Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
For a moment, no one spoke. I waited for Uncle Harold to take the reins—he was the Duke of Sutherland, and we were in the dining room at Sutherland Hall—but His Grace must have been just as taken aback as the rest of us, because he uttered not a word.
Nor did Crispin, for that matter. It was Tidwell who spoke up.
“You can’t simply walk in on His Grace’s luncheon guests, Constable Daniels. ”
Daniels flicked Uncle Harold a glance. “My apologies, Your Grace.”
Uncle Harold inclined his head. I would have expected a bit more outrage, to be honest, but perhaps he was simply too surprised, or too curious to see what would happen next, to interfere.
“Why?”
I wasn’t the one who asked. It was Francis who bristled on my behalf. “Why do you want to take Pippa away?” he added.
Constable Daniels turned his attention to him. And contemplated him for a moment in silence before he said, politely enough, “We have a few questions about a murder.”
“I already told the police in Stow-on-the-Wold everything I know,” I protested.
He turned back to me. And although he looked as if there was something he wanted to say, he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. “If you would come with me, Miss Darling?” he said instead.
For all that it was a question, and perfectly bland, there was no mistaking that it was an order. I got to my feet. “Will you at least give me leave to retrieve my jacket? It’s cold outside.”
The constable hesitated. For long enough that Christopher rolled his eyes and got to his feet. “Here, Pippa.” He shrugged out of his own jacket and put it over my shoulders. “I’ll fetch yours and bring it to the constabulary.”
It took effort to get my voice to cooperate. “Thank you, Christopher.”
I didn’t know what was going on, but based on Daniels’s demeanor, it was serious.
Perhaps Constable Woodin had discovered my foray into Morrison’s cottage, and had decided to arrest me for interfering with an investigation.
And then he had rung up the Little Sutherland constabulary to do the honors, so he didn’t have to make the trip here himself.
The situation gave off that sort of whiff.
There were no handcuffs, and Constable Daniels hadn’t said, “You’re under arrest for the murder of—” but I really did get the impression that something like that was coming.
Perhaps as soon as we were outside in the courtyard.
“We’ll be right behind you,” Christopher said, with a glance at his brother.
Francis pushed to his feet. “I’ll bring the Crossley around.”
Constance made to get up, as well, but he put a hand on her shoulder. “Stay here, Connie. There’s nothing you can do to help. We’ll figure out what’s going on and come back for you.”
Constance looked mulish, but I supposed she realized that there was no point in all three of them sitting outside the constabulary waiting to hear what was happening inside.
In the absence of Uncle Herbert, Francis was the head of the family—the small branch of it that I belonged to—and since Uncle Harold, the de facto head of the Sutherlands, didn’t seem inclined to take a hand in whatever was going on, the responsibility fell to Francis.
And to Christopher, of course, who would never let me go off on my own, whether he had any authority or not.
“We’ll be five minutes behind you,” he told me, as he headed out of the room.
I nodded, a bit shakily. Francis gave me a comforting sort of look. “Chin up, Pipsqueak. We’ll figure it out.”
On the other side of the table, Crispin made to get to his feet. His fiancée put a delicate hand on his arm to keep him in place, although it was the glare that his father directed his way that made him subside back into his chair.
“It’s all right, St George,” I told him. “You tried. Francis will handle it.”
Crispin sent a look at the doorway where Francis had vanished, but he didn’t say anything. Constable Daniels took the opportunity to put the next phase of operations into place.
“If you’ll come with me, Miss Darling.”
The request was polite enough, but the tone—not to mention the meaty paw he wrapped around my upper arm—made it clear that I had no option but to obey.
“You don’t have to manhandle me,” I told him, a bit breathlessly, as he steered me through the door and down the hallway towards the foyer. Tidwell scurried in front to get to the door first. “I’m coming willingly.”
Daniels didn’t say anything to that, nor did he slow down appreciably.
I could hear the sound of voices and movement from upstairs.
Hopefully Christopher and Francis wouldn’t be back in time to see Constable Daniels forcibly dragging me across the marble floor of the foyer, because I didn’t think either of them would take kindly to that spectacle, and what happened after that would likely end in one or both of them being arrested for interference with an apprehension.
Tidwell flung the front door open, and stood aside.
“Thank you, Tidwell,” I managed. Constable Daniels grunted and yanked me across the threshold.
