Page 43 of Death at the Dower House
“So you went from the garden up to bed, St George. Did you reenter the house through the parlor doors?”
Crispin shook his head. “I went around to the front. I didn’t know what might be going on in the parlor, or who was still there, and I didn’t want to instigate another row if I could help it.”
“Did you see anyone on your way through the house?”
“Peckham was still in the parlor,” Crispin said, with his eyes on the tulips. “So was the butler. I saw them through the open door. I didn’t see anyone else.”
“And when you got upstairs?”
“Kit was awake.” He slanted a look at his cousin. “He asked me whether everything was all right. I said yes. That’s it.”
“And you stayed in your room for the rest of the night?”
Crispin nodded. So did Christopher.
“Lord Geoffrey.” Tom turned to him.
“Went upstairs after St George went outside,” Marsden grunted. “Looked in on my sister, you know, to make sure she was all right—”
Laetitia sniffed, either because she’d obviously not been all right, and it was ridiculous that he’d think she would be, or perhaps simply because she was touched that he’d thought of her enough to check in the first place. With what I knew of Marsden, it could easily have been either.
“And was she?” Tom asked dryly, as if his thoughts had gone along the same path as mine.
“Right as rain,” Marsden said, in a display of obliviousness that was frankly stunning. “In her room taking off her face, getting ready to go to sleep. I asked if she needed anything, she said no, and so I went to bed, too.”
“You were sharing a room with Mr. Peckham?”
Marsden nodded.
“When did he come upstairs?”
Peckham opened his mouth to tell him, but Tom waved him to silence.
“No idea,” Marsden said cheerfully. “I dropped off as soon as my head hit the pillow. Always do, you know. I took an aspirin to ward off the hangover this morning, lay down, and that was it.”
“And you didn’t hear Mr. Peckham come in, or anything from outside your room?”
Marsden shook his head.
“Very well,” Tom said. “Mr. Peckham?”
“I was the last one out of the parlor,” Gilbert said. “I turned off the gramophone and spoke to Dawson, to tell him that several of the party were still outside, so don’t lock the doors yet.”
“Several?”
“St George went out for his gasper,” Peckham said. “And when Lady Laetitia booked it upstairs, Johanna ran outside, too.”
“Miss de Vos also went into the garden?” Tom glanced at Crispin, who was still eyeing the centerpiece and didn’t look up to meet Tom’s eyes.
Gilbert nodded. So did Marsden, confirming it. “I assumed that was the reason she ran out,” he added. “Because he was out there.”
Lady Laetitia whimpered at the sound of this, and I found myself torn between reluctant sympathy—it must be terrible to be so gone over a man that you’ll whimper when he doesn’t want you—and irritation, because title and money aside, this particular man really wasn’t worth this level of devotion.
Although he heard it and it made his shoulders twitch, so at least that was something.
“St George?” Tom prodded. “Do you want to change your story?”
Crispin shook his head. “It happened the way I said. I smoked a fag and came back inside. I didn’t see anyone except Peckham and the butler. They were still in the parlor when I walked past.”
