Page 33 of Death at the Dower House
It was really quite clear that she was dead, even in the low light with the drapes closed. Her dress—the same lovely garment she had worn to the parlor last night—was twisted around her limbs, baring her legs up to mid-thigh, and her face was dark and mottled, with her tongue sticking out. The fringed scarf that went with the dress was wrapped around her throat, trying, but not quite succeeding, in covering the purple bruising, and the long string of pearls that had draped her chest was broken, with pearls strewn everywhere. Her eyes were fixed and bloodshot, and a thin line of red, like a cut or perhaps a scratch, ran horizontally along one side of her neck. Perhaps her killer had scratched her with a fingernail.
My mind flashed to Lady Laetitia’s hand on Crispin’s shoulder in the dining room earlier, and the polished, pink center of each nail, with the unpainted, bright white tip and half-moon crescent at the base.
“Strangled,” Christopher said, in what was practically a whisper.
I nodded, swallowing back a combination of nausea and panic. This was so much worse than seeing His Grace, Duke Henry, or Lady Charlotte, after their respective deaths. They’d both had an air of peace, tucked up in bed with the blankets drawn up to their chests and their faces calm.
Johanna didn’t look peaceful. Her bruised skin and bloodshot eyes spoke of a violent assault, nothing tidy or calm.
I took a step back from the bed, and then another. Christopher followed. When we were out on the landing, I told him, “Get the key from the door.”
My voice shook, and I tried to firm it as I added, “We should lock the room so no one else can go inside.”
“I don’t think Peckham’s going to appreciate that, Pippa.”
“I don’t care what Peckham thinks,” I said fiercely. “The police will appreciate it.”
Christopher nodded, and locked the door. Holding up the key, he turned to me. “What do you want me to do with it?”
Not give it to Gilbert Peckham, certainly, even if, with his mother gone, he was the man of the house.
Then again, I didn’t want to be responsible for it, either. Nor did I want Christopher to be, or Francis. Or—especially under these circumstances—Crispin.
There was Constance, of course. After Gilbert, she was perhaps the next most logical choice. But Johanna had been murdered, and Constance had made no secret of how much she had disliked the other woman, and giving the key to the room to someone who would surely turn out to be a suspect in the eyes of the police…
“Let’s take it downstairs and give it to Dawson,” I said. “He can deal with it.”
Christopher nodded. “Let’s do it before we break the news to the others. That way, Gilbert can’t take the key.”
He could still demand it from Dawson, being Dawson’s employer—or at least the son of Dawson’s employer—but I hoped he’d see sense and wouldn’t try.
And speaking of Dawson’s employer… “We have to contact Sutherland Hall and let Lady Peckham know. She might want to come home.”
“Dawson first,” Christopher said. “Then the police. Then Sutherland.”
“You should phone Tom,” I told him as we made our way towards the stairs. “Let him know what’s happened and ask him to come here.”
He gave me a look. “You don’t just phone Scotland Yard and ask them to stop by, Pippa.”
“You do if you have Scotland Yard’s private number, and Scotland Yard has saved you from being arrested before.”
He flushed. “I don’t have his private number, Pippa, all right? He knows where to find me, but I don’t know how to get in touch with him.”
“Maybe we could ring up Scotland Yard in London and ask for him?”
“No,” Christopher said. “There are rules for this.”
He didn’t specify whether the rules applied to murder and to calling in Scotland Yard, or whether they applied to young men who may or may not have a fondness for one, romantic or otherwise.
“Enlighten me,” I suggested as we pushed open the green baize door in the hallway and began our descent to the below-stairs.
“When something happens, you contact the local constabulary. They bring in the chief constable for the area, and he decides whether to call in Scotland Yard.”
“Which they will certainly do, seeing as this was Lady Peckham’s ward in Lady Peckham’s bedroom.”
“But there are still rules,” Christopher said, and stopped in the doorway to the kitchen. “Dawson.”
“Mr. Astley.” Dawson straightened and turned. He looked at Christopher’s face, then at my face, and then at the key in Christopher’s hand.
