Chapter 6 #2
“For that matter,” Constance added, “perhaps it didn’t originate in your aunt’s household at all. Perhaps something was going on with Hughes, and it was my mother who decided to ask her friend for a swap. It might have had nothing to do with either Morrison or the late Duchess of Sutherland.”
Perhaps not. “I wonder if anyone is alive who might know the answer?”
“It couldn’t hurt to inquire of Doctor Meadows,” Francis answered. “I don’t know how ethical it would be for him to tell us about Morrison’s baby, if she had one, or even tell us that she didn’t have one, if she didn’t. But it couldn’t hurt to ask.”
“Cook might remember if Morrison was with child,” Christopher said. “She’s been at the Hall for a long time. And doesn’t she have a child of her own out of wedlock somewhere? Do I remember that correctly from Grimsby’s revelations?”
I nodded. Grimsby had indeed dug that tidbit up, and Tom had shared it with Christopher and myself at some point during the investigation.
“Edith Morrison would know,” Constance said. “If she’s Morrison’s mother or sister or cousin or aunt, then there likely is no child.”
“We could write and ask, I suppose.”
“A note of condolence might be in order anyway,” Constance agreed. “If she’s on the exchange, I might even be able to ring her up and express how sorry I am for her loss.”
I eyed her admiringly. “That’s quite cold-blooded of you, Constance.”
“Not at all,” Constance answered with a little toss of her head. “Just because I have questions, doesn’t mean I’m not sincerely sorry. She was my mother’s maid for as long as I can remember. I’m very sympathetic to her mother or sister or daughter or aunt.”
But not above using that sympathy to get answers. Which was calculating enough to be admirable.
“When we get home, then,” I said.
“Back to Sutherland Hall, surely? All our luggage is there.”
“Unless Mum and Dad packed it up and took it back to Beckwith Place with them,” Francis said.
“Didn’t you motor down together? Or did Uncle Herbert have the Bentley?”
The burgundy Crossley—the motorcar we were currently in—belonged to Constance. It had been her mother’s car. Geoffrey had motored up to Beckwith Place in it for Francis’s and Constance’s engagement bash in July, and since then, it has been Francis’s domain.
Meanwhile, Aunt Roslyn and Uncle Herbert have a Bentley Touring Car, which Francis had driven before the Crossley fell into his lap along with a fiancée.
Uncle Herbert knows how to drive the Bentley himself, of course, but if they were all four going to the same place—Sutherland Hall, in this case—they may all have traveled together in the Crossley.
Francis shook his head. “They had the Bentley. They’ve probably gone home already.”
“But even if Aunt Roz and Uncle Herbert have left, our luggage might still be at Sutherland Hall. We don’t live at Beckwith Place any longer.”
I glanced at Christopher. He nodded. “We’ll get Crispin to motor us up to Salisbury to the railroad station if we have to. Or all the way to London if he wants a break from Laetitia.”
“He’s marrying Laetitia in a month,” I pointed out. “There’ll be no break from her then.”
“All the more reason why he might want one now.”
I supposed that was true. “Sutherland Hall it is, then. We’ll regroup once we get there.”
And hie ourselves elsewhere as quickly as possible if everyone else had left.
There was no way I wanted to spend time at Sutherland Hall without Aunt Roz and Uncle Herbert and the Marsdens to serve as distractions.
Uncle Harold had never liked me, and had never made a secret of it.
And the closer we came to Crispin’s nuptials, the higher the tension ratcheted.
Every day was a new chance for something to break—Crispin’s sanity, or perhaps my resolve to stay out of it—and every day, in Uncle Harold’s view, was another opportunity for the two of us to elope and ruin his plans for his son’s future.
As we headed down the road towards Wiltshire, I was fully prepared to have to shove my belongings into my weekender bag and decamping practically as soon as we arrived.
When we did, however, it was to find everything almost exactly as we had left it. We arrived in time for supper, and the same group was gathered around the table as had been there the night before we left.
“Tell us what happened,” Aunt Roz demanded as we waited for the soup to be taken away and the fish served. “From the moment you arrived in the Cotswolds until the time you left. Tidwell didn’t know much, and we want to hear everything.”
“There’s nothing much to tell,” Francis told her. “We gave Tidwell the important information when we rang up on Sunday night.”
Aunt Roz nodded pleasantly. “And now you can tell me the rest.”
“We motored up to Lower Slaughter,” I said, “and Christopher went to look at the church there. The vicar’s wife told us to try Upper Slaughter instead.”
“So we motored there,” Francis said. “And when we got there, we ate lunch. On a bench by the river, because the public house was closed.”
“And the local constable came by and told us where Morrison lived. In a row of cottages on the square in Upper Slaughter. Very picturesque.”
“When she didn’t answer the knock on her front door,” Christopher picked up the narrative, “we went around the back and found the kitchen door unlocked. The constable went inside and discovered her dead in bed. He and Francis motored up to Stow-on-the-Wold for reinforcements while the rest of us waited. And then we had to stay for the inquest this morning.”
“And the determination?” Uncle Harold wanted to know.
“Murder by person or persons unknown. We were given leave to go home, and went. And now we’re back here.”
“And that’s all?” My aunt glanced at me.
“That’s it,” I confirmed. “The drive was uneventful, both going and coming. There were a lot of sheep. The inn in Stow-on-the-Wold was extremely quaint. I shared with Constance and Christopher with Francis.”
Aunt Roz didn’t say anything, but she looked amused. Uncle Harold looked constipated.
“When we were asked to stay for the inquest,” I added, “I think we were all a bit worried that we were suspects.”
