Chapter 16 #3
“And that person happened to have in their pocket a piece of writing paper and a fountain pen? A piece of paper that matches what we use here at the Hall? Not to mention that instead of just letting the constables know what had happened, they decided it would be a good opportunity to frame me instead of trying to get help, the way any innocent person would do?”
Christopher made a face, as if to say he couldn’t argue with that, and I went on.
“There’s simply no reason for Crispin to try to frame me.
That seems like a vindictive little jab of the sort that Laetitia would take pleasure in.
The only reason to do it, is to be petty and mean, because it’s not as if anyone would actually believe it.
I had no motive, and I was with you when Doctor died. ”
“I don’t know what to tell you,” Christopher said helplessly. “It’s not as if I want to believe it myself, Pippa.”
“Then don’t,” I told him. “I can’t believe that you think your cousin capable of murder, Christopher. And not just murder, but serial murder. Three of them, over as many days, plus Hughes. I’m surprised you’re not trying to hang Duke Henry’s and Grimsby’s murders on him, too.”
“You already tried that,” Christopher retorted, “back in April.”
“And you didn’t believe me then. What makes you think he wouldn’t have committed those crimes, if you think he committed these?”
“Aunt Charlotte confessed,” Christopher said.
“She might have been protecting him. God knows she doted on him.”
There was a moment’s pause while Christopher eyed me. “You’re not serious, are you, Pippa?”
“I don’t know,” I said. I had brought up the previous deaths in an effort to persuade Christopher to realize how mad his position was, but now I wasn’t certain what I thought.
“I believed Aunt Charlotte’s note at the time.
But if you want me to consider that he might be a murderer now, we ought to consider whether he was a murderer then, too.
The reason Duke Henry and Grimsby were killed, is probably the same reason that Morrison and Hughes were. ”
“The fact that Crispin isn’t Uncle Harold’s son,” Christopher nodded. “And it’s true that Aunt Charlotte couldn’t have killed them. But that doesn’t mean that she didn’t kill Grandfather and Grimsby back then.”
“But Crispin might have been part of it. They may have done it together.”
“Fine.” Christopher folded his arms across his chest. For some reason, this idea seemed to bother him a lot more than the possibility that Crispin was guilty of killing Hughes, Morrison, and Doctor Meadows. It must be the family connection. “Convince me.”
I didn’t want to convince him—not of this—but he was eyeing me expectantly, so I cleared my throat and got on with it. “I suspected St George at the time. You know that. We talked about it.”
He nodded.
“I don’t think that he had an alibi for either murder. He was out and about the night Grimsby was shot. He was the one who unlocked the conservatory door for us, remember? And anyone in the house could have gone into Francis’s room and taken some of his Veronal.”
“It was Aunt Charlotte who served Grandfather his tea, though,” Christopher pointed out. “If Crispin had received the tray from one of the servants, I think they would have mentioned it, don’t you?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. Although it might have been both of them together.”
Christopher allowed as how that might have been possible. “I suppose you think he was the one who shot at you, then? That day we walked to the village?”
“If we’re talking means and opportunity,” I agreed, “he might have done. A gun is considered more of a man’s weapon than a woman’s, I think.”
The gun room had been open to anyone in the house, so Crispin could as easily have fetched the rifle and pointed it out Christopher’s window as his mother.
And he might have been the one who shot Grimsby while Aunt Charlotte poisoned Duke Henry.
Poison is considered more of a woman’s weapon than a man’s, at least if you listen to the novelists. The great equalizer, and all that.
“And Aunt Charlotte knew what he had done,” Christopher continued, “so she rang up the Dower House, to give Morrison time to get away, and then Aunt Charlotte wrote the note taking the blame, and took the rest of Francis’s Veronal, and went to sleep.”
“And Crispin let her?”
Christopher hesitated. The suggestion seemed to have given him pause, as it ought to have done.
While Crispin and Uncle Harold had always had a contentious relationship, he and Aunt Charlotte had always been close.
There was no way that the Crispin I knew would have allowed his mother to die for crimes he had committed.
Or allowed her to die at all, if there was something he could have done to prevent it.
“I think we ought to talk to him,” I said.
Christopher widened his eyes. “To Crispin?”
“He deserves a chance to tell us why we’re wrong, don’t you think?” And in the event that we were not wrong, a chance to explain his side of the story.
He shook his head, most violently. “Absolutely not. I’m not telling my cousin that I suspect him of murder.”
“Then what do you suppose we do? Tell Tom and let him deal with it? That doesn’t seem quite fair, Christopher. St George is your cousin. I think you owe him better than that.”
“There’s no need to tell Tom,” Christopher said, without touching on the other part of my statement. “He knows already.”
Something cold settled into my chest. “What do you mean, Tom knows already? What does he know?”
“He said that it was all too much of a coincidence,” Christopher said.
“For Morrison to die the same night that Shreve told us where to find her. For Doctor Meadows to die the same morning we went to speak to him. And for Alfie to die the same morning as Doctor Meadows, when he might have seen someone take a motorcar or bicycle out of the carriage house.”
