Chapter 21 #2
“I don’t see why I should do. He said it himself yesterday, that he’s not in charge of the investigation. Besides, I’m sure they looked for themselves, don’t you think? I wouldn’t be telling them anything they don’t already know.”
Nobody had an answer for that, and I looked around. “Where is Tom, anyway? And everyone else, as well?”
“Uncle Harold isn’t down yet,” Francis said. “Tommy was here, but Crispin came downstairs and asked to speak to him, and they went off together.”
“Tidwell said that Crispin had gone to the village,” I said. “He didn’t mention Tom, but I suppose Tom might have gone with him, if he didn’t come back in here.”
Crispin might have wanted the moral support if he was going to give himself up.
“The village?” Christopher repeated doubtfully.
“The constabulary. Or so Tidwell said.”
“Why would he go to the constabulary before ten in the morning?” Francis wanted to know, and I watched Christopher turn pale. It wasn’t as if we hadn’t discussed the possibility of Crispin’s guilt at length yesterday, after all.
“Let’s not talk about it,” I said, and tried to make it sound as if I weren’t thinking anything at all. “I’m sure they’ll be back soon.”
Christopher visibly pushed away any thoughts of speaking he may have had, and nodded. “Let me get you something to eat, Pippa. Eggs? Bacon?”
“Coffee,” I said, “if you don’t mind. And perhaps some buttered toast? I’m not feeling well enough for anything else this morning.”
My stomach churned anxiously, and I didn’t like the idea of what would happen if I tried to put anything but the very basics into it.
“One minute.” He pushed his chair back and withdrew to the buffet, where he kept his back to us while he filled a plate and a cup for me. His back was so rigid that I thought he might shatter if anyone tried to touch him.
“Did you speak to St George this morning?” I inquired of Francis, who shook his head.
“He came in here looking like death. His fiancée beckoned him over, and he went and did his duty—”
“The obligatory peck on the cheek?” I nodded. “And then he left, did he?”
“Then he asked if Tommy would come with him, and they went off. I didn’t want to ask what it was about, but it was fairly obvious that something was wrong. I assumed they’d gone somewhere for a private chat, but now—” He shrugged.
“Now you tell us that Tidwell said they’ve gone to the village,” Christopher concluded as he put a plate of buttered toast in front of me, along with a steaming cup of coffee.
“That’s what he told me,” I agreed, and picked up a piece of toast. “Or at least he said that Crispin had done. I don’t know about Tom. Thank you, Christopher.”
“Don’t mention it.” He dropped back down on the chair next to me. “I don’t like this.”
I didn’t either. But instead of saying so, I told him, “I’m sure they’ll be back soon,” before I stuffed my mouth so full that I couldn’t blurt out all my concerns and deductions even if I wanted to. This was decidedly not the time or place for them.
The conversation devolved into small talk after that, about the weather and how we might be able to spend the day since we were, presumably, not allowed to leave yet.
It was a bit cold and rainy for croquet—which is the Astley go-to whenever we have nothing else to do and when the weather cooperates—but there was always cards in the game room or a rousing game of hide-and-go-seek.
When Christopher asked whether we weren’t a bit old for that, Francis informed him that that was part of the fun.
I ate my toast and let the others talk. And then, because I turned out to be right, there was the sound of a motorcar outside the breakfast room window, and when we looked up, there was the blue streak of the Hispano-Suiza going by, oil leak and all.
“They’re back,” Francis said, unnecessarily.
I nodded. It must be a good sign, mustn’t it, that the H6 was coming back? Unless Crispin had trusted Tom with his precious, of course, while he himself languished in the Little Sutherland jail.
But no, there was more than one figure traversing the drive towards the Hall.
More than two even. As they came closer, I recognized Tom’s Homburg as well as Constable Daniels’s uniform.
And surely… yes, that was Crispin’s platinum hair that the light reflected off of.
He must have forgotten to put on a hat before venturing out again.
“Is that…” Francis squinted through the window. “That’s the chap from yesterday, isn’t it? The one from Salisbury who came to fetch Alfie?”
The coroner, did he mean? I took my attention off Crispin for a closer look, but by then the chap in question had moved out of sight beyond the conservatory, and the drive was empty.
Tidwell must have seen them coming, because I could hear his footsteps proceed majestically across the foyer to the front door.
“Constable. Detective Sergeant.”
There was a pause, ever so slight but noticeable, before— “Your Grace.”
My eyes flew to Christopher’s. He was staring back at me with the same wild-eyed look I no doubt sported myself.
Next to me, Francis muttered something that sounded like an expletive, while, across the morning room, Laetitia had lifted both hands to cover her mouth.
Her eyes were shining. It might have been tears, but I doubted it.
I would have bet everything I owned that those demure hands were hiding an indecent grin.
The Sutherland diamond ring caught the light and reflected it directly into my eyes. I blinked.
Out in the foyer, there was the clearing of a throat, and then Crispin’s voice, still froggy, said, “Thank you, Tidwell.”