Epilogue
“It was Uncle Harold!” I hissed.
It was later that morning. We had left the breakfast room after the denouement, scattering in different directions.
Constance and Francis had retired to the latter’s bedchamber.
Christopher and I had been invited to join them, but it seemed rather odd to be sitting there in a huddle on the bed as if we were children, so after the bare minimum of conversation, of shock and awe and professed confusion, the two of us had excused ourselves and retreated to, of all places, the center of the garden maze.
It was one of very few places in or around the Hall where we could be assured of some privacy to discuss the situation without being overheard.
Sutherland Hall was crawling with constables.
Uncle Harold’s study was under siege, and so was the Duke’s Chamber, where Uncle Harold, I presumed, was lying dead in his bed.
That would be the only reason why Tidwell would address Crispin with the duke’s title, because I could see no earthly reason why Uncle Harold would have abdicated the title while still alive.
“Either that,” Christopher nodded, “or Crispin killed him too.”
I squinted at him. “Why would he have done, Christopher? He would become duke when Uncle Harold croaked either way, and it didn’t look as if he was happy about it happening now.”
Christopher had to admit that no, it hadn’t looked like that at all. Crispin had been visibly shaken and near tears.
“I didn’t think Uncle Harold knew about Crispin,” I said, “or I would have suspected him sooner. Everything we speculated about Crispin would apply to Uncle Harold, too, if he knew. Surely he couldn’t have known all along?”
Although it would explain Uncle Harold’s attitude toward his son if he had known.
He’d never been the loving father to Crispin that Uncle Herbert had been to Christopher, Francis, and Robbie—or for that matter to me, once I arrived from Germany.
Uncle Harold had always been cold and exacting, someone who would rather raise his fist to his son in anger than embrace him in love.
“Who knows?” Christopher said. “He might have wondered at the time when Crispin was born, if the dates didn’t line up.
He was able to count backwards as well as anyone.
But then Crispin was so very obviously a Sutherland that he probably decided to forget about any suspicions he may have had, if he ever did have any in the first place. ”
“He would have had no reason to think that his own brother was involved,” I agreed. “It wasn’t as if your father and Aunt Charlotte carried on an affair. It would have been a one-time thing, I assume. A last Hail Mary before giving up and admitting defeat.”
Christopher winced. “So I would guess.”
We sat in silence for a moment. It wasn’t actively raining at the moment, but the sky was gray and the air wet and cold. I shivered. “What happens now, do you suppose?”
He slanted me a look. “To the title?”
“Among other things, but we can start there.”
“I suppose that’ll be up to Crispin,” Christopher said. “If Father hasn’t said anything about it in twenty-four years, he must be happy to let things lie.”
“You mean, he doesn’t want the title?”
“I would assume that he doesn’t. It’s a lot of responsibility. The aristocracy is on its way out, Pippa. Keeping up appearances takes too much money and trouble. I don’t think Francis wants to be duke any more than Father does, and I certainly don’t.”
No, of course not.
“Uncle Herbert might just have stayed his hand because his brother was still alive,” I suggested. “Now that Uncle Harold is dead—he is dead, isn’t he?”
“I’m sure he is. Tidwell wouldn’t address Crispin as His Grace otherwise.”
Yes, Tidwell undoubtedly knew the intricacies better than any of us. “Then your father might feel differently about it now.”
Christopher shrugged. “I suppose he and Crispin shall have to duke it out, no pun intended. Although I don’t know how they’ll be able to prove anything one way or the other.
Crispin is an Astley, one only has to look at him to know that, and he’s the acknowledged heir.
He became Duke of Sutherland when Uncle Harold died.
Father could challenge it, I suppose, if he were so inclined, and he was willing to tell the world that he bedded his brother’s wife.
But I don’t know how they’d prove one way or the other whose son he really is. ”
I didn’t, either. “Aunt Charlotte and Uncle Harold between them committed multiple murders to keep it quiet. Surely that points to it being true.”
“It might,” Christopher agreed. “Then again, how would anyone know for certain?”
“At any rate we were both wrong about the murderer. It wasn’t Crispin at all. It was Uncle Harold.”
