Chapter 6
Chapter Six
In the end, after our official statements had been taken and the crime scene was combed for evidence, the body removed and the doors locked for the last time, the inquest was set for the next day.
We were required to give evidence, so we ended up spending the night in an inn in Stow-on-the-Wold anyway, just down the road from the constabulary.
After breakfast the following morning, we made our way back to Upper Slaughter, where the inquest was held in the Primitive Methodist chapel, of all places.
The funeral would likely be held there, too, unless Edith Morrison, whoever she was, requested the remains be shipped to her in Somerset.
She was not present, so I didn’t get a look at her, and couldn’t determine whether she might be a mother, sister, daughter, or something else entirely.
A few of the locals showed up, to say that Morrison had lived there since June, that she had been polite and pleasant but had kept to herself, and that they couldn’t think of anyone who might wish her ill.
One villager claimed to have been approached by a young man with golden hair on his way home from the pub late that night, for directions to Morrison’s cottage.
Or perhaps it hadn’t been a young man at all, but the angel of death, come to harvest her soul.
This gentleman had arrived in what was either a dark motorcar or a carriage drawn by four black horses.
It was difficult to say, apparently. But the old chap, dried out from his night at the pub, had inspected Francis and Christopher, anyway, and had sworn under oath that no, the golden haired young man—or angel—hadn’t been either of them, so that was something, anyway.
Constable Woodin collaborated everything Constance had said, and explained that inquiries were ongoing but that the chief constable was not ready to arrest anyone in particular until after a more thorough investigation.
And then the coroner returned a verdict of murder by person or persons unknown, and we were free to go.
“That was interesting,” I remarked as we were in the Crossley and on our way out of Upper Slaughter and the north Cotswolds as quickly as Francis could reasonably make the motorcar go on the narrow, picturesque roads.
He glanced at me in the mirror. “Not your first inquest, Pipsqueak, was it?”
“Not at all,” I said. I had had to attend inquests for quite a few of the dead bodies I had stumbled over in the past half a year. “Nor my first body. At least this one wasn’t bloody.”
“You weren’t close,” Francis asked his fiancée, “were you?”
Constance shook her head. “I’ve known her all my life, of course, so in that sense we were close. But she never liked me, and I never liked her. It was the happiest day of both her and my mother’s lives, I think, when Johanna came to live with us. A pretty doll that they could dress.”
That was rather sad, not the least for Johanna de Vos. But it was also in the past. All three of them—Morrison, Johanna, and Lady Peckham—were dead.
“I don’t suppose you have any idea who Edith Morrison is?” I inquired as the Crossley wound its way down the narrow country lane. “I assumed mother, sister, or daughter, but it could equally well be an aunt or cousin. Not a grandmother, surely. Not unless she’s past the century mark.”
“Not likely,” Constance agreed. “But no, I’m afraid I don’t know specifically.”
“She never mentioned going to visit family?”
She shook her head. “Not that I can recall. I don’t remember her being gone much, at least not in recent years. She had Sundays and Wednesday afternoons off, but she was usually there at the house.”
“Letters?”
Constance shrugged helplessly. “It wasn’t something I kept up with, was it? People are entitled to their privacy, even if they are staff.”
Yes, of course they were. And chances were someone on the staff would fetch the mail, at any rate, and distribute it. If something arrived for one of the servants, the family wasn’t likely to even see it.
“Why so curious, Pipsqueak?” Francis wanted to know.
“Edith’s name was in Morrison’s address book. If it’s a mother or sister or cousin or aunt, I don’t suppose it matters. But if it’s a daughter—”
“Do you have a reason to think Morrison might have had a daughter?”
“I don’t have a reason not to,” I said.
“How about the fact that she was unmarried and that no one knows about a child?”
“Just because we don’t know about a child, doesn’t mean there wasn’t one. Unmarried servants have gotten in the family way before.”
Christopher shifted on the seat, and so did Constance. “If that’s a dig at Geoffrey, Pippa—”
“It wasn’t,” I said. “It was actually a dig at Uncle Herbert. Not that it was his fault. Nobody told him. But he did get Maisie Moran up the duff before he married Aunt Roz. Hence why we ended up with that whole mess with Wilkins and Abigail Dole and little Bess.”
Francis winced. So did Christopher. Discovering a new half-brother who had ended up dead—by his own hand—before any of us realized he was even family, had done a number on all of us.
