Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
“You don’t have to come inside with me,” Christopher said as we navigated the hallways from the west wing to the east. “If your conscience is bothering you, that is.”
“That’s below you, Christopher,” I informed him as we trotted past the top of the stairs and the doors to the Duchess’s Chamber and, five seconds later, the Duke’s Chamber. “It sounds like something nasty and sarcastic that Crispin would say.”
He flicked me a look. “And yet you won’t invade his privacy to read his personal correspondence.”
“It’s personal! And I already did invade his privacy, don’t forget. I have no objection to doing it again. I simply think the letter is a dead end, and we should leave it alone.”
It was the final thing Crispin had left of his mother. We had no right to it.
Christopher didn’t attempt to counter this very reasonable objection. “I just want a look at it,” he said stubbornly.
I threw my hands up. “The whole thing is mad. You cannot possibly believe that Crispin is behind this. Why would he be?”
“If not Crispin,” Christopher inquired as we turned the corner to the east wing, “then who?”
“I told you that. Lady Laetitia. She has every reason to want Crispin to become Duke of Sutherland so she can become duchess. And unlike him, she has coldblooded murderess written all over her.”
Christopher snorted. “Why don’t you tell me how you really feel, Pippa?”
“I just did. I feel as if Crispin is incapable of doing this, and that she is very much capable of it. He wouldn’t frame me for Doctor Meadows’s murder, Christopher. She would do.”
Christopher didn’t answer, just stopped in front of the door to Crispin’s sitting room and glanced at me. “Last chance. Do you want to come inside with me, or stay in the hallway?”
“I’ll stay,” I said. “I’ve invaded St George’s privacy enough for today.”
He nodded. “Give the alert if anyone turns up.”
“What sort of alert would you like?” I wanted to know as he turned towards the door.
He glanced at me over his shoulder. “Anything you can think of, Pippa. Two raps followed by three on the door?”
Certainly. Because rapping on the door in the rhythm of ‘Duke of Sutherland’ wouldn’t appear suspicious at all.
“I’ll do my best,” I said, flapping a hand at him. “Go on. The quicker you do, the less likely I’ll have to do anything at all. The letter is in the night table drawer on the side of the bed nearest the door. The obituary is there, as well.”
He flashed me a grin before ducking through the door and shutting it behind himself. I leaned against the wall opposite the door to Christopher’s bedchamber and fastened my eyes on it, the better to look as if I had some purpose in being here.
I don’t know if you’ve ever been in the position of lookout, while you wait for someone to finish something they shouldn’t be doing, that could get the both of you in trouble if you were caught.
I have done—it wasn’t the first time Christopher had put me in this position, nor was the opposite a lie, actually—and it’s nerve-racking.
The seconds tick by agonizingly slowly. It feels like every minute is ten, and like the ordeal will never end.
It also feels as if you’re liable to be caught at any second.
If you’re lucky, the person inside the room is quick and no one sees you standing there, but occasionally you’re not lucky, and the door to the servants’ stairs opens, and the Duke of Sutherland steps through.
I must admit that I was surprised to see him. Perhaps even shocked. Of all the people in the Hall, Uncle Harold was the last I would have expected to use the servants’ stairs to get around.
Or perhaps not the last. That might have been Lady Euphemia, who always looked as if she were smelling something rank—probably me. But His Grace was certainly near the top of that list.
He looked equally surprised to see me. He stepped through the door, saw me standing there, and for a second, appeared as if he wished to duck back inside the stairwell. Then he looked from me to the door of his son’s room, and his eyes narrowed.
“Miss Darling.”
He does occasionally call me Philippa. Or did, when I was a child. The older I get, the less frequent it seems to be.
I dipped at the knees. He was the Duke of Sutherland, and I have been taught manners. I’ll be polite to the man, especially in his own house, even if I do not particularly like him. “Your Grace.”
I think of him as Uncle Harold, but I rarely call him that. Certainly not when he’s addressing me formally.
“What are you doing here?”
“Waiting for Christopher,” I said brightly, indicating the door across the hallway. “He’s changing.”
The duke looked mollified. Most likely he was happy that I wasn’t lying in wait for his son and heir, or perhaps he appreciated the fact that I left Christopher to change in peace.
