Page 57 of Lies in Little Sutherland
“They may have taken the servants’ stairs up to the first floor,” I suggested, as I double-timed it down the hallway through the east wing, “and now they’re holed up in Francis’s room, or in Constance’s, making whoopie.”
“Constance did not look to be in the mood for whoopie.We’ll check the library and conservatory first, and if they’re not there, we’ll go upstairs.”
He bypassed the door we had come out of, from behind which a low murmur of voices could be heard—at least no one was volubly objecting to Tom’s instructions—and pushed open the door to the library.“Francis?Constance?Are you here?”
There was no answer, nor was there one from the game room next door when we tried there next.
“And small wonder,” I said, avoiding the glassy stare of a zebra whose head and neck was decorating the wall.“It’s not precisely comforting, is it?”
Christopher shook his head.“This room always gave me the pip when I was little.”
“It gives me the pip now.And I don’t think Francis is very fond of it anymore, either.After everything, I rather think he’d like to avoid anything dead, even if it’s just a zebra.”
“You may be right.”He shut the door behind us and continued towards the end of the hall.“The conservatory, then?And if not there, the upstairs.”
I nodded.“The conservatory might be a bit chilly.It’s sunny, but it is, after all, November.”
“I imagine they have ways of keeping warm,” Christopher said, and pushed the conservatory door open.
I had been wrong, I realized.The conservatory wasn’t cold at all.Rather the opposite, in fact.A wave of humid, warm air hit us in the face as soon as the door opened.If I stayed in it, it would probably make my makeup run.
Constance wears less of that than I do, so that didn’t mean anything.She and Francis might still be inside.I followed Christopher across the threshold into the jungle.
It was six months since I had been in the Sutherland Hall conservatory.I had spent a memorable few hours there the night Grimsby the valet was murdered, while I waited for Christopher to come back inside from their assignation—or blackmail handoff—in the rose garden.It had been a spooky experience, even before we knew that the valet was dead.It had rained that night, thunder had rumbled and lightning flashed outside, and inside the conservatory, leaves and branches had rustled as if brushed by invisible—or invisible-to-me—bodies.And then, at the end of it, after Christopher came back inside, we realized we were shut in, that Tidwell had locked the door between the conservatory and the rest of the ground floor for the night.
“Francis?”Christopher raised his voice.“Constance?Are you in here?”
There was no answer, and I backed out into the hallway with a heartfelt, “Thank God.I would have melted had we stayed in there any longer.”
Christopher nodded and shut the door.“Upstairs, then, I suppose.”
He reached for the unobtrusive door to the servants’ stairs.I followed him into the narrow space and up.
This was the same staircase I had come down earlier, after digging through Crispin’s belongings.It comes out at the end of the east wing, just down from Crispin’s suite and the door to Christopher’s room.Francis’s room, the same one he always stays in when he’s visiting Sutherland Hall, is beside it.The door was shut, but we could hear the murmur of voices from within.They stopped when Christopher applied his knuckles to the wood.
“Are you decent?”he directed through the door.“It’s us.Kit and Pippa.”
There was another murmur—perhaps Francis was inquiring whether Constance wanted to be bothered with me so soon—and then my cousin’s voice.“It’s open.”
Christopher twisted the knob, and in we went.
“I’m sorry,” I said, just as soon as I had cleared the threshold.“I didn’t mean to upset anyone.I just get going, and I get caught up in the mystery of it all…”
Francis and Constance were sitting side by side on the edge of the bed.Fully dressed, thankfully, and not doing anything beyond holding hands.Constance’s eyes were a bit puffy, and her hair perhaps a bit more ruffled than it ought to be, but otherwise, it didn’t seem as if my unpleasant reminder had done anything too awful.
“You should write a novel,” Francis said disagreeably.“Maybe you’d get some of this infernal plotting out.”
Christopher snorted as he shut the door behind us.“Don’t think she isn’t doing just that.The flat is all over pieces of paper where she’s started and then discardedSecrets at Sutherland Hall.”
Francis sniggered.“What’s to write about that?The old man tasked his valet with digging up dirt on all his family members, and then they both ended up dead.”
“It was interesting,” I said.“Not so much what happened, but the possibilities of what might have done.So many possible motives.So many ways it might have turned out.”
After a moment’s contemplation, I added, “If I were to write it, I would have taken some poetic license in how I worked the plot.The reality didn’t end up being very interesting in the end.There was no denouement, and no big showdown in which Aunt Charlotte was arrested.She just killed herself and took all the fun out of it…”
“This is what I’m talking about,” Francis said, after exchanging a glance with Christopher.“You could stand to be a little more empathetic, Pipsqueak.”
“I wouldn’t say it where Crispin could hear,” I protested.“Besides, you have to admit it would be much more interesting if there was more to it.Just like it would be more interesting if?—”
