Chapter 11 #2
I tried to imagine the chap at the next table penning this particular missive, and found it difficult.
He had appeared to be a well-heeled, upper-class sort of bloke, not someone who would write anonymous notes to Scotland Yard in spiky, untraceable letters.
If anything, I would have expected him to go there in person, to introduce himself by name and title, and to go over everything he had heard.
This—the anonymous note—seemed more like something someone would do if they didn’t want to draw the police’s attention onto themselves.
Tom and Finch both nodded when I said so. “In fairness to him,” Finch added, “or her, as the case may be, there are a lot of people who don’t want to get involved in a murder investigation, even as a witness.”
“He might also be concerned about what you’d do to him, if he signed his own name,” Tom added.
I scoffed. “Yes, because Christopher and I look so violent.”
Christopher snorted. Crispin’s lips twitched. “He did hear you plot a murder,” Tom pointed out. “It’s understandable that he’d be concerned for his wellbeing.”
Perhaps. Then again, perhaps not.
“They look the same to me.” I indicated the two letters lying side by side on the table.
Everyone turned their attentions back to them. Even Tidwell and Rogers craned their necks.
“To me, as well,” Crispin said after a moment. Christopher nodded.
Tom and Ian Finchley, understandably, were a bit less sanguine. Although—
“They’re very similar,” Finch admitted. “It’s almost impossible to say for certain without a handwriting expert—”
“Two handwritten, anonymous notes regarding the same person over the same twenty-four hour period? Where the stationery and ink match, not to mention the handwriting? What are the chances that they’re written by different people?”
Nobody said the word ‘slim,’ but I think it was understood. If the two notes weren’t connected, it was a rather large coincidence.
“If it’s the same person,” Tom said, “that means that someone was keeping an eye on you two. Specifically, I mean. I’m not certain I like that idea.”
Crispin shook his head.
“I’m certain I don’t like it,” I said. “But that makes sense. Or perhaps not. We have no idea exactly when Laetitia disappeared, do we? Whether it was before or after tea-time at Lyons Corner House?”
There was a moment of silence during which no one said anything, before I clarified, “We don’t know whether whoever has Laetitia had her by then.”
“She left Dorset in the morning,” Tom said.
“So did St George,” I answered with a glance at him. “Not Dorset, of course. Wiltshire. Isn’t that right?”
I addressed the last to Tidwell, who nodded. “His Grace was present for breakfast. He left Sutherland Hall just before eleven.”
“By the time we got back from the Lyons,” Christopher added, “he was waiting for us.”
There was another little pause.
“The Countess of Marsden,” Tom said, “said that Lady Laetitia left in the morning. We have no idea whether she was taken shortly after she left Marsden Manor or after she reached London, however.”
“If someone motored to Dorset to snatch her,” I pointed out, “he or she would have had to leave his or her motorcar there. Or leave Laetitia’s. But either way, he or she couldn’t have transported two motorcars at the same time.”
“Unless he or she had an accomplice.”
Well, yes. But— “If they were in London, and it seems that at least one of them was, and Laetitia was coming to London, wouldn’t it make more sense to wait until she got here to snatch her? And save themselves the trip and the petrol?”
Of course it would. Clearly proven by the fact that no one claimed otherwise.
“I still don’t know what she was doing,” Crispin said, “or who she planned to meet, when she motored up a day early for our appointment. It wasn’t me.”
Yes, and that was another thing. For all we knew, Laetitia had planned to meet her kidnapper.
I wasn’t sure what sense that made, but she was meeting someone—or so we assumed, anyway.
And it was someone we hadn’t talked to yet, unless one of the people we had spoken to had lied.
Until we knew differently, it was at least possible that the person she was meeting was the kidnapper.
“Are we even certain that she really was kidnapped?” I asked. “Couldn’t this just be one big hoax to see whether St George will pay to get her back?”
The others all turned to look at me, with various degrees of shock, amusement, or exasperation, but no one said anything.
“Just bear with me,” I continued. “Agatha Christie’s disappearance has been all over the newspapers.
Laetitia must have heard of it. What’s to keep her from deciding to disappear on her own for a few days?
Make Crispin worry, make him happy to see her when she returns.
Stroke her ego by watching him gather ten thousand pounds to get her back. ”
“It doesn’t look like Laetitia’s hand,” Crispin said, glancing at the ransom note. “And you’d think she’d spell her own name correctly.”