In truth, if this had been a real situation, I would have been inside Christopher’s room with him.
I have seen him change plenty over the dozen years or so that we’ve lived together.
As it was, I merely smiled politely and waited for His Grace to take his leave.
It wouldn’t do to have Christopher step out of Crispin’s room while Crispin’s father stood here.
“I don’t suppose you can tell me what’s going on in my carriage house?” the duke inquired.
I blinked. “Didn’t Christopher explain when he fetched Tom earlier?”
Uncle Harold shook his head. “Kit fetched Detective Inspector Gardiner, but without telling the rest of us what had happened. I assumed it had something to do with that sad affair in the village—”
“Doctor Meadows, do you mean?”
He nodded. “—but then I saw several additional constables arrive and proceed into my carriage house. I thought perhaps you could enlighten me. You seem to know everything that goes on around here.”
That sounded like a dig, and I wanted to take offense to it.
But he was my host for the week, and nothing good would come from sniping back at him.
I stuffed the inclination and took a breath before I told him, pleasantly, “I’m sorry to be the one to impart bad news. Something has happened to Alfie.”
“Alfie?”
“Alfred,” I said. “The footman?”
The duke nodded. “Of course. The one who occasionally serves as chauffeur now that Wilkins is gone.”
“That’s the one.”
I don’t know why I expected any sort of emotional response to the announcement, whether for the mention of Alfred or Wilkins, who had been Uncle Harold’s nephew, even if no one had known that. Needless to say, there was no emotional response whatsoever.
“What was he doing in the carriage house?” Uncle Harold inquired. “I haven’t required the use of the motorcar today.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know.” Although it was a valid point. On a day when Uncle Harold wasn’t going anywhere, Alfie had no business around the garage. He had duties in the house instead.
“And what happened to him?” Uncle Harold wanted to know.
“It looked as if someone hit him over the head with a blunt instrument.”
Uncle Harold blinked. “Indeed?”
“That’s what it seemed like to me. I don’t know who or with what, although it’s possible that the constables have found the murder weapon by now.”
A noise to my right brought my head around in that direction. It took only a second for my mind to translate it into the sound a doorknob makes when it’s turned, and I blanched. What a time for Christopher to come out of Crispin’s room!
But then it turned out to be the door to the servants’ staircase again. I had a single second to breathe out in relief before the door opened and I saw who stepped through.
“Father.” Crispin looked from Uncle Harold to me. His brows drew together. “Darling?”
I managed a smile. “I’m sorry for loitering outside your door, St George. I’m waiting for Christopher to finish changing. I suspect he wants to get out of the clothes he wore when we found the body.”
Crispin nodded and turned towards his own door. “If you’ll excuse me.”
I watched helplessly as he reached for the handle.
There was nothing I could do. I couldn’t rap on the door to alert Christopher; not with both of them standing here.
And while I could have tried to keep Crispin here in the hallway, the jig would have been up when Christopher came out of his rooms anyway.
Best, perhaps, to let Crispin go inside and catch his cousin in flagrante.
Christopher might be able to talk his way out of the situation, and at least Uncle Harold wouldn’t be privy to the confrontation.
I forced another smile and a pleasant nod. “Of course.”
Crispin—who could no doubt see that it was forced—hesitated for a moment, eyes flicking between me and his father. But eventually he gave Uncle Harold a polite nod—“Father,”—and me another one, “Darling,”—before he pushed his door open and disappeared inside.
Uncle Harold eyed me.
“I think I’ll see how Christopher’s getting on,” I said, and cut across the hallway to the opposite door.
It felt somewhat like I was running away, but it was also moderately obvious that Uncle Harold wasn’t going to leave me standing here, in the hallway outside his son’s room, while his son was inside. “I’ll see you at supper, Your Grace.”
“Miss Darling,” His Grace nodded, and watched as I ducked into Christopher’s room.
I shut the door behind me and put my back against it before directing a bright, “How are you not finished yet, Christopher? You’re taking forever!” to the empty room.
I couldn’t replicate Christopher’s voice, of course, so I had to keep talking to myself instead. Which I did by walking away from the door towards the window while I uttered the sort of inanities one might utter when talking to an invisible man in the middle of changing his clothes.