Page 32 of Blackmail at Beckwith Place

“There’s something written on this, too,” Constance said, holding up a small piece of paper that had been folded a few times, and now unfolded again. Christopher and I crowded in.

At the top of the page was the logo of the Great Western Railway, the shields of the cities of London and Bristol. Below, in round, somewhat unformed script, was a list of words or phrases.

Hammersmith Palais

Fair hair

Blue eyes

Black motorcar

Grandson

Duke of Sutherland

Astley

CHAPTEREIGHT

“She must have been makinga list of everything she knew about the baby’s father,” I said. Unnecessarily, since none of us were stupid and the other two had surely figured that out for themselves already. “I guess we can assume that they met at the Hammersmith Palais de Danse.”

“In April of last year,” Christopher nodded, “judging from little Bess’s birthdate.”

“And he had fair hair and blue eyes and drove a black motorcar,” Constance added.

“They must have left together, for her to have seen the vehicle.”

“He probably took her back to wherever she lives,” Christopher said. “Or where she lived at the time. It’s a shame she doesn’t know a bit more about motors. She might have noticed a make instead of just a color.”

I nodded, looking from Uncle Herbert’s black Bentley to Uncle Harold’s black Crossley. Every man in the family had access to a black motorcar in April of last year, so knowing that the vehicle had been black was remarkably unhelpful.

“At least Crispin’s car is blue,” Christopher said.

I shook my head. “He still had the Ballot last spring. He didn’t destroy it until autumn. And anyway, he had access to his grandfather’s car, I’m sure.”

Christopher snorted. “Have you lost your mind, Pippa? Do you really suppose Grandfather—or for that matter Wilkins—would have allowed Crispin to drive Grandfather’s precious Crossley? Besides, why would he have needed it, if he had a motorcar of his own?”

He wouldn’t have, of course. Unless it had been during that period when the Ballot was out of commission, before he had replaced it with the Hispano-Suiza. But that had been nine or ten months ago, not last spring. “At least the blue eyes take him out.”

“Not necessarily,” Christopher said. “In that kind of setting, and in the dark, gray can look very much like blue. I’m not sure we can eliminate anyone based on the eyes or the car.”

“Well, you all have fair hair,” I said, “so that’s hardly helpful. You’re all grandsons of the Duke of Sutherland. Or were, back then. Now, nobody is the grandson of the Duke of Sutherland.”

There was a moment’s silence.

“I hate this,” I said. Constance nodded fervently.

“At least Mum will have nappies for the baby.” Christopher began shoving everything back into the tote again, only to stop, guiltily, when there was a scuff of a foot nearby.

We all looked up, and I daresay we looked very much like we had something to hide. But it was only Wilkins, back outside the carriage house again. He had a cigarette in one hand and a lighter in the other, and he had probably expected us to be long gone, because he looked from us to the tote and the stack of folded nappies Christopher was busily shoving back inside with consternation.

“We found the girl’s bag,” I said brightly. “We thought we’d… um… take a look inside before we brought it to Aunt Roz and Uncle Herbert.”

Wilkins didn’t say anything, and I’m sure I sounded very much like a fool, trying to explain myself to the chauffeur. And not even my own chauffeur, but Uncle Harold’s.

“Never mind,” I added. “Carry on, Wilkins.”

“Yes, Miss Darling.” He gave the bag one last look before he walked in the other direction. Away from the house and the cars, towards the hedgerow screening the property from the road, where he could suck on his gasper in peace.