Across the table, Francis and Constance nodded. Constance looked rather more guilty than Francis. As she should, since she was the one who had broken into Morrison’s cottage with me while Francis had been in Stow-on-the-Wold with Constable Woodin.
“I didn’t think we were,” Christopher said, “although I agree with everything else Pippa said.”
“The inquest was held in the Methodist Chapel,” I added. “I suppose the funeral might be there, as well, unless Morrison had family somewhere, who requests the body. Would you happen to know anything about her personal situation, Lady Euphemia?”
The countess shook her head. “I’m afraid not, Miss Darling. She was part of my sister-in-law’s household, not mine. If we ever had a conversation, I don’t remember it.”
No, of course not. Why would she possibly remember speaking with a woman who dressed and undressed her sister-in-law for more than two decades, and who lived a quarter mile away from her own home for a large part of that time?
“Perhaps Mrs. Mason would know,” I said. “Did she work here at Sutherland Hall when Morrison was Aunt Charlotte’s maid?”
This was addressed, by necessity, to Uncle Harold.
The look he gave me in return suggested that as far as he was concerned, I was lower on the scale than where Lady Euphemia had placed Morrison, so I shouldn’t expect him to deign to respond.
Nor did he. It was Aunt Roz who spoke up.
“I don’t believe that Mrs. Mason has been here long enough for that, Pippa. ”
“Cook has been here longer,” Uncle Herbert added, “and Tidwell. They may know.”
“I don’t suppose it matters,” I said, since it had really only been a ploy to find out whether Lady Euphemia knew who Edith Morrison was. “It’s none of our concern what happens to the body. She left Constance’s mother’s house of her own free will, after all.”
“It certainly isn’t any of your affair, Darling,” Crispin told me. “Incurably nosy, you are.”
“You’re one to talk,” I retorted, since we both knew his penchant for listening at doors and windows, and in secret passages. “You couldn’t care less what happens to the body, I’m certain.”
He looked surprised. “No, of course I couldn’t. I’ve never set eyes on the woman. Why should I care what becomes of her remains?”
“It’s every human’s duty to care about the less fortunate,” I told him, primly.
“Yes, yes.” He rolled his eyes. “Let me know if you’d like a shilling for the wreath, Darling, and I’ll be happy to pony up. Until then, keep your do-gooder tendencies to yourself.”
“Are you afraid I’m going to rub off on you, St George?”
It wasn’t until Lady Euphemia gave an audible gasp, and Laetitia sent a glare my way that could have peeled my skin from my bones, that I realized what I had said.
And by then, of course, it was too late.
I felt myself turning pink and then pinker until I was the approximate shade of a tomato, all while Crispin watched the progression with a slow smile.
“Not at all, Darling,” he said silkily when, I assume, he thought I must have reached peak embarrassment. “You rubbing off on me doesn’t worry me at all.”
His tone gave the words a suggestiveness that I certainly hadn’t intended when I used them. Uncle Harold’s brows drew together. “St George.”
Crispin snapped back into himself in a rush. For a second, shock—possibly even fear—flashed through his eyes before he straightened. “Yes, Father.”
“Apologize to your fiancée.”
“Yes, Father.” He turned to Laetitia. “I’m sorry. I behaved inappropriately and disrespected you. Can you forgive me?”
It sounded rote, like he had prepared and rehearsed it previously. Or perhaps he had simply been made to say it a lot. Either way, Laetitia smiled graciously. “Of course, Crispin.”
She reached out and picked up his hand.
We all waited politely, but when nothing else happened—no attempted murder, no declaration of love—Aunt Roz and Uncle Herbert exchanged a glance, and the latter cleared his throat. “Crispin?”
Crispin removed his gaze from the suction of Laetitia’s eyes. It appeared to take a certain amount of effort on his part. “Yes,” he said, “Uncle?”
Uncle Herbert gave him a look, and then gave me one.
“Oh,” Crispin said. His cheekbones darkened. “Sorry, Darling. I spoke inappropriately and disrespected you. Can you forgive me?”
I arched a brow. “I don’t know, St George. Did you rehearse that sentence?”
The smirk came back, and so did the sparkle. “As a matter of fact I did, Darling.”
“Philippa,” I reminded him. “And of course I forgive you. Although it was my own fault, really. I should have known better than to give you an opening like that. I know how hard it is for you to resist temptation.”
Lady Euphemia gave another gasp, and Laetitia flinched. So, for that matter, did Crispin.
“Pippa,” Aunt Roz said tiredly.
I nodded. “Yes, Aunt Roslyn. I apologize.”
“Apologize to Crispin,” Aunt Roz said. “Not to me.”
“Of course.” I turned to him. “My apologies, St George. I spoke inappropriately and disrespected you. Can you forgive me?”
Francis converted a snort into a cough, while Constance hid a smile. Christopher smirked without bothering to hide it. So did Crispin. “Of course, Darling. I know how hard it is for you to resist temptation.”
“Touché,” I said. “But it’s Philippa, remember? You don’t want to upset your fiancée.”
“Of course not.” He turned to her. “I’m sorry, Laetitia.”
This time he actually sounded sincere, which was more than I would have expected.
Laetitia, however, did not sound remotely as loving as last time, when she told him, “Of course, Crispin.” There was no adoring smile to go with the words this time.
Instead, she gave me a narrow look before she reached out, and the fingers she wrapped around his hand were possessive.
“Thank you, Pippa,” Aunt Roz said blandly, as if nothing at all had happened.
“No problem, Aunt Roz. I’m sorry I overstepped. Thank you for correcting me.”
That seemed to be more than Francis could handle, because he snatched up his napkin and began to cough into it, loudly, while Constance patted him on the back.
“Never mind, Pippa,” Aunt Roz said. I nodded and went back to my supper.