Christopher nodded. “It must have been. And it makes sense if you think about it. He was there when Hughes left for Bristol. He was here the other night, when we discussed Shreve and Morrison and the Cotswolds. Alfie might have motored them both to Upper Slaughter that night.”
“The golden-haired young man the old chap saw,” I realized. Not that Alfred had been particularly golden-haired, but he had been a sort of sandy blond.
“Uncle Harold wouldn’t have told him why they were going there, so Alfie wouldn’t have known that anyone was dead until we came home two days later, and at that point he might have confronted Uncle Harold about it, and Uncle had to kill him.”
That was certainly a possibility. “Uncle Harold would have had the time to go to the village after setting Crispin up in the study yesterday morning,” I said. “And apart from Laetitia, he was certainly the person here who disliked me the most.”
Not to mention that the anonymous note had been blotted with the blotter in the study. If it hadn’t been written by Crispin, it could only have been Uncle Harold. No one else would venture into the study and use the desk.
“Until Laetitia and Crispin were properly wedded and bedded,” Christopher said, “I suppose he simply couldn’t trust that Crispin wouldn’t give it all up for you. Framing you for murder must have seemed like a good way of getting rid of you. If not permanently, at least until after the wedding.”
The nuptials were coming up in less than a month. Geoffrey had spent more time than that waiting for the Assizes.
“I just didn’t realize that he knew about Crispin,” I said. “The whole idea was that Aunt Charlotte killed your grandfather and Grimsby to keep it quiet.”
“Crispin found out by eavesdropping,” Christopher answered. “Who’s to say Uncle Harold didn’t do the same?”
Well… his dignity, I would have assumed. “You don’t suppose your grandfather told him, do you?”
“I don’t know if Grandfather knew,” Christopher said. “It might have been information that Grimsby kept to himself, the better to blackmail Aunt Charlotte with. The way he tried to blackmail me.”
I nodded. He might have done. Grimsby, while he had shared all sorts of less-inflammatory secrets with Duke Henry, had also kept certain things back.
Christopher’s penchant for ladies’ gowns and drag balls was one of those secrets.
Aunt Charlotte’s night with Uncle Herbert might have been another.
It would certainly have been worth paying for.
And for Aunt Charlotte, worth killing over, as well.
“But if he did know,” Christopher continued, “I wouldn’t put it past him to have informed Uncle Harold. He was a bastard.”
“That’s not a nice thing to say about your grandfather.”
“Perhaps not, but he was one. He tried to pressure me into marrying you, don’t you remember?”
I certainly did. “What are the chances that Uncle Harold killed his father and Grimsby and framed his wife, do you suppose?” If he had just discovered that she had cheated on him with his brother, it might have seemed like poetic justice.
“He wasn’t above using Crispin’s H6 to go to the village.
I’m sure he hoped not to be seen at all, but if he was seen, at least it would be Crispin on the hook and not himself. ”
And if he had been willing to sacrifice his heir, why not his wife, too?
“I suppose it isn’t impossible,” Christopher allowed, “and perhaps more likely than not, but I don’t think we ought to worry about it.
That’s all over and done with. Aunt Charlotte confessed.
There’s nothing to be gained by dredging it up again now.
We’ve got plenty to be going on with without resurrecting all that. ”
Indeed. “I spoke to him last night, you know.”
He glanced at me. “Uncle Harold?”
I shook my head. “Crispin. He showed up at the carriage house a few minutes after the attack. I’m still not certain whether it was him who threw the bicycle pump at me or not.”
“Didn’t you ask him?”
“Of course I did,” I said, “but he wasn’t going to admit it, was he?”
Christopher nodded. “What happened?”
“Not much. We had a conversation. He walked me back to my room. I bussed his cheek because I thought it was the last opportunity I might get.”
Christopher’s brows arched. “And how did he respond to that?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I shut the door without looking at him.”
“And did he try to get inside?”
I shook my head. “But it did take longer than it should have done for him to walk away.”
Christopher’s lips twitched. “I’m not surprised. I assume you told him that you suspected him?”