Not the least on Uncle Herbert, of course, although Christopher had been a little strange since that weekend at Beckwith Place, too.
“Out of curiosity,” I said, “has Geoffrey actually impregnated any of the servants? I know Marsden Manor has seen rather a lot of turnover, but has any of it been because he got anyone in the family way?”
“If he has done,” Constance answered, “nobody’s mentioned it. Although he was only a few years old in 1903, Pippa. He couldn’t have had anything to do with Morrison having a child. He was a child himself.”
“I know that,” I said peevishly. “In fact, I thought perhaps Uncle Harold…”
Two pairs of blue eyes fastened on me with identical expressions of horror.
“Well, there had to be a reason why Aunt Charlotte got rid of her,” I said. Reasonably, I thought.
“Yes,” Francis said, “but Uncle Harold? I find it hard enough to believe that Aunt Charlotte let him in her bed, let alone that anyone else would have done. Especially someone who didn’t have to.”
We pondered that for a moment.
“Maybe she did have to,” I said. Geoffrey had been fairly handsy with me, and he was likely worse with the maids. When you’re paying someone’s salary, it’s easier to convince them—and I imagine yourself—that they owe you something.
“His Grace isn’t Geoffrey,” Francis said, proving that Christopher wasn’t the only Astley who could read my mind. “In fact, Uncle Harold has always struck me as the opposite of Geoffrey. A bloke who isn’t interested in women at all.”
“Men, then?”
I slanted a glance across at Christopher, who shook his head. “We’ve talked about this, Pippa. Uncle Harold isn’t queer. I agree with Francis: he simply doesn’t seem very interested in other people. Men or women, in general or romantically.”
I made a face. The words ‘Uncle Harold’ and ‘romantically’ made for an uncomfortable match. “You don’t think he might have been different twenty-odd years ago? I mean, it makes sense. If Aunt Charlotte was enceinte with Crispin and wouldn’t let him near her, he might have sought solace elsewhere.”
“I can’t imagine that he would have settled for Morrison in that case,” Francis said.
When Constance shot him a look, he added, “No offense, Connie, but she wasn’t anything special to look at.
Or at least the corpse wasn’t. She might have looked a bit fresher when she was young, but she wouldn’t have been any great beauty back then, either.
And Uncle Harold was the Viscount St George.
If he had wanted a woman, surely he could have done better than his wife’s lady’s maid. ”
“Someone else, then,” I said. “Perhaps someone who was married already, who couldn’t marry Morrison and legitimize the baby—”
“It wasn’t Dad,” Francis said. I opened my mouth to say that I hadn’t for a moment thought that it might have been—history notwithstanding—but Christopher twitched, and Francis added, “No, bear with me, Kit. I know he got Maisie up the duff, but that was before he was married to Mum. He wouldn’t have done it after. ”
In this he was wrong, actually. Uncle Herbert had allowed himself to be blackmailed by Margaret Hughes over a further indiscretion that had happened during his marriage to Aunt Roz.
Within a year or so of the time that Morrison had been traded to Lady Peckham, in fact.
But now wasn’t the time to mention that, nor the time to think about the implications of it.
As far as I knew, I was the only one who had overheard that fact.
Neither Francis nor Christopher knew about it, although ostensibly Aunt Roz did.
“Uncle Herbert has enough taste not to settle for Morrison,” I said. “No offense, Constance.”
“None taken,” Constance chirped. “I don’t know why you’re all apologizing to me for casting aspersions on Morrison’s looks. It’s not as if I have any particular feelings about them.”
None of us said anything to that, and Constance continued, “If Morrison was pregnant at all—and we don’t know that she was—it wasn’t by your father or your uncle. One of the other servants, perhaps? Or someone in the village?”
“She had Doctor Meadows’s name and direction in her address book,” I said, “although there might have been other reasons for that. He might have delivered the babe. He delivered Crispin. Or he might have helped her get rid of it. Pennyroyal tea wasn’t invented in September of this year.”
“Or something else might have gone on,” Christopher said, “that made Aunt Charlotte decide that getting rid of Morrison was a good idea. The maid might not have been pregnant at all.”
I nodded. “You’re right. We don’t even know that it was Aunt Charlotte who wanted to get rid of Morrison. It might have been the other way around. Morrison wanted a change of pace, and Aunt Charlotte allowed it.”