Page 99 of Death at the Dower House
(Laetitia was to escape prosecution for having tried to drug me, it seemed, while Geoffrey would surely get in trouble for putting his hands on some unwilling woman at some point, but it wasn’t going to be this weekend. And yes, Scotland Yard had searched Marsden Manor from top to bottom for Gilbert before they allowed the Marsden siblings to return there.)
And now someone had found him, it seemed.
“Where?” Francis wanted to know.
Tom snickered. “He walked into the railway station in Salisbury this morning, looking for the train to London. Of course, there wasn’t one—”
“Wasn’t one?”
“Et tu,Francis?” I asked. “Weren’t you present when I lectured Peckham and Marsden on the general strike two days ago?”
“It was hardly a lecture, Darling,” Crispin said. “A single sentence about the railroad workers, as I recall.”
“But I mentioned that Christopher and I might find it hard to get back to London as a result. He should have put two and two together.”
I stabbed my spoon into my egg.
“At any rate,” Tom said, “we’ve got him. Salisbury City Police dressed Constable Elsie Mouland in mufti and sent her to the station—”
“Pardon me?” This was Crispin holding his own spoon up to stop Tom’s recitation. “Did you say Elsie Mouland? Her? A woman constable?”
“Salisbury has had women constables since 1918,” Tom said. “Pippa—”
I nodded.
“You and Miss Peckham met at the Godolphin School in Salisbury, isn’t that correct? You may remember a teacher there, by the name of Miss Florence White.”
I looked at Constance. She looked at me. We both shook our heads.
“Well, she taught there until 1914,” Tom said, “when she left to join a women’s street patrol in Somerset. After the war, she joined the City of Salisbury police and was attested as a constable. When she transferred to the Birmingham police last year, Elsie Mouland took over her position.”
“Women police constables?” Crispin had a faraway look in his eyes. “Are there any of those in London?”
Tom opened his mouth, but I got there first.
“Planning where you might misbehave next, St George? If you have a fancy for handcuffs, I’m sure Lady Laetitia would oblige.”
He flushed, and so did Constance. Tom didn’t react beyond a twitch of his brow. “Constable Mouland arrested Mr. Peckham,” he said, “on suspicion of murder, and escorted him to the police station on Endless Street in Salisbury. I’m going there now, to fetch him back.”
“Have something to eat first,” I told him. “He’s not going anywhere, and you can spare five minutes.”
He eyed the door, and then eyed the food, and then eyed me. It looked like he might have considered protesting, but in the end he just said, “I suppose that’s true.”
“Bossy,” Crispin muttered beside me while Tom headed for the sideboard.
I shot him a look. “Really, St George? Weren’t you the one who just fantasized about being arrested by a woman constable? She’d be bossy, too, I assure you.”
On the other side of the table, Francis chuckled, and bent to whisper something in Constance’s ear. She smiled.
Crispin scowled. “You’re awful, Darling. Have you no concept of proper breakfast conversation?”
“You’re the one who brought it up,” I told him. “If you’d just keep your prurient fantasies to yourself, this wouldn’t be an issue.”
“All I asked was whether there were woman constables in London!”
I fixed him with a glare. “I know what you were imagining, St George. We all do. And I’m sure it’s quite a far cry from reality. If Miss White taught at Godolphin before Constance and I started there, and it is now 1926, she must be as old as your mother, at least. Maybe as old as Aunt Roz. Maybe older! Not at all the nubile young woman in uniform I’m sure you pictured.”
“I pictured no such thing!” Crispin snarled. “You’re vile, Darling.”