“Not in so many words. But I suppose I might have given him that idea.”
Or perhaps the idea I had given him was that his father was guilty.
Perhaps he had seen Uncle Harold run away from the carriage house when he came out of the conservatory last night, and recognized him.
Just because he had told me that he hadn’t seen anyone, didn’t mean he hadn’t done.
Uncle Harold was someone Crispin might want to protect.
And perhaps he had gone to confront his father from my door, and that was what had precipitated this morning’s events.
Crispin clearly hadn’t gone to the village to give himself up, so it must have been for Uncle Harold, and if Uncle Harold knew it was coming, he might have taken steps to avoid it.
“It can’t have been a natural death,” Christopher agreed when I said as much. “There was nothing wrong with him yesterday.”
“I think there was quite a lot wrong with him yesterday,” I pointed out. “Just as there has been a lot wrong with him for a long time. Although I take your point.”
We sat in silence a moment. The mizzle had turned to drizzle, which was rapidly turning into actual rain. The drops hit the sodden grass like small, squashy bullets.
“Would it please you to go back inside?” Christopher inquired politely.
I shook myself like a wet cat. “I suppose we should do. There’s nothing useful we can do out here.”
“Nothing useful we can do in there, either,” Christopher said, “although at least we won’t be courting pneumonia.”
He got to his feet and extended a hand to me.
“We can be moral support,” I said as I let him pull me to my feet.
“I think Laetitia has that well in hand,” Christopher answered cynically. “She’s not likely to allow you within six feet of Crispin at this point.”
Likely not.
“I’m afraid that this has been the death knell to any plan we may have had to force her to relinquish her hold on him. She was dug in deep before, but now that he’s actually Duke of Sutherland instead of merely the Viscount St George, it would take something drastic to unlock her claws.”
“I can think of two ways,” Christopher said as he began walking out of the maze. “Neither is likely to happen.”
I fell into step beside him and glanced up at his face. “What are they?” We should consider every possibility. Having to face Laetitia over the Christmas goose for decades to come was a fate too horrible to contemplate.
“Crispin relinquishes the title,” Christopher said, “or Father takes it away from him.”
“You’re right. I don’t think either of those is likely to happen. Not unless we could talk one of them into it, but I don’t suppose that would be easy to do.”
He didn’t answer, and I added, “Was that both options in one, or do you have another?”
“That was two versions of the first option, in which Crispin is no longer Duke of Sutherland, and thus of less interest to Laetitia. She might relinquish her claim on him if the dukedom doesn’t come with the marriage.”
She might. Although it was by no means guaranteed, as she seemed rather attached to his person as well as to the title and money.
“That option seems tenuous at best. What about the other one?”
He looked down at me. “The other option is that you tell him you love him and beg him not to marry Laetitia, and hope that he changes his mind.”
“Lie, do you mean?”
“If that’s what you want to call it,” Christopher said. “His father… excuse me, Uncle Harold isn’t around to put pressure on Crispin anymore. He won’t be disowned if he breaks the engagement. He’s already Duke of Sutherland and can do as he pleases. There’ll be a breach of promise suit, of course—”
I nodded. Laetitia wasn’t likely to give up without a fight, nor were her parents.
“—and it will undoubtedly be costly, but at the end of it, he would be free, and with his reputation mostly intact.”
I snorted. “What reputation is that? He doesn’t have one of those to speak of.”
“Precisely,” Christopher said serenely. “Throwing one fiancée over for another seems rather on brand. And if you make it worth his while, he might agree to do it.”
“I’d have to marry him, though.”
“I imagine that that would be part of the incentive,” Christopher agreed.
“What if I don’t want to be Duchess of Sutherland?”
“Then you don’t marry the duke,” Christopher said. “But if you don’t, you’ll have to watch him marry Laetitia instead. She’ll be sharing his bed and bringing up his children and spending his fortune and ruling Sutherland Hall.”
I grimaced. Rock, meet hard place. “I’ll think about it.”
“Think fast,” Christopher advised, as we came out of the maze and headed across the lawn towards the terrasse and the double doors to the drawing room.