I nodded. The answer, of course, was obvious: it had been one of Uncle Herbert’s illegitimate children. But I had promised my uncle I wouldn’t talk about that.
“You wouldn’t happen to know who Sammy’s mother is, would you?” I asked instead. Maybe I could get at this from a different angle.
Francis looked at me with his brows elevated. “Of course I do. I’ve lived in this village my entire life. You should know that, too.”
“Well, who is she?”
“Amelia Entwistle. The butcher’s wife.”
Butcher? Sammy probably wouldn’t baulk at a bit of business with a trench club, then.
Although Amelia sounded nothing like Maisie. Amelias are usually called Amy or Ammie or, in a pinch, Melia or Lia. Not Maisie.
“What about the other constable? The one who found the truncheon?”
“Phil Hemings,” Francis said. “Nice lad. Took some shrapnel in France and was sent home early, so he missed the rest of the war, the lucky devil.”
“Do you know his family, too?”
“Of course.” He still eyed me strangely. “His father drives a lorry and his mum’s a housewife.”
“Names?”
“Vicky—Victoria, I suppose—and Philip Senior. Is there a reason you’re asking me these questions, Pipsqueak?”
“There is,” I said, “but I can’t tell you.”
He nodded and pushed to his feet. “I’d better get back inside. Don’t want to give Sammy too much of an opportunity to bully Constance.”
No, it was probably better if he didn’t. “I’ll be right there,” I said. “Just… give me a minute more to think something through.”
“Take all the time you want. We know where to find you.”
He closed the door behind him. I turned my eyes back to the bushes, but without really seeing them.
Both Sammy and Phil Hemings had been in the war. Either of them might reasonably have brought home a trench club as a souvenir.
Neither of them was old enough to be Maisie’s son. Sammy was Robbie’s age, two years younger than Francis, and in order to have been in France during the war, Phil Hemings had to be either the same age or older. He did not look like he was older than Francis, however, and the latter had called him a lad, which indicated he was probably the same age as Sammy and Robbie.
Either of them could arguably be Uncle Herbert’s younger child, the one born during his marriage. Although they had both lived near Beckwith Place for as long as I could recall, and so had their families. You would have thought, if Uncle Herbert had seduced one of their mothers, that there would have been some sort of talk about it at some point. It’s difficult to keep secrets in a village, and until today, I had never heard a single, solitary whisper about my uncle’s infidelity.
Other than the fact that Sammy and Phil Hemings were both here at Beckwith Place this morning—which had a logical explanation; it wasn’t as if either of them had inserted themselves into a situation they didn’t belong in—was there any actual evidence to suggest that either of them was involved in this case beyond investigating it?
There wasn’t, I decided. Much as I wanted someone else to be guilty, I was back to the family and friends—I use the word loosely—gathered at Beckwith Place.
Francis, Christopher, and Crispin had had no opportunity, at least not unless someone was lying. The same, I assumed, was true for Aunt Roz and Uncle Herbert and the couple Marsden.
Take all of them out of the equation, then.
Geoffrey had had opportunity, but probably no motive. He had missed the draft by a year or two, so I couldn’t imagine where he might have gotten his hands on a trench club.
Then again, Maurice knew what they were, so there was a possibility one had been at Marsden Manor. But even if Geoffrey had had one at home, there would have been no reason for him to bring it to Constance’s engagement party. He didn’t have a beef with Francis, or with anyone else in the family as far as I knew. He also had no motive for wanting Abigail out of the way, and no way to know that she’d even turn up here this weekend.
Laetitia had had motive, if she believed that Crispin was responsible for little Bess and that he would be forced to marry Abigail. She’d also had opportunity, but again, probably no access to the murder weapon. And from her reaction to it earlier, she probably wouldn’t have chosen to use it in any case.
Unless that had been a reaction to actually having used it, of course, and the memory of what it had done to the back of Abigail’s head.
Would she have put the truncheon in my room to implicate me if she were the one who had used it?
