Page 36 of Lies in Little Sutherland
I blinked.“Lydia Morrison.Isn’t that what this is about?”
Obviously not, because he asked, “Who is Lydia Morrison?”
Who is?—?
“Lydia Morrison,” I said, “was Lady Iris Peckham’s maid.Before that, she was Aunt Charlotte’s maid.The late Viscountess St George.Uncle Harold’s wife.”
Daniels looked confused.
“Morrison worked for Aunt Charlotte,” I tried again.“Then she went to work for Lady Peckham.This was all a long time ago, when Crispin—the current Viscount St George—was a baby.Now she’s dead.”
“In Stow-on-the-Wold?”
“In Upper Slaughter, actually.But yes, the constabulary in Stow-on-the-Wold handled the case.”
Daniels nodded.“And what did you have to do with it?”
“Nothing at all!”
My voice had turned shrill, and I took a breath and moderated it.“We motored up there—Francis, Constance, Christopher and I—because Constance wanted to see Morrison.When we got there, she was dead.We were asked to stay for the inquest so Constance could identify Morrison as the maid who had worked for her mother for twenty-three years.Morrison had only lived in Upper Slaughter for six months or so, so no one there knew her well.”
“Interesting,” Daniels said.
I eyed him.“They didn’t tell you much, did they?”
“They told me nothing.”
Well, that wasn’t fair, was it?If the chaps in Stow-on-the-Wold had asked him to detain me for questioning, they ought at least to have told him why.
“What happens now?”I wanted to know.“Do we wait for someone from the Cotswolds to make it here?”
The look he gave me was strange.“Why would someone from the Cotswolds be coming?”
“Isn’t that what this is about?”
Clearly it wasn’t.He looked as confused as I felt.
“Perhaps we should start over,” I suggested.I was breathing a bit more easily now, that it appeared I was not about to be arrested for Morrison’s murder, or even for (possibly) contaminating her crime scene.“Would you care to tell me what this is about, Constable Daniels?”
Daniels hesitated, before he nudged a piece of paper across the desk towards me.“Don’t touch it.”
I wouldn’t have done anyway, or at least I don’t think so.Since he had specifically instructed me not to, I kept my hands firmly in my lap as I leaned forward.
It was a bog-standard piece of stationery, thick but not ostentatious.Bare of any kind of logo, of course.A couple of lines were scratched on it in what looked like fountain pen, by someone who was either not well-educated enough to have received lessons in penmanship, or who had tried hard to disguise their handwriting.
DOCTOR MEADOWS IS DEAD, the note said, in spiky, uneven capitals that listed to the right.PHILIPPA DARLING DID IT.
The spidery words hit me like a fist to the chest, and I sat back on the chair.It was a mostly involuntary reaction, an unconscious attempt to put space between myself and the accusation.“That’s ridiculous.”
My voice was breathless, like I had had the wind knocked out of me, which of course was exactly what had happened.There was a rushing sound in my ears.
Daniels arched his brows.“Which?”
I flapped my hands indignantly.“Both!Doctor Meadows isn’t dead.I saw him myself, just a few hours ago.And he was alive and well.”
His eyes sharpened.“So you did visit the infirmary this morning.”
It wasn’t a question, more of a confirmation of something already suspected—or alleged—but I nodded.“I did.”
