Page 81 of Death at the Dower House
I hesitated for a moment before I added, “Aunt Charlotte died from an overdose of Veronal, you know, and she looked like she was asleep. Very peaceful, with her hands folded and everything. Not as if there had been any discomfort at all. Just as if she’d fallen asleep and died without ever realizing it.”
Constance nodded. She passed her hands over her eyes and cheeks and then against the skirt of her nightgown to get rid of the wetness. “Thank you, Pippa.”
“Don’t mention it,” I said. “I don’t think your mother even realized what happened. She just slipped from sleep into death without noticing the difference. Now Johanna, on the other hand…”
“That’s right. You saw her.” Constance lowered her voice. “Was it awful?”
I conjured the picture of Johanna in my head—limbs twisted in the bedclothes, face discolored with her tongue sticking out—and shuddered. “Yes. It was terrible. I’ve seen violent death before—Grimsby, Christopher’s grandfather’s valet, was shot, so there was a lot of blood—but I’ve never seen anything like that.”
“Tell me,” Constance prompted.
“Well, she was strangled, so her face was purple. Her tongue was sticking out. Her eyes were bloodshot. Her clothes were twisted, as if she’d fought. Her necklace was broken, there were pearls everywhere…”
“Mother gave her that necklace,” Constance said softly. “Last Christmas. She gave me one, too. And Gilbert gave us both lockets. Mine had my picture in it, and an empty place where he said I could put a picture of my husband…”
Her eyes filled with tears again.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m sure Francis would be happy to put his picture next to yours in your locket. If you two are serious about each other, of course. I think I’m a bit young to get married, myself, although of course Francis is almost thirty—”
“Francis won’t want me,” Constance hiccoughed, “after this weekend.”
“After the murders, you mean? Don’t be silly, Constance. It’s hardly your fault that your mother and Johanna died. You didn’t kill them, did you?”
I hadn’t meant it seriously, of course. But then she looked at me for a second without answering—long enough for my blood to run cold—before she smiled. “Of course not, Pippa.”
I blinked. “You’re sure?”
She giggled. “Of course I’m sure. I was in this bedroom with you all last night, remember? I couldn’t have killed Johanna even if I’d wanted to.”
I nodded. “Of course.”
“I’m just rather glad that she’s dead, that’s all. I’m sorry my mother had to die, but I’m not sorry Johanna is gone.”
After a moment, she bit her lip and added, “Even if now I have to find somewhere else to live, and some way to make money. Unless I can snag a rich husband, of course. Francis isn’t rich, is he, Pippa?”
“No more than the rest of us,” I said. “He’s comfortable, I suppose.”
Or would be if he didn’t spend all his money on dope. And considering that Aunt Roz had been forced to sell gossip to the tabloids to help pay for Francis’s habit, I could only imagine how much it cost on a yearly basis.
Then again, if he could stop using it, just think of the savings.
But there was no need to tell Constance any of that. She might not be serious about Francis, or he might not be serious about her—all appearances to the contrary, on both of their parts—and anyway, it was for him to share with her, not me, if he chose to.
“I haven’t noticed him take any of his medicine since we got here,” Constance said, “even with everything that’s been going on. Although I suppose he might need some tonight…”
He might. And she seemed very understanding of it, which was nice. She even called it medicine, which of course it was, technically, and not dope, which was how Francis used it.
At least she wasn’t one of those people who were shocked and appalled that after surviving the war and the trenches, after watching friends and fellow soldiers die horrible deaths, Francis wasn’t able to go on as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
“Maybe you and Gilbert can do what Christopher and I did,” I said, “and share a service flat in London. At least until one of you gets married and moves out. And then the other can get married and have the husband or wife move in. Christopher and I have room enough for the two of us plus a child or two, or we would have if we shared a room and our children shared another.”
“But I thought…” Constance trailed off. “You and Christopher, you said?”
I nodded.
“But aren’t you and Lord St George…?”
I shook my head. “Oh, no. No, no. I told you that back at Sutherland. There’s nothing going on with me and Crispin.”
