Chapter 8 #2
“Perhaps he should have taken better care of her if he didn’t want to lose her.”
He opened his mouth, and I waved him off, irritably.
“It’s no one’s fault. Certainly not yours.
She’s an autonomous adult who can make her own decisions on where to go and who to see.
And the fact that she hasn’t turned up anywhere, and no one’s found the motorcar, points to her having found a place to hole up out of sight.
Motorcars and women don’t just vanish without a trace. ”
There was a moment of silence as we all, I’m certain, reflected that this wasn’t strictly true. Mrs. Christie’s motorcar had turned up, but she herself had disappeared very convincingly. So perhaps women, at least, occasionally did vanish without traces.
“Perhaps she was motoring through Surrey,” Christopher suggested eventually, “and she came upon Mrs. Christie wandering about, and now they’re off somewhere lying low.”
“Would Laetitia even know who Agatha Christie is? Does she read?”
We both looked at Crispin, who shrugged.
“At least Archie Christie was cheating,” I said critically, “and going off to spend the weekend with his mistress. What reason might Laetitia have for wanting to disappear? It’s not as if St George is cheating.”
“Emotionally,” Christopher said, in a tone of voice that was clinically void of just that, “he very much is. Of course, it’s not a secret that he’s in love with—”
“Yes, Kit,” Crispin interrupted, strongly enough to persuade Christopher from finishing the statement.
His cheeks darkened with color even as I watched.
“It’s not a secret, as you said. Laetitia was aware of it.
She’s known for months. There’s no reason why she would take exception all of a sudden. ”
“She couldn’t have met Mrs. Christie anyway,” I said.
“Laetitia was in Dorset on Friday night and Saturday. She didn’t leave there until Tuesday morning.
I doubt very much that Mrs. Christie was still wandering around Surrey at that point, and I doubt equally that she would have been able to make it all the way to Dorset, for Laetitia to run into her closer to home. ”
“So perhaps she was inspired,” Christopher said.
I tilted my head. “Inspired how?”
“Mrs. Christie disappeared, and the whole country is in an uproar. Her name is on everyone’s lips. Archie and Nancy Neele are suspected of God only knows what. Public opinion is vacillating wildly. I’m sure her novels are selling like hotcakes. And when she turns up—”
“If she turns up.”
“She’ll turn up,” Christopher said. “Alive or dead remains to be seen, but either she’s dead and her body will resurface sooner or later, or she’s hiding somewhere, trying to make the world believe that Archie did away with her, and if that’s the case, she’ll turn up eventually. She can’t stay gone forever.”
I supposed she couldn’t. Not with a child at home. If it were my daughter, I wouldn’t want my cheating husband and his mistress to get custody of her.
“When she turns up, alive and well—with whatever excuse she has cooked up for why she’s been gone the last five or six days; an injury, amnesia, held against her will—everyone will receive her with glad cries. Archie might even decide he loves her after all.”
I arched my brows, and he continued, “She’s his wife. He married her for a reason, and they’ve been together a decade or more. He might change his mind about the divorce. Remember the saying?”
“What saying is that?”
“Absence makes the heart grow fonder?” Crispin suggested, and Christopher pointed a finger at him.
“That. Exactly. She might be doing it all in hope that Archie will come to his senses and leave Nancy and come back home.”
“And what does that have to do with Laetitia?” I wanted to know.
“Well, Laetitia might,” Christopher said, “mightn’t she, have looked at the furor, and thought, ‘if I disappear, mayhap Crispin will worry, and will love me better afterwards.’ And then she set out for London, stopped somewhere along the way, and is lying low while she’s waiting for everyone’s concern to reach fever pitch. ”
There was a moment of silence while we all chewed on the possibility of that.
“That’s not a bad idea,” I admitted. “Or at least—” I turned to Crispin, “you know her better than we do. Does it sound like something she would do?”
