tom quirked his brows. “Afraid he’d take you up on it?”
I snorted. “Hardly. He seems determined to go through with the wedding. There’s no point in doing that now—Uncle Harold is dead and can’t disinherit him—but he’s still reluctant to give her the shove.”
“And by ‘give her the shove’ you mean…?”
“Dump her,” I said. “For God’s sake, Tom.
Surely you know by now that I’d never actually kill anyone?
Or at least not in a way where I plan it first. By accident, possibly.
But if Crispin wants her, he can have her.
And even if he doesn’t want her, but is just too much of a coward to tell her the truth, he’s still welcome to keep her.
I think it would be a mistake, and I’ll keep telling him so until it’s too late to matter, but I’m not willing to risk my own freedom to keep him from a loveless marriage.
If it had been Christopher, on the other hand… ”
“If it had been Christopher, we wouldn’t be having this conversation,” Tom said, which could mean a number of things, frankly.
No, we wouldn’t, because Christopher wouldn’t let himself be affianced to a woman he didn’t love—or any woman whosoever—but it could also mean that if it were Christopher, Tom would look the other way if I threatened—or tried—to murder the chit, perhaps because he’d want to murder her himself.
“This has all been very amusing,” Christopher said, “and I’m glad we could give you a good laugh, but what is this really about, Tom? We all know you wouldn’t be here just because some chap from a Lyons overheard us talk about getting rid of Laetitia. You know us better than that.”
Tom gave him a long look. “Tell me about today.”
“What’s to tell?” Christopher wanted to know. “Crispin slept over. We started out from here in the morning. I’m certain Evans told you exactly when we left, and also when Crispin arrived yesterday.”
Tom nodded. “And today? After you left here?”
“We drove to Newlands Corner,” I took up the story.
“From there, we drove to the Silent Pool, or as close to it as we could get. We walked through the woods. Christopher told ghost stories—did you know that Bad King John killed a girl in the Silent Pool once?—and a fox scared me half out of my wits.”
Christopher smirked and looked, for a moment, just like his cousin.
“Then we drove to Shere,” I continued. “Christopher went into ecstasies over the architecture and history. Crispin and I discussed marriage. His, not mine. We talked about Laetitia, but we did not touch on murder, because, as I said, I wouldn’t actually bring up that subject with him.”
Tom nodded.
“When Christopher had looked his fill, we headed back to London. We stopped along the way for tea. We arrived here fifteen minutes ago. Crispin went on to Sutherland House. He said that he was expecting Laetitia to contact him about supper.”
“You brought a picnic basket.” Tom glanced in the direction of the kitchen. I nodded. “Did you put it in the boot?”
“Of the Hispano-Suiza? No, I put it on the seat next to me. Christopher rode up front with Crispin.”
“Did you open the boot for anything else? A blanket? Wellies?”
“We didn’t open the boot,” I said. “There was no need.”
“Was Crispin alone at any point today? Did you lose him in the woods, or anything like that?”
“Of course not,” I said, while Christopher eyed Tom with less than his usual starry-eyed infatuation.
“We’ve been together every minute, from last night until now.
I slept in here, so I would have heard him leave.
And none of us went off alone at any point during the day.
The farthest anyone was from anyone else was when Christopher went ahead of us in Shere.
He was still in sight, and I had Crispin by the arm. ”
“What do you suspect was in the boot of the motorcar?” Christopher added. “Laetitia?”
I’m sure he meant it as a joke. Tom didn’t laugh, however, and that rather took the wind out of both of our sails.
“You’re joking,” I said. “Laetitia can’t be dead. Who’d kill her?”
“Aside from you, do you mean?”
I scowled, and he added, “I don’t know if Laetitia Marsden is dead. What I do know is that she’s missing. She left Dorset yesterday morning, to motor up to London. By last evening, she had not arrived at Marsden House.”
That was a rather long time for a drive from Marsden-on-Crane to Mayfair, I had to admit. However—
“Perhaps she stopped on the way to see someone. She has plenty of friends.”
“Anything’s possible,” Tom agreed cheerfully. “All I know is that when the Countess of Marsden rang up Marsden House to talk to her daughter last night, Laetitia wasn’t there, and none of the servants had seen her.”
“I suppose Lady Euphemia phoned Sutherland House next?” It’s what I would have done: assumed that Laetitia had gone to her future husband’s Town house.
Tom nodded. “No one there had seen her either, and of course His Grace wasn’t home.”
No, he’d been here with us last night. Although the servants may not have known that.
“What did they tell her?” Christopher wanted to know, and Tom turned to him.
“Just that her daughter wasn’t present, nor was her future son-in-law. Lady Euphemia assumed they were out somewhere together, having supper, and didn’t think any more of it.”
I nodded. Logical conclusion. “But?”
“When she tried again this morning, Laetitia still hadn’t turned up at Marsden House, nor had she at Sutherland House. And by then I had been informed of your conversation at Lyons Corner House.”
He shared a stern look between Christopher and myself.
“I made my way here with haste, to see if you could shed any light on the situation. Only to be told that His Grace showed up here last night, and that the three of you took the motorcar into the wilds of Surrey this morning, and had been gone most of the day.”
He didn’t add, “What was I to think?” but the question was clearly implied.