Page 57 of Death at the Dower House
“You could ask Tom how to get a job with Scotland Yard,” I said. “Become a detective sergeant yourself.”
“I don’t think they’d want the likes of me, do you?”
He didn’t look at me when he said it, just eyed the vista of Dorset fields and trees, with Marsden Manor off in the distance.
“Why on earth wouldn’t they… oh.”
He nodded. “They know, you know. Or at least Tom knows, so I assume it’s somewhere in the files for Grandfather’s murder. And Grimsby’s.”
What they knew, of course—or what Tom knew, at any rate—was what Crispin had hinted at last night. Christopher’s alter ego, Kitty Dupree, with her pretty evening gowns and black wig and propensity for going to drag balls. With the buggery laws still in effect, and the London constabulary cracking down on homosexuals consorting in dance halls, Christopher was right: Scotland Yard wasn’t likely to want someone like him in their ranks.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
He shrugged, a little jerk of his shoulders. “I daresay I wouldn’t be very good at it, anyway.”
“You could become a private investigator. Like Poirot.”
He started laughing. “I hardly think so, Pippa. Perhaps I’ll just help you write detective stories and live off the money you make.”
“That seems fair,” I agreed, leaning my head against his shoulder for a moment. “You’re mostly supporting me these days, anyway. If I ever make any money of my own, it seems right that I should do the same for you.”
“There’s plenty of Astley money to support us both.” He dropped a kiss on the top of my head. “As far as my mother goes, you’re the next thing to a daughter. Don’t worry. We’ll be just fine, the both of us.”
“Good to know,” I said.
“And if something happens to me, Crispin will take care of you.” There was amusement in his voice.
“When hell freezes over,” I said, my face twisting as I tried to imagine myself the unmarried spinster cousin adjacent to St George’s marriage to someone like Laetitia Marsden. “I’d rather be the maiden aunt to Francis’s and Constance’s children.”
Christopher made a humming noise. It sounded like disagreement.
“Besides,” I told him, “you are not allowed to go anywhere. One of these days, if no one else comes along, I might decide to marry you. We can live out our lives in separate bed chambers.”
“If no one else comes along, I might take you up on that,” Christopher answered. “It would solve a lot of problems. Although I had my heart set on a bachelor lifestyle, you know.”
“I wouldn’t interfere with your lifestyle, Christopher. But if I turn thirty with no prospects, I’d rather marry you than someone I don’t like. I don’t have it in me to chase a title and money.”
“It’s a good thing you won’t have to,” Christopher said, and gave my arm a squeeze.
The restof the Scotland Yard detectives—Chief Inspector Pendennis and Detective Sergeant Finchley—arrived in time for tea, but of course they didn’t take the meal with us. They got busy in Lady Peckham’s bedchamber while the rest of us sat around the dining room table, the parlor still being off limits.
Tom had brought his photography equipment, and had already spent the afternoon taking pictures of everything of interest upstairs and down, but Ian Finchley is the Yard’s fingerprint expert—or at least that was his role with Inspector Pendennis’s team—so he got busy covering every surface in the parlor and in Lady Peckham’s chamber with fingerprint dust. We all had to roll our fingers on an ink pad and then again on a piece of paper for comparison. Those of us from Sutherland Hall had been through the same ordeal two weeks ago, so it was old hat for us, but Lady Laetitia didn’t seem to like the process at all, and Constance’s brother complained bitterly about the ink on his stubby fingers.
“Shut up, Peckham,” Francis said finally, bluntly. “They’re trying to find out who killed your mother and her ward. The least you can do is not whinge about it.”
Gilbert flushed, but stopped complaining.
“Tea?” Constance asked sweetly, handing him a cup and saucer. Like everyone else’s, her fingertips were black with ink she hadn’t been able to scrub off.
Gilbert muttered a thank you, took the tea, and promptly put it down. “How long can we expect this to go on?”
“Scotland Yard’s presence? They stayed at Sutherland Hall until they’d solved both murders. Day and night. It took several days.”
“Good God.” Gilbert eyed the bar cart. “Anyone else for a brandy?”
Constance looked shocked, but Laetitia nodded eagerly. “A cocktail for me, please.”
“Miss Darling?”