He hesitated. “I wouldn’t have thought so. She loves her mother and father, as well as Geoffrey, for all his faults. I don’t think she would have wanted to worry them like this.”
Perhaps not. From everything I had seen, I would have to agree with him. The Marsden family did seem to be close and loving.
“Although for the rest of it…” He hesitated. “If we’re discussing solely whether Laetitia would do something like that to me, I wouldn’t say that it’s out of the realm of possibility.”
“She has good reason,” Christopher pointed out. “She accepted your proposal knowing you’re in love with—”
“Yes, Kit!”
“—someone else, but that doesn’t mean it might not rankle to know she’s not first in your affections.”
“She’s never said anything about it,” Crispin said, “not specifically, but then again, perhaps she wouldn’t.”
“But you don’t think it’s impossible that she’d do something like this,” I reiterated, and he shook his head.
“Not impossible, no. I wouldn’t have come up with the idea on my own—it’s not something I would expect her to do—but I wouldn’t call it impossible.”
“Well,” I said, “there are only a few likelihoods. She’s either gone of her own volition, or something happened to her. An accident, or perhaps an abduction.”
Crispin opened his mouth, but I ignored him. “If it was an accident, surely we would have heard by now. And if she were taken by someone, they would have sent a ransom demand, don’t you think?”
“Her family hasn’t received anything like that,” Crispin said.
“Have you?”
His eyebrows shot up, and I added, “You have more money than the Marsdens, and you just came into your inheritance, so there’s no one else to tell you what you can and cannot spend the money on.
She’s your fiancée. Anyone—at least anyone who doesn’t know you well—might think you’re head over heels for her and would pay anything to get her back. ”
“You haven’t been in Wiltshire in a couple of days,” Christopher added. “Is it possible that there’s a ransom note sitting unopened at Sutherland Hall? I’m sure the servants wouldn’t open your mail for you while you’re gone, would they?”
“They’d better not,” Crispin growled, “and yes, of course it’s possible. Bloody hell.”
He turned back to the telephone. “Operator? Sutherland14 in Wiltshire, please.”
“That wouldn’t be very smart,” I said while we waited for the operator to make the connection.
“To send a ransom note in your name to somewhere you might not be. If it were me, I would send notes to both Sutherland Hall and Sutherland House, to be certain someone got them. Especially if whoever it is has Laetitia, and knew she was on her way up to Town to meet you.”
“But not everyone’s you,” Crispin commented, before he straightened. “Tidwell? Lord St George.”
“Blah-blah-blah,” Tidwell’s voice said, tinnily, from far away. I translated it to, “Yes, Your Grace.”
Crispin made a face. “I need you to tell me something, Tidwell. Has anything strange arrived by post in the past day or two?”
“Blah?” Tidwell asked, a single syllable that was probably “Strange?” or perhaps an incredulous “What?” (but probably not). Tidwell wouldn’t be so uncouth.
Crispin clarified. “Anything unusual. Personal correspondence without a return address. Something printed in capitals and shoved under the door. Letters cut from the newspaper and stuck to stationery. You know the sort of thing.”
Tidwell said something else.
“Thank you, Tidwell,” Crispin responded. “He’s looking,” he added, for Christopher’s and my benefit.
There was nothing to do but wait, which was what we did. Out in the foyer, Thompson returned, and stuck his head through the door, probably to ascertain whether we were still here. When he saw that we were all gathered around the instrument, he withdrew again.
“Yes, Tidwell,” Crispin said. And then his voice changed. “There is? Read it to me.”
There was the sound of Tidwell clearing his throat and then the recitation of something, I assumed a letter. It had quite a few syllables, but I couldn’t make out any of the words.
“Again,” Crispin requested when Tidwell had fallen silent. His voice was froggy, and he had to clear his throat. “Please.”
Tidwell read the note again, and Crispin nodded.
