Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
We didn’t have to wait long. Francis and his sense of humor wasn’t about to let this chance go by.
We were barely inside the foyer—Tidwell was still in the process of shutting the front door behind us—when Crispin skidded onto the marble floor.
He was followed a few seconds later by his fiancée and his father, in a much more leisurely fashion.
By the time they arrived, Crispin had assured himself that I was there, and in one piece.
Christopher was the first person he looked at, but only for as long as it took to ask, “Is everything all right?” before he turned his attention to me.
And while I usually can’t tell from his face that he has romantic feelings for me, in this case his expression was unguarded for at least half a second before the blinds slammed down.
“Fine,” I told him. “Nothing to worry about. Just a few questions.”
“Why you?”
I hesitated. Did I tell him about the note, or wait until we had more privacy? If that was even possible, with Laetitia dogging his heels like a faithful Retriever.
“It wasn’t just Pippa,” Christopher said. “The constable spoke to me and Francis, as well.”
Crispin shifted his attention to Francis. “Why you? And why not Connie?”
“It wasn’t about Morrison,” I said. “As it turns out, there was a murder in the village this morning, while Christopher and I were there.”
Behind Crispin, Laetitia gasped and clutched her hands to her breast. If she had killed Doctor Meadows—and I had no reason to think she had done; I simply like to imagine her guilty of various offenses—it was a convincing presentation of innocence.
“Who’s dead?” His Grace wanted to know.
“Doctor Meadows,” Christopher told him. “Sometime between the time Pippa and I left the infirmary, and when luncheon was served.”
There was a moment of silence. Then—
“Dreadful,” Uncle Harold said. “And the constable wanted to speak to you because…?”
“He wanted to make certain that Doctor was alive and well when we left him,” Christopher said, “which he was, of course. We would have said something about it had he not been. And then he wanted to know whether we had noticed anything out of the ordinary. Anyone skulking around or behaving suspiciously or whatnot.”
“And had you done?”
Uncle Harold looked from him to me and back with penetrating blue eyes. The chandelier gilded his grayish hair almost back to its youthful buttery blond.
“Not in the least,” I said cheerfully. “The street outside was as empty when we left as it had been when we arrived. We were only inside the infirmary for a few minutes, and all of Little Sutherland seemed content to stay inside this morning. It’s the weather, I suppose.”
“And that was all?” Crispin asked, a trace of worry still in his tone. “It seemed rather more pointed than that when Daniels manhandled you out of the dining room.”
“That was all, truly. I’m afraid we’ll have to impose on your hospitality for a few days longer. Constable Daniels wants us to keep ourselves available for the inquest.”
“We were the last people to see him alive, it seems,” Christopher added. “Aside from the murderer, of course.”
Crispin nodded. “Of course. I’ll let Mrs. Mason know that you’ll be staying.”
“That’s all right,” I said. “I’d be happy to do so.” It would give me an opportunity to ask the housekeeper about the stationery in the bedrooms.
Tidwell cleared his throat. “With your permission, Your Grace—”
He turned to me, “Miss Darling—”
And again to Uncle Harold, “I’ll have the bags taken back upstairs.”
He snapped his fingers at Hugh, the first footman, who was hovering in the background. The latter snagged Christopher’s and my weekender bags from the corner of the foyer, where we had dropped them earlier, and headed for the staircase.
“And now I’ll speak to Mrs. Mason,” Tidwell said and stalked towards the kitchen wing with measured steps.
“That’s you told, Darling,” Crispin said as soon as the butler was out of range. None of us dared speak until then, I assumed. I certainly didn’t.
I nodded. “Serves me right for trying to fraternize with the staff.”
“Is that what you were doing? I didn’t realize you held Mrs. Mason in such high regard.”
“I don’t,” I said. “Nothing against Mrs. Mason, of course. But you know as well as I do that I adore Tidwell. If I were going to fraternize with anyone, it would be him.”
“Naturally.” Crispin smirked. I smirked back, and only then remembered that we were standing in the middle of the foyer, surrounded by some of our nearest and dearest, who certainly wouldn’t get, or appreciate, the joke.
The look Uncle Harold directed my way was fishy in the extreme, while Laetitia looked scandalized.
I’m not sure whether it was my stated passion for the butler or the rapport between Crispin and myself that bothered her, although it might have been both.
I cleared my throat. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll follow Tidwell.”
