Page 49 of Lies in Little Sutherland
The hallway outside was still as desolate as when I had arrived.I put my ear to the door of the room next to mine—Constance’s, or it had been before we tried to move out before luncheon.There was no murmur of voices from within, so I moved on, alone.
Sutherland Hall is built in a U-shape, with an east wing, a west wing, and a central wing.This last was where the Duke’s and Duchess’s Chambers were located, across from the main staircase down to the foyer.The Duchess’s Chamber has been sitting empty for years.The late Duke Henry’s wife died before him, and of course the same was true for the current duke and Aunt Charlotte.
After his father’s death in April, Uncle Harold moved out of his room in the corner of the east wing and into the vacated Duke’s Chamber.I would have personally waited a bit longer before I occupied the bedroom, and bed, where my father was murdered, but to each their own.
That left the old heir’s chambers empty, and Crispin should have moved in, after his father left, but for one reason or another he must have decided to stay in his existing suite.I’m sure he was comfortable there.And I could well imagine why he wouldn’t want to occupy the chamber next to his father’s.Sutherland Hall is solidly built, but there are secret passages honeycombing the place, and Crispin likes his privacy.
Not that I was headed towards Crispin’s chambers, of course.No, I was aiming for the room across from his, namely Christopher’s.The others may all be downstairs, but Christopher might be up here.
There were no sounds emanating from the Earl’s and Countess’s suite, nor were there any voices from behind Francis’s door.I wasn’t surprised.My cousin wasn’t the type to drag his fiancée off for a tumble between luncheon and tea.That was more Geoffrey’s speed, I thought.And perhaps Crispin’s, or more likely, Laetitia’s.
Not that Francis was the type to engage in a slap and tickle in public either, of course.That wasn’t what I meant.No, Francis and Constance were undoubtedly downstairs, behaving like the properly courting adults that they were.
Besides, if Francis wanted to engage in impropriety with his fiancée, he could do that in the privacy of Beckwith Place.
I didn’t bother to put my ear to Christopher’s door.If he were there at all, he’d be alone, and probably not talking to himself.Nor did I bother with a knock.Instead, I wrapped my hand around the handle and turned it.The door opened, into an empty room.
“Christopher?”
I looked around.Christopher’s weekender bag had also been emptied and the clothes hung in the wardrobe.And like me, Christopher must have taken the time to change out of his plus-fours and into proper trousers, because the outfit from this morning was thrown haphazardly across the bed.He would either tidy it away when he came up to change for supper, I assumed, or perhaps one of the maids would do it.
“Christopher?”
There was no answer the second time either, not that I had expected one.I pulled the door closed behind me and turned towards the servants’ staircase.(There is one at the end of each wing; this one came out beside the conservatory on the ground floor.)
And then I hesitated.
The upstairs was deserted.There was no indication that anyone was up here.No voices, no sounds.No sign of any of the guests or for that matter the maids.The footman who had carried the bags back upstairs was gone now.The rest of the guests were probably gathered downstairs in the sitting room or parlor—or library or garden maze—waiting for tea to be served.I would never get a better chance to search Crispin’s quarters.
Did I think it was likely that he had penned the note accusing me of murder?
Not at all.There was a time—April—where I would have been delighted to believe so.I had been convinced back then that he had not only murdered Grimsby the valet, but his own grandfather as well.I had believed that he was capable of practically anything, including shooting at me.
I no longer believed that.I certainly didn’t think that he wanted to hurt me in any way.What I wanted, not to be too precious about it—was an excuse to look at the notes in his bedside table.I’d check the blotter in his sitting room too, of course—there was bound to be a writing desk there—but I doubted very much that I would find an inky mirror imprint of the spiky accusation from the note.It would serve as an excuse if anyone saw me, however.
I glanced down the hallway one final time—still empty—before I squared my shoulders and reached for the door handle.
ChapterTwelve
I have never been privilegedto visit Crispin’s chambers.Whenever I came to Sutherland Hall as a child, we played outside—he had an early habit of abandoning me in the hedge maze—or we crawled around the attics, or we behaved properly in one of the rooms downstairs.The game room or library, as likely as not.(When I say ‘we,’ I mean myself, along with Crispin and Christopher.Francis and Robbie were both too old to spend time with us.) Then Crispin and Christopher went off to Eton (and I to the Godolphin School for Girls, where I met Constance) while Robbie and Francis went to the Front.
All of which is to say that there has never been any reason, nor any opportunity, for me to go beyond this particular door.
I knew that it would lead to a sitting room.Crispin also has a bedchamber as well as a dressing room in his suite, but I took care not to walk straight into either of those.I would have to invade the bedchamber sooner or later, at least if I wanted a look at Laetitia’s love notes—or to see whether my own correspondence was hidden anywhere—but for now, I stepped into the sitting room and closed the door quietly behind me.
The suite seemed unoccupied.The sitting room was empty, and the door connecting it to the bedchamber stood open.I could see the corner of an opulent four-poster through the opening, neatly made.There were no sounds emanating from the other rooms.
“Crispin?”I ventured, so softly that only someone on this side of the door to the hallway would have heard me.“St George?”
There was no answer, and so I breathed a little easier as I proceeded to look around.
The sitting room looked just like every other room at Sutherland Hall: old, luxurious, and staid.A comfortable Chesterfield sat in front of the fireplace, with a well-stocked bar cart against the wall.The Viscount St George could stay up here and get blotto in the comfort and privacy of his own chambers, it seemed—and he probably did do, when it was just him and Uncle Harold in residence.
A roll-top desk sat against the opposite wall, and I made my way to it.
It had been left open, and I could see a stack of notepaper inside, along with envelopes, stamps, and the like.It looked very much like the paper Constable Daniels had shown me earlier.
That meant nothing, of course.Everyone in the house had access to the same sort of paper, and there was no reason to think that Crispin, in particular, had been behind the note.
