Page 96 of Lies in Little Sutherland
He put a hand against my back and nudged me forward.I stepped into the servants’ staircase and started climbing.
Throughout the whole experience, from when he had first turned up outside the carriage house until now, I had been aware of the fact that he might have murdered several people.He knew that I suspected him, and I knew that he might choose to murder me too.
It didn’t feel as if that was his plan, honestly—why would he offer to fetch me a gun if he planned to try to kill me?—but I knew it theoretically, at least.
What I hadn’t thought about at all was the fact that he was supposed to be in love with me.That lasted until we came out in the west wing hallway, just down from the door to Laetitia’s bedchamber (as well as my own), and he stopped to look at me.
“Here we are.”
Here we were, standing outside my door, quite like a girl and the suitor who had escorted her home at the end of a normal evening out.
I swallowed.“Thank you for seeing me to my door, St George.”
He smirked.“Any time, Darling.Do I get the usual reward for my trouble?”
The usual reward being… a kiss?
“I don’t think your fiancée would approve of that,” I said, even as I felt my cheeks heat.
The smirk widened.“I’m quite certain that she wouldn’t.But what Laetitia doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”
I supposed not.But even so— “Do you plan to proposition other girls after you’re married, as well, St George?”
He grinned.“No, Darling.This is my last hurrah before donning the old ball and chain.I figure I’d better make the most of it.”
“Well, you’ll have to make the most of it without me,” I told him.“Although I do appreciate the effort, St George.”
“Any time, Darling.Sweet dreams.”
I gave him my thanks, and then I unlocked my door before hesitating on the threshold.He was still standing there, waiting for me to duck inside, and he was right: what Laetitia didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.
So I turned back, and slung an arm around his neck, and went up on my tiptoes, and brushed my lips across his cheek before I whispered in his ear.“Good night, St George.Sleep well.”
I didn’t wait to see his reaction, just turned my back to him and disappeared into my room.I did notice, however, as I stood inside waiting, that several seconds passed—several very long seconds—before I heard him walk away.
ChapterTwenty-One
I walkedto breakfast the next morning like a person to the gallows, just waiting for the other shoe to drop.The rest of the night, after listening to Crispin walk away, had been spent going over the evidence in my head, over and over again: all the threads, all the intricate, small plot-lines, until I fell into a restless slumber, haunted by hangmen and dead bodies and black things covering my head.I overslept, of course, and woke up as frazzled and divided in spirit as I had been when I turned in.
It had also occurred to me, a bit belatedly, I’ll admit, that Crispin’s sly comment about the ball and chain might not have been in reference to Laetitia.He might have been talking about being arrested this morning.There was a whole month left until he got married.Plenty of time for kisses.But they were likely to be scarce in prison.
There was no part of me that wanted to see anyone, but I knew that if I didn’t show my face downstairs, Christopher would come looking for me.So I donned a warm skirt and jumper, in deference to the gray November morning as well as the chill that permeated from my center out to the other parts of me.
There was no one about when I opened my door, nor when I reached the bottom of the servants’ staircase.The smell of cooked bacon hung in the air, and I could hear the murmur of voices from the breakfast room.
I set off down the hallway, only to slow a few seconds later, as I noticed that the study door was open.I drifted over and lingered on the threshold for a moment to peer inside.
This was where Crispin had spent part of the morning yesterday, several hours going over paperwork, or perhaps only the few minutes necessary before scurrying through the boot room and across the courtyard to the carriage house.Twenty or thirty minutes would have been enough to motor to the village and back, and if the study door was kept shut, no one might realize that he had left at all.And there was plenty of blank paper around on which to write the anonymous note.
I peered around again, carefully, before ducking through the open door and into the room.Hopefully no one would catch me in the minute or so it would take for me to check the desk blotter for any sign that the anonymous note had been written in this room.
I stopped beside the desk and pushed the tangled papers on top aside.And there—yes, a sheet of blotting paper, with ink spots still on it.I bent over and peered at it, doing my best to translate the random squiggles and constellations into what might have been words.
Surely that was an inverted P and half an H for PHILIPPA?And a bit above that, the line and half the backward curve of a D?For DOCTOR or perhaps DEAD?Or even DARLING?
My heart sank slowly into what felt like my stomach.This didn’t look good for Crispin, whether he was guilty or not.He had motive, means, and opportunity, and now I could put him in the vicinity of the anonymous note at the time when the ink was still wet.
My fingers twitched as I fought the impulse to snatch up the blotting paper and crumple it into a tight ball that I could toss into one of the fireplaces.Which was what anyone sane ought to have done, frankly.Why on earth wouldn’t Crispin have taken it with him, if he knew that it could implicate him?It was left in his father’s study, yes, and no one but Uncle Harold was likely to see it.The rest of us weren’t supposed to go into Uncle Harold’s study.Not even Crispin was supposed to be here unless he was specifically invited.
