“Christopher,” I added, as Lady Laetitia moved across the reception room floor as slowly as an aristocrat headed for Madame Guillotine.
Christopher jumped up and ran for the door. Happy for an excuse to leave the room, I expect. Francis arched a brow in our direction, but I shook my head at him. Nothing for him to worry about. He nodded and went back to whispering to Constance.
“Garden,” I told Christopher. “Pendennis doesn’t want you. I do. You too, St George.”
They both fell in behind me as I swept toward the front door. On the other side of the room, Laetitia had finally reached the library door and was knocking timidly. “Enter,” Pendennis’s voice came from within.
And then we were at our own door, and through, and back outside the Dower House just in time to see Lady Peckham’s Crossley make its stately way towards the garage. The motorcar and chauffeur must have been released from Sutherland when the police left, but had probably waited while Aunt Roz packed up all of Lady Peckham’s belongings and sent them back to the Dower House.
“What’s happened?” Christopher wanted to know as we made our way around the corner of the house and into the gardens yet again.
I tucked my hand through his arm. “Someone is trying to frame St George for murder.”
Christopher shot a started look at Crispin. “Truly?”
“It seems that way.”
I shot him a look that was a lot less startled. “What do you mean, it seems? Itisthat way. Although you may know something about it that I don’t, I suppose, and perhaps it isn’t actually a setup at all.”
He rolled his eyes. “I didn’t kill her.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” I said. “Although I didn’t think you had.”
“You thought I had last month.”
“That was different. There were good reasons why you might have killed Grimsby and your grandfather. There’s no reason at all to think you would strangle a young woman whose only crime was wanting to be your wife.”
He grimaced. So did Christopher.
“At any rate,” I said, “what makes you argue the fact that someone is framing you?”
“Because it could all be very innocent.”
“I don’t see how.”
He shook his head. “No, listen. I gave the handkerchief to Johanna in the garden. The cufflink could have been attached to it. I’m not sure exactly how—”
“Cufflink?” Christopher asked.
I waved him down and concentrated on answering Crispin’s obviously inane argument. “I’m not sure, either, since that makes no sense—”
“What cufflink?” Christopher persisted.
I turned to him. “A cufflink of St George’s—”
“The onyx,” Crispin said, as if Christopher would know the difference, or care.
“—or at least a cufflink that’s identical to one of St George’s, wound up in bed with Johanna’s body.”
Crispin flinched at the baldness of the statement.
“Ouch,” Christopher said.
I nodded. “The problem is that he wasn’t wearing that pair last night. He wore them on the day of the funerals, but not since. We’re not even sure they made it here from Sutherland Hall.”
“They must have made it here if one of them ended up in bed with Johanna,” Christopher pointed out. He turned to Crispin. “Is this the same handkerchief that Pippa…?”
Crispin nodded.