“But perhaps that’s what you’re meant to think. She knows how to spell her name, so she’d do it right. Ergo, someone else wrote the note.”
“You know her best,” Tom said after a moment. “Does it sound like something she would do?”
“I wouldn’t have thought so,” Crispin said, “but—”
Tom nodded. “But the wedding’s coming up, and everyone knows that she’s your second choice of bride. I assume she knows it, too?”
Crispin shrugged, although the tops of his cheekbones and tips of his ears turned pink.
“You haven’t talked about it?”
“Not recently,” Crispin said.
“And you have no idea who she might have been motoring up early to see?”
“No one we haven’t already spoken to. Her best friends are—or were—Cecily Fletcher, Vi, Livvy, and Serena Fortescue. Ceci is dead, and we’ve spoken to the others. I didn’t get the impression that any of them were hiding her, or lying about not having seen her.”
He shot a glance at Christopher and myself. We shook our heads. No, if anything, they had all seemed sincerely disappointed that Laetitia had stayed away so long.
“That was before we considered whether she might have masterminded the disappearance herself,” I said, “however. I don’t think any of them were holding her against her will, but is it possible that one of them might be hiding her at her own request?”
“I didn’t get that impression,” Crispin said. “Kit?”
Christopher shook his head. “I think, if she motored up here to see anyone, it was someone else. Someone we don’t know about.”
There was another beat.
“You said ‘if,’” Tom commented. “If she didn’t motor up to see anyone, what do you think she did? She likely didn’t get her days mixed up…”
“We already discussed that possibility,” I said, “and we didn’t think it was likely.”
Crispin nodded. So did Tom. “So why else might she have come up early?” he asked. “If not to see a friend? Yes, Kit?”
Christopher squirmed. The look he shot Crispin’s way was guilty. “I thought perhaps, if she realized that Crispin had come up to Town a day early, she might have wanted to know why.”
“In case he was up to something?” Tom inquired, lips twitching, while Crispin rolled his eyes.
“Well,” Christopher said, and he still looked guilty about it. He also avoided looking at me. “We all know who lives in London. It wouldn’t be surprising if Laetitia got a little extra possessive so close to the wedding.”
Crispin flushed. I did my best to look politely disaffected, as if the conversation had nothing to do with me. I didn’t want to put him on the spot. Having to discuss his infatuation, especially in the company of two Scotland Yard men—and me—must be mortifying.
“Your Grace?” Tom inquired politely, and Crispin made a face.
“Anything’s possible. I’m not going to say that it couldn’t have happened that way. Although what I keep coming back to, is how anyone knew she was going to be in London in the first place. She didn’t tell me she was motoring up a day early.”
“Did you tell her you were doing the same?” I inquired, and he glanced at me.
“Don’t be absurd, Darling. That would defeat the purpose.”
“She would have insisted on going with you, you mean.”
He nodded.
“What about Christopher’s idea? Is there any chance that she realized what you were doing, and she decided to follow you? Did you let your plans slip? Or perhaps she rang up Sutherland Hall and one of the servants told her what you were planning to do?”
“No, Miss Darling,” Tidwell said. “Miss Laetitia has not phoned Sutherland Hall since the last time she spoke to His Grace.”
“St George?”
Crispin shook his head. “I didn’t want her to join me, so I made certain I didn’t say anything that could give the idea that I was going anywhere. If she found out, it wasn’t from me.”
“None of us spoke to her,” Tidwell added. “We wouldn’t have disclosed His Grace’s private affairs in any case.”
I may have imagined the slight stress on the word ‘affairs.’ Then again, perhaps not. It made Crispin blush again, anyway. It was quite the treat we were getting today. Most of the time, he’s much too self-possessed to embarrass easily.
There was a pause. Finch broke it by clearing his throat. “I’ll take this back to the Yard, shall I? And leave you to it?”
The questions were directed at Tom, who nodded. “Do, Finch. If the fingerprints come back with a match, do let me know as soon as may be.”
“Of course.” It probably went without saying, but Finch was polite enough not to say so. He turned to Crispin. “You’ll be picking up the money from Coutts at six, Your Grace?”
“Call me St George,” Crispin said, “for God’s sake.”
Finch waited politely, and after a moment he added, with a grimace, “Yes. From the main branch on the Strand.”