“Thank you, Tidwell. Bung that into an envelope, would you—touch it as little as you can—and shove it in the post bag. Or better yet, send someone up to London with it. My father’s Phantom is just sitting there; someone might as well give it some exercise. ”
The Rolls Royce Silver Phantom was Uncle Harold’s new motorcar. He had bought it just a few months before he died, after his previous car—a much less exciting Crossley—went the way of the chauffeur, Wilkins.
I was honestly a bit surprised that Crispin hadn’t motored up to London in it himself—he was the one who had convinced Uncle Harold to spend the money on it—but perhaps he was just used to the Hispano-Suiza. Or it might have been too soon after Uncle Harold’s death for comfort.
Tidwell must have asked for clarification, because Crispin told him, “Yes, Tidwell. That’s what I said.
I don’t know who you’ve got that could handle the responsibility of the Phantom now that Alfie’s gone, but perhaps the other footman, or one of the grooms. Or come up yourself.
Just get the note here as quickly as you can.
Detective-Sergeant Gardiner will want to see it. ”
After a breath, he added, “If you don’t have anyone on staff you’d trust with it, ring up Beckwith Place and ask Francis to motor over.
He’d appreciate a go at the Phantom, I’m sure.
Or if not, he can come up to Town in Constance’s motorcar.
Just get the note to Sutherland House as soon as you can. ”
Tidwell responded with something—surely an assurance that he’d take care of it—and then Crispin replaced the earpiece on the apparatus and braced himself with both hands on the telephone table. We watched as he drew in a breath, let it out slowly, and then drew another.
Christopher and I exchanged a glance behind his back. Whatever it was, it clearly wasn’t good.
“Was there a ransom note?” I ventured.
He glanced at me over his shoulder. After a second of meeting my eyes, he nodded.
“Tidwell is having it motored up?”
Another nod.
“Is it…” Christopher cleared his throat, and Crispin turned to him. “Is it… manageable?”
For a second, Crispin didn’t respond. He took another breath and let it out before he finally straightened and put his rear against the telephone table to face us both.
“Very much so. Ten thousand pounds in used bills by tomorrow night. Or my fiancée dies.”
His tone was calm, but his voice shook.
“Do you care enough about your fiancée’s life to pay ten thousand pounds for it?” I asked, and remembered, too late, that Thompson was standing in the foyer. And listening, clearly, judging by the gasp I could hear.
“Oh, well done, Darling,” Crispin said, in a voice that was dripping with sarcasm, although at least it wasn’t unsteady anymore. “Of course Laetitia’s life is worth ten thousand pounds. So is yours, or Kit’s, or even Tidwell’s. So is any human being’s.”
Well, yes. When he put it like that.
“Yes, of course they are,” I agreed. “I didn’t mean it that way. For God’s sake, Crispin, what must you think of me, that you’d even suggest something like that?”
He gave me a look, and it was all I could do not to laugh, with how incredibly disenchanted it was. Thompson wouldn’t appreciate that, however, so I did my best to get my face under control.
“We must find Tom,” Christopher said, with a glance toward the foyer and the front door. “This is information he needs.”
Never mind the fact that Christopher would take any opportunity to seek out Tom. He was definitely correct in this case: This was game-changing information.
“You’ll have to tell him to keep his tongue,” I told Crispin with a glance toward the foyer. And I said it softly, so perhaps Thompson wouldn’t hear. “This isn’t information we want to get about. I’m certain the note said as much, too.”
He nodded. “Have a lot of experience with this, do you?”
“I read the ransom note when Florence Schlomsky disappeared,” I said. “Her parents showed it to Christopher and myself. But it’s standard procedure in murder mystery novels, as well.”
There was another noise from the foyer, this one more of a squeak, and another eyeroll from Crispin. “Watch your mouth, Darling. Nobody’s been murdered.”
Not yet. And hopefully not at all.
“Talk to him,” I told Crispin before I headed for the door with Christopher in front of me. “We’ll wait outside.”
He nodded, and brought up the rear as we swept into the foyer and toward the front door.