I nodded. “I agree with Tom. It’s all very suspicious. I just don’t see why any of it implicates Crispin particularly. No more than anyone else.”
“I’ve just explained it to you,” Christopher said. “If he isn’t Uncle Harold’s son, then he would want to silence anyone who knows that. Who else has that sort of motive?”
“Laetitia,” I said triumphantly. “If Crispin doesn’t become Duke of Sutherland, she won’t become Duchess. And you know she’s marrying him at least partially for that. Besides, out of everyone here, she’s the most likely to try to frame me. You can’t convince me that Crispin would do that.”
“I suppose that might be true,” Christopher said grudgingly.
“You don’t have to sound so displeased. It’s not as if we want Crispin to be guilty.”
He didn’t answer, and I changed the subject. By a degree or so. “Did Tom find a murder weapon?”
“Not during the time I was there,” Christopher said. “But the constables started turning over the carriage house when I left, so unless the murderer took it with him, I’m sure they’ll find it.”
So was I. The carriage house was full of handy weapons, like tire irons and wrenches. There was no need to bring your own into that kind of environment. Just use whatever was handy. As the person who killed Doctor Meadows had done. And the person who killed Morrison, too.
“What do we do now?” I wanted to know. “You’re not willing to confront Crispin. Tom’s busy. I certainly don’t want to talk to Laetitia about any of this. Is there anything else we can do?”
“Search Crispin’s room for clues?” Christopher suggested.
I waved the proposal away. “I was in there earlier. There’s nothing there.”
His brows arched. “You were in Crispin’s rooms? Whatever for?”
“Not that,” I said, since I could see what he was thinking. “It was earlier, before tea. I was looking for a sample of Laetitia’s handwriting. I didn’t know that you—or Tom—would make everyone write the anonymous note for comparison.”
“But in Crispin’s room? Wouldn’t it have been better to look in her own?”
“Mrs. Mason told me that she writes Crispin little love notes,” I explained, and couldn’t keep my face from puckering as I said it, “and that he’s honor-bound—or duty-bound—to hold onto them. I thought I would take a look.”
“And did you find them?”
I nodded. “They’re all there, in his night table drawer. A great, big stack. Her fist looks nothing like the anonymous note.”
“Of course not.” He snorted. “Admit it, Pippa, you only looked because you were curious. Not because you thought it would prove anything.”
No, of course not. Whoever wrote the anonymous note wouldn’t have used their own usual handwriting. That would have been too easy.
“How risqué were they?” Christopher wanted to know. He was trying to hold back laughter but not succeeding very well. “Did they make you blush, Pippa?”
“I didn’t read them,” I said, appalled. “I don’t read other people’s private correspondence, Christopher.”
Christopher looked disappointed. “I would have done.”
“You would not have enjoyed them, I assure you. They were full of outlandish endearments. Dearest darling pussycat, and the like.”
“Ewww.” He wrinkled his nose.
I nodded. “Precisely. I also saw Aunt Charlotte’s note. The one from April.”
Christopher sat up straighter. “The suicide note? What did it say? Anything pertaining to what we’ve been talking about?”
“I didn’t read that either,” I said. “Just the first line or two, enough to recognize it. That’s all I read last time, as well.”
Christopher didn’t say anything, just sat silently. The silence was somehow very loud.
“It makes sense that he would keep it,” I pointed out. “It was the last note his mother wrote to him. I have all the letters my mother wrote to me from Germany during the War.”
They were somewhere. I couldn’t tell you exactly where—it was seven years since she had died, and I had moved to London since then—but I knew I hadn’t thrown them away.
“We should take a look,” Christopher said.
“At the note? I don’t know, Christopher. I’ve already been in Crispin’s room once today. I don’t fancy going back.”
“But no one saw you,” Christopher protested.
“I’m sorry to burst your bubble, but Laetitia saw me, in fact. I had to tell her that I suspected Crispin of writing the note, and I was looking for a sample of his handwriting.”
He stared at me. “She can’t possibly have believed that. Surely she must know that you and Crispin have corresponded before. You ought to be familiar with his fist.”
“She seemed to believe it,” I said doubtfully, “although I suppose I might simply have dazzled her with my brilliance. But she saw me. And she might even have mentioned it to Crispin.”
Who, if he was guilty of multiple murders, certainly wouldn’t be happy to find me snooping around in his quarters for a second time today.
“Then you can stay here,” Christopher said and rolled to his feet. “I want to read that letter.”
He headed for the door. I trailed after. “There’s not going to be anything interesting in it, Christopher. Even if you’re right and they did commit the murders together, she wouldn’t risk putting anything incriminating into a letter that the police would read.”
“She was my aunt,” Christopher said over his shoulder, “and he’s my cousin. I might catch something that the police didn’t.” He reached for the doorknob.
“It’s his,” I said, a bit desperately. “It’s personal. You have no right to it.”
“There might be something there that proves that he didn’t do it,” Christopher said.
I watched him head into the hallway as the words ricocheted around in my head. I hesitated for barely a second before I followed.
“Wait for me.”