Finch nodded. “You’ll want security, I assume.”
“I’ll have Kit and Darling,” Crispin said, “and I assume Gardiner will be sticking around?”
He raised a brow at Tom, who nodded. “I’ve got protection duty covered, Finch.
I’ll go along to the Strand and stay with the money until midnight.
We don’t want to find out that this whole thing was a ruse, and that there’s a gang lying in wait outside Coutts to take it away as soon as His Grace walks outside with it. ”
No, we certainly didn’t. That idea hadn’t even occurred to me. Now I pictured it, and winced.
“But it wouldn’t hurt for you to hang about and see whether anyone else pays undue attention to us,” Tom added. “The backup would be appreciated, in the event we need it. But even if we don’t, perhaps you’ll notice something, and we won’t have to wait until midnight.”
Finch nodded. “I’ll take this in, then, and spend a few hours looking at fingerprints. I’ll be outside Coutts before six. I’ll line up a bobby or two for then, and for later, as well.”
We said we’d see him there, and he took himself and the two notes off. A slightly awkward pause ensued before Tom turned to Tidwell. “Thank you for making the drive up to Town, Tidwell.”
“Yes,” I added, “we appreciate it, Tidwell.”
“Did you plan to spend the night,” Crispin wanted to know, “or motor back tonight?”
Tidwell hesitated, and Christopher told him, “I’m certain Sutherland Hall will be able to survive a night without you, Tidwell.”
“Might as well enjoy an evening off,” I contributed. “Have a nice supper out, catch a play, spend the night. Crispin doesn’t mind. Do you, St George?”
“Of course not,” Crispin said. Not that there was anything else he could say, but he sounded like he meant it. “Stay as long as you want, Tidwell.”
“I left Mrs. Mason in charge,” Tidwell said, and Crispin nodded.
“Then the Hall is in good hands. Go ahead and get settled. Rogers will find you a room.”
The two butlers left together, and suddenly it was only the four of us left.
“Did you enjoy that, Darling?” Crispin wanted to know.
“Enjoy what, precisely?” I tore my attention from the empty doorway and turned it back on him. If he was referring to his embarrassment and quite unprecedented level of blushing, then yes, I would have to say that I had enjoyed it rather a lot. But that probably wasn’t what he was talking about.
“Tidwell,” Crispin clarified. “In the Phantom. All your dreams came true at once, didn’t they?”
Oh, that. “Yes,” I said. “It was the highlight of my week. It was the highlight of his, too, no doubt. I wonder if he’ll want to accompany us tonight?”
He stared at me. “Surely not.”
“I don’t see why he wouldn’t. I’m sure he made the trip himself, rather than hand the note off to Hugh or Francis, because he’s worried about what you’re up to.”
“I’m his employer,” Crispin said stiffly.
“And if you end up in prison, or destitute, he’s out of a job. Besides, he has watched you grow up. He must feel a fatherly interest.” Especially now, with Uncle Harold gone.
Crispin looked horrified. “No offense, Darling, but I have quite enough fathers to go on with. I don’t need another one.”
I shrugged.
“You don’t suppose…?” Tom said. He was watching the empty doorway where the two butlers had disappeared, and he looked thoughtful.
Christopher snorted. “Tidwell? Have you gone mad?”
“What?” I asked, looking from one to the other of them. I’m used to being the one who reads Christopher’s mind, just as he’s usually the one who reads mine. It was strange to have him do it with someone else, and then have to explain to me what was going on.
He looked at me. “Tom thinks Tidwell might be involved in the kidnapping.”
“I do not,” Tom protested, even as I gasped in horror over the suggestion.
“He would never!” Although the idea that the two butlers might be in cahoots, and that they had kidnapped Laetitia to stop Crispin from being able to marry her, was rather funny. I snorted.
“What?” Crispin wanted to know.
I shook my head, but I couldn’t keep little half-suppressed giggles from escaping. Christopher, who probably knew exactly what I was thinking, rolled his eyes.
Crispin huffed, offended. Tom looked from one to the other of us before he got to his feet. “I’ll have a word with him,” he said, and headed for the door.
“Please inform Rogers that we’ll take tea in the yellow sitting room,” Crispin told his back.
Tom gave him a sour face over his shoulder, but he didn’t say anything, just continued into the foyer. A moment later we heard his footsteps ascend the staircase to the first floor.