Page 1 of Death at the Dower House
One
“I can’t believewe’re doing this again,” Christopher grumbled, as he heaved my weekender bag down from the train’s luggage rack and onto the seat below.
“I know.” I picked it up, while I watched him reach above his head again for his own.
Tuesday a week ago, we’d done this in reverse. It had been the afternoon of the morning Her Grace, Aunt Charlotte, Duchess of Sutherland, was found dead in bed, and all we had really wanted to do at that time, was put as much distance between ourselves and the events of the previous weekend as we could. Three deaths plus an attempted murder is enough to discomfit even the most intrepid of Bright Young Things, and that’s true even for those of us who imagine ourselves far too modern for finer feelings.
Neither Christopher nor I realized, or at least it wasn’t discussed between us, that we would have to return to Wiltshire and Sutherland Hall for the funerals just over a week later.
In addition to Her Grace, Lady Charlotte, the dead included Christopher’s grandfather Henry, the Duke of Sutherland (the one before Aunt Charlotte’s husband, Uncle Harold, ascended to the title; poor Aunt Charlotte only got to enjoy being a duchess for a couple of days before she was dead, too), as well as Grimsby, the late duke’s valet.
We wouldn’t be attending that funeral, of course. That was for the below-stairs, and any family or personal friends Grimsby might have had. Given that he was a sneak and a blackmailer, I imagined there might not be many attendees.
But we would definitely be required to be there both for the late duke’s ceremonials, and for the late duchess’s. They would both be buried in the family plot in the small graveyard outside the village of Little Sutherland in Wiltshire, so we’d had to make the trip from London via train to Salisbury, and by car from there to Sutherland Hall, yet again.
“I hope Wilkins is here with the motorcar,” Christopher groused. “I’m starved.”
“I’m sure he will be. I phoned from the box in the station and told Tidwell when to expect us. And if you hadn’t overslept, you would have had more time for breakfast.”
“I wanted luncheon,” Christopher said petulantly.
“Well, I’m sorry, but we were on the train at lunch time. Assuming Wilkins doesn’t make us wait, we’ll reach the hall about halfway between luncheon and tea, but perhaps Mrs. Sloane can find you a biscuit to tide you over.”
Christopher opened his mouth again, surely to say something else thoroughly unhelpful, and I added, “You know, I can see why some people have such a hard time telling you and your cousin Crispin apart. You both act like spoiled brats when you don’t get what you want.”
“I donotact like a spoiled brat!” Christopher said, offended, and then he seemed to hear himself, because he flushed. “I do, don’t I? Sorry, Pippa.”
“It’s all right,” I told him as we carried our bags towards the train station exit. “I didn’t really mean it, you know. I’ve never had a problem telling you and your cousin apart. And I know neither one of us is looking forward to the next two days. Last weekend was horrific, and this week will be even worse.”
Christopher made a face. “Bad enough if they’d all died of natural causes. But when one of them killed the other two and then herself…”
I nodded. “I’m amazed your uncle and St George have managed to keep it out of the newspapers. Could you imagine what kind of money your mother would have got for the inside scoop that the Duchess of Sutherland killed her father-in-law, his valet, and then herself?”
“Let’s not talk about my mother and her little sideline right now.”
He pushed the door open for me and then followed me out. It was early May in Southern England, and the sun shone warmly on the red brick of the train station. Everything was perfectly lovely until Christopher said, “Brace yourself, Pippa.”
“For—”What?was left unsaid, because I saw immediately the reason I needed bracing.
Heard it, as well.
“Afternoon, Darling. Kit.”
There, just beyond the red-brick pavement, in a slot clearly designated for ‘drop off’ and not ‘pick up,’ sat the bright blue Hispano-Suiza H6 racing car that was the pride and joy of Christopher’s cousin. The formerly Honorable Crispin Astley, now the Right Honorable Viscount St George since his grandfather’s death a week and a half hence, was lounging in the driver’s seat, a soft cap pulled low over his face—to keep the afternoon sun out of his eyes, I assumed, or perhaps to allow him to size up young women without their noticing—and the usual smug smirk on his lips. He made absolutely no move to get out of the car and help with the luggage. Instead, he reached back and pulled open the back door without ever stirring from behind the wheel. “Make yourselves at home.”
“I’ll take the back seat,” I told Christopher, since I didn’t fancy spending the next hour sitting next to St George, who is by way of being my least favorite person. For being so physically like Christopher that a lot of people have a problem deciding which is which, Crispin is nothing like Christopher in personality. As a result, I do my utmost to avoid spending any time with him whatsoever.
In this case, I couldn’t avoid the motorcar, but I could make Christopher bear the brunt of his cousin’s company while I hid myself away in the back. Christopher was brought up to be a gentleman, and he minds Crispin less than I do, anyway.
He bowed me into the back seat and then dumped his bag on the seat next to me. That done, he circled the car and got into the passenger seat next to his cousin.
“Ready?” the latter asked, even before Christopher had properly latched the door behind him. “Let’s blouse.”
The H6 took off down Western Road, roared up Mill Street, and scattered traffic to cross the bridge over the River Avon. (This is not the same Avon that Shakespeare waxed poetic about, in case you wondered. There are five Rivers Avon in England, three more in Scotland, and one in Wales. The Salisbury Avon is the third longest, and it runs from Pewsey in Wiltshire through Hampshire and Dorset before it empties out into the English Channel at Mudeford.)
From the bridge, we barreled down the old High Street past the Salisbury Cathedral and the Magna Carta Charter House—“Might as well do the scenic tour,” Crispin yelled from the front seat—before we proceeded out of town on our way in a south-easterly direction towards Sutherland Hall.
I made myself comfortable in the back and watched the scenery fly by. The one good thing about the Hispano-Suiza and Crispin’s love of speed is that he drives so fast that there was no way I could partake in any conversation taking place in the front seat. Any words either of them spoke were literally ripped from their mouths as soon as they were uttered, and dissipated in the wind long before they reached me. I had no idea what they were discussing, so I spent the time watching the landscape outside go from Salisbury proper to scattered households on the outskirts of town to rural fields and pastures as we drove further into the countryside. And occasionally, when he turned sideways to say something to Christopher, I looked at Crispin, and wondered what the last week had been like for him.
