Page 92 of Death at the Dower House
“You’d think,” Crispin said, “but somehow I find the prospect of someone committing murder over me less of an aphrodisiac than you might expect.”
Well, yes. When he put it like that.
And since he didn’t seem inclined to want to play along with me to get our relationship back on its usual footing, I decided I might as well leave him there with Christopher and give us both time to get our respective equilibriums back.
“I’m going to go check on Constance,” I told him.
“Isn’t she with Francis?”
“I’m sure she is. But they won’t mind if I cut in for a few moments. It won’t be as if they’re doing anything I can’t interrupt.”
With Peckham missing, presumably the murderer we’d all been looking for, and the police in hot pursuit—or so I assumed—not to mention the two deaths yesterday, that she was still undoubtedly processing, Constance was most likely a blubbering mess on some sofa somewhere, crying on Francis’s shoulder. He wouldn’t mind if I interrupted that, and Constance might want something else to focus on for a while.
“Be careful,” Crispin said.
“Of course. Although with Peckham gone…”
“You didn’t suspect Peckham. You suspected Laetitia and Constance.”
“But Peckham was the one who ran away.”
“We don’t know why Peckham ran away,” Crispin pointed out. “If he even did. He could be lying in wait in the box room, for all we know. He could bedeadin the box room, too. The police haven’t finished searching the house yet. But even if he did run away, Laetitia was the one who tried to harm you.”
“Laetitia was the one who tried to put me to sleep,” I corrected. “Gilbert was the one who mixed the drink.”
“One or the other of them,” Crispin said with emphasis, “added enough sleeping powder to that drink to put Kit into a coma and to kill you. Peckham might be gone—or he seems to be, at least until we learn differently—but Laetitia is still here. So just do me a favor andbe careful!”
He practically yelled the last two words, and I took a step back, not just because of the volume of his voice, but because of the level of anger in it.
And he noticed—of course he did—because he closed his eyes and took a breath in—deliberately, through his nose—before he opened his eyes again, clear gray now, and added, more calmly, “You know how you don’t want to go back to Aunt Roslyn and tell her I’ve got myself entangled with some woman who’s only after the Sutherland title and money?”
I nodded.
“Well, I don’t want to go back to Aunt Roslyn and tell her that not only is her youngest son unconscious, but her sister’s daughter is dead, and I did nothing to stop it. So formysake, Darling, and for your Aunt Roz’s sake, please be careful.”
“I’ll be careful,” I said.
He nodded, and I turned on my heel and left the room, since that was all the emotion I could handle for the time being. More emotion than I’d wanted to handle, if I’m honest. A sincere St George was rather difficult to stomach.
Upstairs,the door to Lady Laetitia’s—formerly Johanna’s—room was shut, and I heard a murmur of voices from within. She was still talking to her brother, presumably, unless it was a more formal interview with Tom or Inspector Pendennis, where everything she said was taken down and could be used in evidence. I wondered whether anything would come of her confession of having drugged me against my will, even for such an ignominious purpose as to get me away from Crispin for a few hours. It couldn’t be legal, surely, even if the ultimate goal hadn’t been to harm me permanently.
And that was if she was telling the truth, and the amount of Veronal she had given Gilbert for my drink was only intended to make me drowsy. If she was lying, then she had given him enough to kill me, and almost kill Christopher.
But even if she hadn’t done that, and Gilbert Peckham had added the deadly dose of Veronal of his own volition, one could claim that she was partially responsible for what had happened to Christopher, couldn’t one? It was negligence, if nothing worse. Deliberate disregard for life and safety, or something like that. If she hadn’t given Gilbert the small dose of dope in the first place, who knew whether he’d have thought of doing this on his own?
I tried to imagine Lady Laetitia Marsden going to trial and being sentenced to a nice, long imprisonment at Holloway, and then I shook my head. The press would have a field day over two well-bred women going to such lengths over a notorious playboy—never mind the fact that I didn’t actually want him.
I could just imagine the headlines.Catfight over Crispin!andIrresistible: Crispin St George and the women who love him. My face contorted.
Someone at The Daily Yell seemed to have it out for Crispin anyway—he was featured on the front page every other weekend, it seemed, and rarely in flattering terms. That, combined with the prospect of having my own name dragged through the mud next to his, was enough for me to decide that under no circumstances would I allow it to come to that, even if that meant that Lady Laetitia wouldn’t be held responsible for anything she had done.
The police—Scotland Yard with support from the local constabulary in Marsden-on-Crane—were still searching every nook and cranny of the house and grounds, including the garage and cars, as I made my way downstairs. I ran into a couple of constables I didn’t know in the foyer, putting trunks and bags back into the box room after making sure that Gilbert—or perhaps as Crispin had suggested, his body—wasn’t hidden inside any of them.
I gave them a pleasant nod and carried on. There was a light on in the dining room despite the early hour—the police search of the below-stairs must have knocked up the staff—and Dawson was setting up for breakfast. He gave me a nod of good morning when I walked in. “Tea, Miss Darling? Coffee?”
“Later,” I said with a grimace. My insides were still a bit queasy from the realization that it could have been me lying unconscious—or worse, dead—in a bed upstairs. It would be a while before I let anyone mix me a drink again.
Granted, the tea was probably all right. If it were poisoned, it would poison everyone in the household. But still, better safe than sorry. I’d wait until everyone else was partaking, too, to minimize my chances of being exposed to anything unsavory.
