Page 58 of Lies in Little Sutherland
I bit my tongue before I could blurt out that it would have been much more interesting if Uncle Harold had wanted to get rid of Constance’s mother, and now he had killed Doctor Meadows because the doctor knew what he had done.Francis must have realized what I had only barely managed to bite back, because he scowled.
“You would so, Pippa.You’ve said much worse things than that to Crispin in the past.”
“Not recently,” I said.
He tilted his head.“Since when did you start becoming concerned with his feelings?”
“Since Christopher told me—” I frowned and switched tactics.“Actually, that’s not quite true.The debacle in April was when I first started to notice how his father treats him, and I’ve been feeling a bit sorry for him ever since.Although I’ll admit that it wasn’t until last month, when Christopher told me?—”
“Christ Almighty.”Francis rolled his eyes.“Did it really take Kit to lay it out for you before you realized that our prat of a cousin has been making cow-eyes at you for years?”
It didn’t seem like a question that required a response, so I didn’t dignify it with one.Besides, it made Constance giggle, and I appreciated that more than I wanted the chance to snipe back at Francis.“Really, Pippa,” she said, her voice uneven, “if I could see it that first weekend at the Dower House…”
“He was mean to me!”I protested, even as my insides collapsed with relief that she didn’t seem to be angry with me anymore.“And if he wasn’t mean, then he was mocking me, always embarrassing me with innuendo and insinuation…”
Constance’s lips twitched.“And it didn’t cross your mind that a man who called you Darling in every other sentence might be harboring romantic feelings?”
I made a face.It hadn’t crossed my mind, no.I had heard the mockery—still heard the mockery sometimes—but nothing else.I suppose I could hear the truth behind the mockery now, too, but only since Christopher had come clean about Crispin’s feelings.And even a month later, there were still times when I doubted that Christopher had told me the truth.It was honestly just so difficult to wrap my head around the possibility that the Viscount St George had been nurturing tender feelings for me for the best part of five and a half years.It was difficult to credit him with tender feelings at all, for anyone.It was all the more difficult to credit him with feelings of any sort, other than disdain, forme.
“At any rate,” I said, “it’s more comfortable to turn everything into a mystery novel in my head than deal with the fact that real people died because of other, real people’s motives.I don’t want to think about the fact that someone is trying to frame me for murder.It’s easier to speculate about what might have happened, in a different world, if Laetitia killed Johanna because she wanted Crispin for herself, or if Uncle Harold killed your mother because?—”
I stopped when I heard a noise outside in the hallway.Something small and soft, like the scuff of a shoe on the carpet runner.For a moment, time hung suspended as we all stood there, barely breathing, waiting to hear what would happen next.From the expectant silence from outside, I got the feeling that whoever was out there did the same thing.
Christopher looked at me.“Should we see if anyone’s there?”he inquired, not quitesotto voce.
I opened my mouth, but before I could speak, there was the shuffle of rapid footsteps outside, and then the sound of a door opening.
“Bloody hell,” I muttered, and lunged for the door.
ChapterFourteen
No one triedto stop me.And when I turned the knob and wrenched the door open, the hallway outside was empty.There was no way to know who among the residents, guests, or staff had been there, nor where he or she had gone.I considered knocking on Crispin’s door to see whether he’d respond, although if he didn’t, it wouldn’t prove anything one way or another.He could be inside his rooms and simply choose not to open the door for me.So could anyone else, for that matter.And while Crispin’s—and Christopher’s—rooms were the closest, there was also the servants’ staircase at the end of the hall, which was perhaps the likeliest place for the eavesdropper to have gone.
“You were saying?”Francis inquired dryly from behind me, and I shut the door again and turned to him with a grimace.
“Not something that I wanted anyone else to overhear.Just that it’s easier to make something fantastical out of the mad things that have happened in the past six months, than dwelling upon the reality that Aunt Charlotte killed two people before killing herself, and Gilbert killed two people before going on the lam, and Uncle Herbert had an illegitimate son none of us knew about?—”
Christopher made a face.
“—and he killed the mother of his child and then himself.”Wilkins, I meant, of course; not Uncle Herbert.But there was no point in saying that, since the others all knew it, too.“And my long-lost cousin from Germany tried to murder me several times—and you too, Christopher!—before kidnapping me and putting me on a freighter in the middle of the North Sea.All of that’s very real, and none of it is pleasant.It’s much more enjoyable to speculate about the ways things didn’t happen.”
“I suppose that’s true,” Francis admitted.“I’d be much happier if Aunt Charlotte hadn’t turned out to be a murderess and I hadn’t had an older brother no one ever told me about.”
That last was a moot point now, of course, and it was on the tip of my tongue to say so, but that was probably one of those unempathetic statements I should try to avoid making.
“And I’d be much happier if my mother wasn’t dead,” Constance piped up, “and I suppose I would rather have it have been His Grace who killed her, rather than my brother.”
My lips twitched, and so did Christopher’s.“I appreciate that,” I said, “and I’m sorry to have upset you, Constance.It was not my intent to make light of what happened to your mother.I just get carried away thinking about things, you know.”
She smiled.“I’m well aware of that, Pippa.We spent five years together at Godolphin.I’m well aware of how you get carried away with things.There’s nothing to apologize for.”
There was quite a bit to apologize for, and it was nice of her to forgive my transgression so easily.I said so.
“You’re quite welcome,” Constance said.“Besides, I’m not surprised that you’re a bit out of sorts.It must be difficult to be accused of murder.Especially when there’s nothing to prove that you didn’t do it.”
I turned towards Christopher—he could prove that I didn’t do it—and Constance added, “Except Christopher, of course.But everyone knows that he’d lie for you.”
Well, yes.He would.But?—