“Good luck, Miss Darling.” Tidwell watched as Constable Daniels pulled me across the gravel to the police issue Crossley Tender parked outside.
I crawled into the backseat without demur—I certainly wasn’t stupid enough to attempt to make a break for it—and Daniels slammed the seat back, practically crushing my kneecaps as he did it, and fitted himself behind the wheel.
“I don’t suppose you intend to tell me what this is about?” I tried when he had engaged the motor and we were on our way out of the courtyard with the roofs of Little Sutherland spread out before us, at the end of the narrow lane that led down the hill into the village.
He shot me a look in the rearview mirror.
“That’s what I thought.” I sat back and folded my arms, and tried to take comfort in the scent of Christopher that emanated from the tweed jacket I was wrapped in.
The drive wasn’t long enough to allow me to move beyond being scared and getting more so.
Just a couple of minutes later, the Tender pulled up outside the Little Sutherland constabulary, and I was hauled from the backseat and inside.
I ended up in a chair in front of a desk with Constable Daniels staring at me across the surface.
I pulled Christopher’s jacket a bit tighter around myself and dredged up whatever courage I had left. “Do you plan to tell me what this is about now? Because I told Constable Woodin in Stow-on-the-Wold everything I know about Morrison several days ago.”
He didn’t say anything, just looked at me, so I continued, “I would have testified at the inquest, but they only wanted to hear from Constance. I can’t imagine what more I can do at this point. She’s dead, and I don’t know who did it.”
Constable Daniels opened his mouth. “Who’s dead?”
I blinked. “Lydia Morrison. Isn’t that what this is about?”
Obviously not, because he asked, “Who is Lydia Morrison?”
Who is—?
“Lydia Morrison,” I said, “was Lady Iris Peckham’s maid. Before that, she was Aunt Charlotte’s maid. The late Viscountess St George. Uncle Harold’s wife.”
Daniels looked confused.
“Morrison worked for Aunt Charlotte,” I tried again. “Then she went to work for Lady Peckham. This was all a long time ago, when Crispin—the current Viscount St George—was a baby. Now she’s dead.”
“In Stow-on-the-Wold?”
“In Upper Slaughter, actually. But yes, the constabulary in Stow-on-the-Wold handled the case.”
Daniels nodded. “And what did you have to do with it?”
“Nothing at all!”
My voice had turned shrill, and I took a breath and moderated it.
“We motored up there—Francis, Constance, Christopher and I—because Constance wanted to see Morrison. When we got there, she was dead. We were asked to stay for the inquest so Constance could identify Morrison as the maid who had worked for her mother for twenty-three years. Morrison had only lived in Upper Slaughter for six months or so, so no one there knew her well.”
“Interesting,” Daniels said.
I eyed him. “They didn’t tell you much, did they?”
“They told me nothing.”
Well, that wasn’t fair, was it? If the chaps in Stow-on-the-Wold had asked him to detain me for questioning, they ought at least to have told him why.
“What happens now?” I wanted to know. “Do we wait for someone from the Cotswolds to make it here?”
The look he gave me was strange. “Why would someone from the Cotswolds be coming?”
“Isn’t that what this is about?”
Clearly it wasn’t. He looked as confused as I felt.
“Perhaps we should start over,” I suggested. I was breathing a bit more easily now, that it appeared I was not about to be arrested for Morrison’s murder, or even for (possibly) contaminating her crime scene. “Would you care to tell me what this is about, Constable Daniels?”
Daniels hesitated, before he nudged a piece of paper across the desk towards me. “Don’t touch it.”
I wouldn’t have done anyway, or at least I don’t think so. Since he had specifically instructed me not to, I kept my hands firmly in my lap as I leaned forward.
It was a bog-standard piece of stationery, thick but not ostentatious.
Bare of any kind of logo, of course. A couple of lines were scratched on it in what looked like fountain pen, by someone who was either not well-educated enough to have received lessons in penmanship, or who had tried hard to disguise their handwriting.
DOCTOR MEADOWS IS DEAD, the note said, in spiky, uneven capitals that listed to the right. PHILIPPA DARLING DID IT.
The spidery words hit me like a fist to the chest, and I sat back on the chair. It was a mostly involuntary reaction, an unconscious attempt to put space between myself and the accusation. “That’s ridiculous.”
My voice was breathless, like I had had the wind knocked out of me, which of course was exactly what had happened. There was a rushing sound in my ears.
Daniels arched his brows. “Which?”