Chapter 12 #3
Now he gave Francis a nod in response to the latter’s greeting, but he didn’t join us. Instead, he approached Uncle Harold, who was holding court with the Earl and Countess of Marsden at a separate table.
“Your Grace.” He bowed politely, before turning to Maury and Effie. “My Lord. My Lady.”
“Detective Sergeant Gardiner.” Lady Euphemia inclined her head a bare inch.
She remembered Tom, of course. They had both been at Beckwith Place for Francis’s and Constance’s engagement celebration in July, and Tom had also shown up at Laetitia’s engagement do at Marsden Manor in September. “To what do we owe the honor?”
The words were polite enough, although the tone relegated Tom’s presence from honored guest to unexpected gate crasher. Specifically, she addressed him the way she would one of the servants, or perhaps a constable from the village. Someone distinctly below her in importance.
He didn’t rise to the bait. I would have been tempted to do, so more power to him.
“Kit rang me up and informed me that someone had tried to frame Pippa for murder,” Tom said instead, calmly. “I thought I ought to take a look.”
Something about the response made Lady Euphemia’s spine lose its iron rigidity.
I can’t imagine what she was thinking—perhaps that Tom was sweet on me, and that was why he had come all this way to make sure I was all right.
And if so, I was no threat to her daughter’s designs on Crispin, which must have been relieving.
Although what she thought I could do about Crispin’s and Laetitia’s nuptials at this point I don’t know.
They were properly engaged, with a wedding date only a month hence, and the banns in the process of being read.
But at any rate, her reaction was too obvious to miss. Tom waited a moment for her to respond, and when she didn’t, he added, “I hope you don’t mind.”
The sentiment was undoubtedly addressed to Uncle Harold, as the head of the household, but it was Crispin who answered. “Don’t be daft, Gardiner. Nobody wants Philippa to be arrested for a crime she didn’t commit.”
The pregnant pause that greeted this pronouncement indicated clearly that although he might not feel that way, there were several people present who would be more than happy for me to be arrested for any reason whatsoever.
The silence virtually reverberated with the (unspoken) sentiment.
Crispin cleared his throat. “I’ll just go and have a word with Tidwell about a room for you. Excuse me.”
He inclined his head politely to his father and his future mother-in-law. To Laetitia he added, “I’ll be right back.”
She pouted, of course, prettily, but didn’t say anything that might stop him. Crispin put his hand on Tom’s shoulder. “Go and join Kit and Francis, there’s a good chap.”
He nudged Tom in our direction. The latter gave Uncle Harold another inclination of his head and another, “Your Grace,” before he followed the advice. By then, Crispin was halfway to the door. His expression was that of a man happy to make his escape.
I sniggered as he passed by our table, and then I reached for the teapot and an empty cup and saucer. “Cup of tea, Tom?”
“Don’t mind if I do, Philippa.” He sank down on the empty chair between Christopher and Francis. “Good afternoon, Astley. Miss Peckham. Kit.”
Their eyes snagged and held for a moment. Until Francis cleared his throat and broke the spell. “Good to see you, Tommy.”
“You, as well,” Tom told him. He seemed less perturbed by the interruption than Christopher, whose cheeks were flushed all the way up to the tips of his ears. “Thank you.”
He nodded politely at the cup of tea I placed in front of him.
“Don’t mention it.” I sat back. “Christopher said he rang you up, and you decided to drive to Wiltshire to make certain he—or we—were all right?”
“I wasn’t worried about Kit,” Tom said and lifted the cup and saucer for a sip. “Nobody accused him of murder.”
“We were in the infirmary together,” I told him, “so they may as well have done. If Doctor Meadows was murdered while we were there, it could have been either of us.”
He placed the cup and saucer back on the table and eyed me. “And was he murdered while you were there?”
“Of course not,” Christopher said. “Aside from the fact that you should know us both better than that, we were together the entire time. Neither of us could have killed him without the other one seeing, and I assure you that we didn’t do it together.
As far as we knew, he was still alive and well when we sat down to luncheon. ”
“The first we heard that he wasn’t,” I added, “was when Constable Daniels arrived.”
“And that’s when you found out about the note accusing you.”
It wasn’t a question, but I nodded. “When we reached the constabulary, yes. He didn’t mention it on the drive. But he showed it to me once we were in the village.”
“What did it look like?” Tom wanted to know.
“Like a note. Like any note. Plain writing paper. Plain black ink. Spiky, uneven letters, as if someone had written them with his non-dominant hand.”
“No point in checking the grates for mutilated newsprint, then.”
“The classic cut-and-glued letters, do you mean?” I shook my head. “No, none. The note was hand-written, but not in a fist anyone would be likely to recognize.”
“We’d all produce something very like it,” Christopher added, “if we tried.”’
“Have you tried?”
Christopher and I glanced at one another, and then at Francis and Constance. Then we all shook our heads.
“I suppose it couldn’t hurt to make a parlor game of it,” Christopher said, looking around. “Tidwell?”
The butler materialized next to the table. “Master Christopher?”
“Note paper,” Christopher said. “Enough for everyone. And pen and ink.”
Tidwell nodded. “Of course, Master Christopher.”
He vanished as quickly and silently as he had appeared. A minute later he was back, to place a stack of notepaper and a pen and inkwell on the table. “Anything else, Master Christopher?”
“No,” Christopher said, “thank you, Tidwell.”
Tidwell faded away. Christopher took a breath and uncapped the inkwell.