I didn’t wait for anyone to respond, although the silence that spread behind me, as I walked towards the green baize door to the servants’ quarters, was loud. I had no doubt whatsoever that everyone exploded into speech just as soon as the door shut behind me.
Tidwell had already made it to the servants’ sitting room before I caught up.
Shreve was nowhere to be seen today—she must be upstairs in Lady Euphemia’s chambers—but Tidwell stood in conversation with Mrs. Mason while one of the maids looked on.
As I came through the door, Mrs. Mason and Tidwell moved apart, and they all turned to look at me.
“Miss Darling,” Mrs. Mason said politely after a moment. “I understand that you will be staying with us for a few more days.”
“Not by choice,” I answered. And added, “I mean… yes, Constable Daniels wants Christopher and myself to attend the inquest, whenever it takes place. And that means that Francis and Constance will be staying too, I assume.”
I glanced at Tidwell, whose face was impassive, before focusing on Mrs. Mason again. “Doctor Meadows has been murdered, in case no one told you.”
Mrs. Mason pressed her lips together, but nodded. “Tidwell just now informed me.”
“I wanted to ask about the writing paper,” I said.
Mrs. Mason looked nonplussed. “The writing paper, Miss Darling?”
“In the bedrooms. And, I suppose, in the library and study.”
“What about the writing paper?” Tidwell wanted to know. Behind him, the maid stared at me, bug-eyed.
“The constabulary received a handwritten note accusing me of killing Doctor Meadows,” I said. Coolly, I thought, although the maid gasped and slapped a hand to her chest.
An expression of irritation crossed Mrs. Mason’s face. “Don’t you have something to do, Sadie?”
Sadie looked chagrined, like she didn’t want to have to leave before she could hear the rest of the story. Nonetheless, she got to her feet. “Yes, Mrs. Mason.”
She shot me a look on her way to the door. I ignored her, and so did Mrs. Mason and Tidwell.
“What’s this about writing paper?” Mrs. Mason asked again when the door had shut behind the maid.
“As I said, the constabulary—”
“Yes, yes.” She brushed it aside. “Do they know that it came from here?”
“I don’t think they have any idea where it came from. But I thought I’d ask, since writing paper is so easy to come by at Sutherland Hall. There’s some in every nightstand, as well as some of the common rooms.”
“In the servants’ quarters, as well,” Tidwell said, “although I assure you, Miss Darling, none of the staff would accuse you of murder.”
“Of course not.” That possibility hadn’t even crossed my mind. Perhaps it ought to have done, but I had not upset any of the servants enough that they’d do something like that, as far as I knew.
“The staff was working this morning,” Mrs. Mason said stiffly. “No one on my staff had the opportunity to go to the village and commit murder.”
No, I hadn’t thought so. “I only wanted to ask about the writing paper in the guest rooms, and whether you had had to replace any of it today.”
The note would have been written in the early part of the day, I assumed, before the maids had had the opportunity to turn over the rooms.
“Or perhaps tomorrow,” I added. “You might make note of it, if any of the rooms need more writing paper tomorrow morning.”
Mrs. Mason nodded. “To answer your question, Miss Darling, Master Francis used a piece of writing paper for a note to Miss Constance. It was in her room this morning.”
“I’m not worried about Constance or Francis,” I said. Neither of them would accuse me of murder. Nor would they kill Doctor Meadows in the first place.
“His Grace uses the stationery in the study,” Tidwell contributed, “when he has correspondence. His Lordship has a desk with writing paper in his sitting room. He uses that, or occasionally the stationery in the library.”
“No private love notes from the stash in his bedside drawer?”
“Not recently,” Tidwell said blandly. “The last time His Lordship kept his correspondence private was in August.”
I made a face. August was when Crispin and I had had that acrimonious exchange of letters that had culminated with me telling him (in writing) to propose to Laetitia because they deserved one another.
I should be grateful that he had kept that whole thing under wraps, I suppose.
The servants, not to mention Uncle Harold, would have had a field day with it.
“Lady Laetitia’s writing paper always needs replenishing,” Mrs. Mason added, gossipy. “I believe she uses it to write little love notes to Master Crispin. The maids see them in his room.”
And giggled over them, no doubt. “Crumpled and in the rubbish bin, I hope?”
Tidwell looked preternaturally bland. Mrs. Mason’s lips twitched. “I’m afraid not, Miss Darling. They go in his night table drawer.”
Ugh. “Of course they do.” My nose wrinkled. “I suppose he takes them out every so often, and reads them to himself when he can’t sleep at night?”