Page 75 of Lies in Little Sutherland
His brows arched.“You were in Crispin’s rooms?Whatever for?”
“Not that,” I said, since I could see what he was thinking.“It was earlier, before tea.I was looking for a sample of Laetitia’s handwriting.I didn’t know that you—or Tom—would make everyone write the anonymous note for comparison.”
“But in Crispin’s room?Wouldn’t it have been better to look in her own?”
“Mrs.Mason told me that she writes Crispin little love notes,” I explained, and couldn’t keep my face from puckering as I said it, “and that he’s honor-bound—or duty-bound—to hold onto them.I thought I would take a look.”
“And did you find them?”
I nodded.“They’re all there, in his night table drawer.A great, big stack.Her fist looks nothing like the anonymous note.”
“Of course not.”He snorted.“Admit it, Pippa, you only looked because you were curious.Not because you thought it would prove anything.”
No, of course not.Whoever wrote the anonymous note wouldn’t have used their own usual handwriting.That would have been too easy.
“How risqué were they?”Christopher wanted to know.He was trying to hold back laughter but not succeeding very well.“Did they make you blush, Pippa?”
“I didn’t read them,” I said, appalled.“I don’t read other people’s private correspondence, Christopher.”
Christopher looked disappointed.“I would have done.”
“You would not have enjoyed them, I assure you.They were full of outlandish endearments.Dearest darling pussycat, and the like.”
“Ewww.”He wrinkled his nose.
I nodded.“Precisely.I also saw Aunt Charlotte’s note.The one from April.”
Christopher sat up straighter.“The suicide note?What did it say?Anything pertaining to what we’ve been talking about?”
“I didn’t read that either,” I said.“Just the first line or two, enough to recognize it.That’s all I read last time, as well.”
Christopher didn’t say anything, just sat silently.The silence was somehow very loud.
“It makes sense that he would keep it,” I pointed out.“It was the last note his mother wrote to him.I have all the letters my mother wrote to me from Germany during the War.”
They were somewhere.I couldn’t tell you exactly where—it was seven years since she had died, and I had moved to London since then—but I knew I hadn’t thrown them away.
“We should take a look,” Christopher said.
“At the note?I don’t know, Christopher.I’ve already been in Crispin’s room once today.I don’t fancy going back.”
“But no one saw you,” Christopher protested.
“I’m sorry to burst your bubble, but Laetitia saw me, in fact.I had to tell her that I suspected Crispin of writing the note, and I was looking for a sample of his handwriting.”
He stared at me.“She can’t possibly have believed that.Surely she must know that you and Crispin have corresponded before.You ought to be familiar with his fist.”
“She seemed to believe it,” I said doubtfully, “although I suppose I might simply have dazzled her with my brilliance.But she saw me.And she might even have mentioned it to Crispin.”
Who, if he was guilty of multiple murders, certainly wouldn’t be happy to find me snooping around in his quarters for a second time today.
“Then you can stay here,” Christopher said and rolled to his feet.“I want to read that letter.”
He headed for the door.I trailed after.“There’s not going to be anything interesting in it, Christopher.Even if you’re right and they did commit the murders together, she wouldn’t risk putting anything incriminating into a letter that the police would read.”
“She was my aunt,” Christopher said over his shoulder, “and he’s my cousin.I might catch something that the police didn’t.”He reached for the doorknob.
“It’s his,” I said, a bit desperately.“It’s personal.You have no right to it.”
