“No cocktail, thank you,” I said. “Although I’ll have a splash of brandy in my tea.”
Gilbert nodded and set the bottle of brandy on the table. Francis picked it up and poured a tot into my cup as well as into Constance’s. “Anyone else?”
As at Sutherland Hall, all the men decided to forego the tea altogether in favor of alcohol. And Laetitia got her cocktail, which she sipped, looking alluring. She was still eyeing Crispin, I noticed, so the revelation about the girl with the baby hadn’t done any more to cool her ardor than the possibility that he might be guilty of murder.
Or perhaps she just knew him better than I did, and had realized he wasn’t likely to be guilty of either.
“When will we be allowed to leave?” her brother wanted to know.
“Not until they’ve solved the case, I imagine,” I told him. “We were all stuck at Sutherland Hall until the bitter end.”
Crispin flinched, and I added, “Sorry, St George.” I truly hadn’t meant to be flippant about his mother’s demise. Half the time, it seemed like I hurt him without even trying, just by not thinking before I spoke.
“Don’t mention it, Darling.” He tilted his head back and took a deep swallow of brandy.
“At Sutherland,” Francis said, “they arrived on Sunday afternoon and departed again on Wednesday. You should expect them to be here a few days, at least.”
Although at Sutherland, we had woken up on Tuesday morning to a suicide and a written confession, which had speeded things up considerably. Here, if no one confessed and the solution wasn’t obvious, it might take longer.
Or, if the case was simpler, perhaps less time. It wouldn’t do to either under- or overestimate, I thought.
“Better prepare for a few extra days’ company, at least,” I told Gilbert, who winced and went back to the bar cart to refresh his glass.
Constance looked concerned. “We don’t have enough rooms at the Dower House to put up three gentlemen from Scotland Yard.”
“I’m sure they won’t expect you to put them up,” I told her. “They stayed at Sutherland Hall because it was easy to make up three empty rooms. But if you don’t have the space here, they’ll just have to go somewhere else to sleep. I’m sure there’s an inn in the village, isn’t there? Or a pub that lets rooms? Or perhaps there’s something over the garage? I’m sure they’re not picky.”
Tom had been in France during the war, so I knew he had dealt with worse. And Finchley was older than Tom by a year or two, so had probably served on the Continent, too. They wouldn’t be bothered by uncomfortable sleeping arrangements, I was sure.
“I should talk to Dawson,” Constance said. “Please excuse me.”
She got to her feet and scurried out. Marsden watched her go with a smirk. “Bit uptight, your sister, Peckham. Someone should show her a good time, loosen her up a bit.”
Beside me, Francis bristled. “Stuff it, Marsden. This isn’t the time for your games.”
Marsden bristled back. “Mind your own, Astley. It’s none of your affair what—”
“Both of you mind your own,” I snapped, and returned my cup to the saucer with a click that echoed around the table. “Constance lost her mother today, in case you’ve forgotten. She has a house full of guests she can’t get rid of, and the police to deal with. Either say something helpful, or nothing at all.”
Neither of them said anything. Francis looked chastened and Marsden belligerent. Christopher and Crispin looked down at the table with identical smirks.
“Laetitia,” I said.
She looked up, startled. Perhaps I was supposed to have used her title. “You said you and your brother are related to the Peckhams, is that correct?”
She nodded.
“If Constance can’t find accommodations for the men from Scotland Yard here at the Dower House, is it possible that there’s room for them at the Manor?”
“Did you let them know what’s happened, Letty?” Marsden wanted to know.
Laetitia nodded. “I rang up Mummy and Daddy. Daddy said he’d speak to the commissioner and get us permission to leave.”
Of course he had. I refrained from rolling my eyes, but only barely.
On the other hand, if Laetitia and Geoffrey got permission from the commissioner—surely the commissioner of Scotland Yard?—to leave the Dower House, there might be room for the detectives here after all. The room Laetitia had been sharing, or should have been sharing, with Johanna would be empty, at least.
Of course, if either of them was a suspect—and to my mind they both were, at least in Johanna’s murder—I doubted Pendennis would allow them out of his sight. They were both, as had been pointed out two weeks ago at Sutherland about the rest of us, well-off individuals who wouldn’t have any problem, in the parlance, ‘doing a runner.’
