Page 48 of Lies in Little Sutherland
“The staff was working this morning,” Mrs.Mason said stiffly.“No one on my staff had the opportunity to go to the village and commit murder.”
No, I hadn’t thought so.“I only wanted to ask about the writing paper in the guest rooms, and whether you had had to replace any of it today.”
The note would have been written in the early part of the day, I assumed, before the maids had had the opportunity to turn over the rooms.
“Or perhaps tomorrow,” I added.“You might make note of it, if any of the rooms need more writing paper tomorrow morning.”
Mrs.Mason nodded.“To answer your question, Miss Darling, Master Francis used a piece of writing paper for a note to Miss Constance.It was in her room this morning.”
“I’m not worried about Constance or Francis,” I said.Neither of them would accuse me of murder.Nor would they kill Doctor Meadows in the first place.
“His Grace uses the stationery in the study,” Tidwell contributed, “when he has correspondence.His Lordship has a desk with writing paper in his sitting room.He uses that, or occasionally the stationery in the library.”
“No private love notes from the stash in his bedside drawer?”
“Not recently,” Tidwell said blandly.“The last time His Lordship kept his correspondence private was in August.”
I made a face.August was when Crispin and I had had that acrimonious exchange of letters that had culminated with me telling him (in writing) to propose to Laetitia because they deserved one another.I should be grateful that he had kept that whole thing under wraps, I suppose.The servants, not to mention Uncle Harold, would have had a field day with it.
“Lady Laetitia’s writing paper always needs replenishing,” Mrs.Mason added, gossipy.“I believe she uses it to write little love notes to Master Crispin.The maids see them in his room.”
And giggled over them, no doubt.“Crumpled and in the rubbish bin, I hope?”
Tidwell looked preternaturally bland.Mrs.Mason’s lips twitched.“I’m afraid not, Miss Darling.They go in his night table drawer.”
Ugh.“Of course they do.”My nose wrinkled.“I suppose he takes them out every so often, and reads them to himself when he can’t sleep at night?”
“You would have to ask him,” Tidwell said blandly.“Although I’m certain you understand, Miss Darling, that the bin wouldn’t be the proper place for love notes from the future Viscountess.”
Yes, of course I understood.I wasn’t stupid.Or at least I don’t like to think that I am, all evidence to the (sometimes) contrary.If Laetitia wrote her betrothed love notes, and he consigned them to the rubbish, it wouldn’t bode well for future marital bliss.So of course he couldn’t do that.
The notes I had sent in the past, including the one that had exhorted him to propose to Laetitia, were another matter, of course.They weren’t the sort of thing a man would keep, no matter how besotted he might be.But hopefully he had disposed of them in the fire, and not anywhere where the servants had access to them, because that would be beyond embarrassing.
I eyed Tidwell and Mrs.Mason, to see whether either of them betrayed any sort of knowledge of the kind of correspondence that might have put Crispin in his place and made him propose to the bane of my existence.They both looked perfectly bland, like they would have had no idea what I would be thinking about.
I cleared my throat.“Anyone else?”
“Lord Geoffrey needed a refill this morning,” Mrs.Mason said.“So did his mother, but she sent a letter to Marsden Manor.It went out in the mail bag.”
“But Geoffrey had an unaccounted-for letter?”
“That doesn’t mean anything, Miss Darling,” Tidwell advised me.“He might have been taking notes from a book or doodling or working out the clues for a cryptic crossword.Or he might have put a letter in the mailbag when no one was looking.”
Yes, of course he might have done.And Geoffrey, of everyone here, would have had the least motive to murder the local doctor, it seemed.He had visited Sutherland Hall only once or twice before, and it wasn’t likely that he would have run across Doctor Meadows on any of those occasions.No one had died, nor, to my knowledge, been ill or grievously injured.
On the other hand, Geoffrey wasn’t an enormous fan of my humble self, so if I had to pick someone in the household as the most likely to frame me for murder… well, it mightn’t be Geoffrey, actually.I would put his sister above him on the list, along with, possibly, her mother, and certainly her future father-in-law.But Geoffrey did have motive of a sort, not just because I had rejected his advances before, but also because he might possibly hold me at least partially responsible for the month or so he had just spent in jail.
And accusing me of murder when he had just been acquitted of it himself, did have a certain poetic justice.
Tidwell cleared his throat, and I came back to myself with a rush.“I’m sorry.I should go join the others.Thank you for the help.”
I avoided looking at them both as I backed out of the servants’ sitting room and then turned tail and scurried back to the front part of the house.
I did not go back to the foyer, however.I couldn’t hear anyone’s voices that I knew—not from there—so instead, I made my way down to the end of the west wing, past the study, the boot room, and the gunroom—where Aunt Charlotte had found the rifle that she had used to take that potshot at me back in April—all the way to the servants’ staircase.From there, I climbed to the first floor and came out practically in front of my own bedchamber.The corridor was empty, and I ducked inside my room and dropped on the bed with a heartfelt groan.It had been a terribly long day, and it wasn’t even teatime yet.
I knew very well that I wouldn’t be allowed very much time to myself, of course.If Christopher didn’t come and find me soon, Constance would do.We were probably all in our rooms getting settled back in.Unless the others had stayed downstairs, and I was the only one up here.
I was still wearing the skirt, jacket, and brogues I had put on for the walk down to the village this morning—the same skirt, jacket, and brogues I had decided would be fine for the trip back to Beckwith Place in the Crossley.They were decidedly not fine for tea at Sutherland Hall, so after allowing myself two minutes to moan into the counterpane, I got back to my feet and began to systematically divest myself of my current garments.My weekender bag had been unpacked again (by one of the maids, I assumed) and the clothes hung back up in the armoire.I slipped my favorite blue-and-white afternoon frock off a hanger and pulled it over my head, smoothing the fabric over my hips.After slipping my feet into a pair of appropriate T-strap shoes and checking my face in the mirror—I needed more lipstick—I called it good and turned towards the door.
