Page 50 of Blackmail at Beckwith Place

Crispin nodded blandly. “I put my hand on her neck, yes. To check if her heart was beating.”

“Couldn’t tell from the back of her head that she was dead?”

Crispin flicked a glance that way. I did, too, and wished I hadn’t. “Not really,” Crispin said faux-apologetically. “I’m afraid I lack your vast experience with murder victims, Constable.”

That wasn’t true, actually. From his grandfather and Grimsby to Johanna and Frederick Montrose, Crispin had probably seen more murder victims in the past few months than Sammy Entwistle had in most of his career. Rural Wiltshire isn’t exactly a hotbed of criminal activity.

Of course, Sammy might have been in France or Belgium during the war, and that would put rather a different complexion on things. Not as far as murder victims go—unless you consider victims of war to be murdered, and I suppose you could—but at least as far as violent death was concerned.

“Who was she to you?” Sammy wanted to know.

Crispin flicked another glance at Abigail. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“I didn’t know her.”

Sammy scoffed. “A likely story.”

“It’s true, nonetheless,” I told him. “None of us knew her. I met her once before yesterday. Last week, in London, for less than five minutes. Crispin met her once, several months ago. Also in London, and also for just a few minutes. Christopher hadn’t met her at all.”

“She wasn’t a guest, then? Here for the engagement party?”

“No,” I said. “The engagement party so far consists of our family and Constance’s family. We were expecting a few friends later today, although I suppose we’ll have to try to head them off after this. The only women here, apart from myself and Constance—and of course Aunt Roz—is the Countess of Marsden and her daughter, Lady Laetitia. This is neither of them.”

Sammy looked at the body. “Who is she, then?”

“As far as I know,” I said, “her name was Abigail Dole. That’s what she told me.”

“And what was she doing here?”

“We don’t know,” I said.

Both Christopher and Crispin reacted to that, with a little flinch each, and Sammy raised his brows. “Don’t know?”

“We never got a chance to talk to her. She staggered onto the lawn in the middle of tea yesterday, and collapsed. Francis carried her inside.”

Sammy’s jaw twitched, but he didn’t interrupt.

“We sent for Doctor White,” I added, “and he took her to the village infirmary in the Duke’s Crossley. Wilkins drove and Christopher went along for ballast.”

Sammy had looked from Crispin to Christopher during this recitation. Now he returned his attention to me. “Wilkins?”

“Father’s chauffeur,” Crispin said.

Sammy sneered, but didn’t comment with a remark on people who had chauffeurs. “And when did the victim return?”

“Sometime between ten o’clock last evening and about an hour ago, That was when I looked out the window and saw her.”

“Midnight,” Crispin said.

I shot him a look. “Really?”

“No, Darling. I have no idea when she returned. But that’s when the rest of us went to bed.”

“You and Laetitia, you mean?”

He shook his head. “The rest of us. Kit had gone up early. It was me and Laetitia, her parents, my father, and Aunt Roz and Uncle Herbert.”