Page 58 of Blackmail at Beckwith Place

Sammy cleared his throat. “What can you tell me about the dead woman?”

“Nothing,” Wilkins said. “I don’t know her, do I?”

“Don’t you?”

“’Course I don’t. She’s here looking for one of the Astleys, ain’t she?”

“Was she?”

I wondered whether Wilkins flinched at the change of tense. I did, a little.

“That’s what I heard,” Wilkins said.

“Which Astley was she looking for?”

“We don’t know,” Wilkins said, “do we? With the way that baby looks, it could be any of’em.”

“Baby?” I could practically hear Sammy’s ears prick up.

“Had a babe with her yesterday afternoon,” Wilkins said, while I tried to figure out whether we’d truly forgotten to mention little Bess, or whether Sammy was just playing stupid to get Wilkins to talk. “Blond hair. Looks like the Sutherlands.”

“Is that so?” Things went silent. When Sammy spoke again, there was a faint note of jubilation in his voice. “One of them got her up the duff, then?”

“Must have.”

“But you don’t know which?”

I assumed Wilkins must have shaken his head, because the next thing he said was, “Could have been any of them.”

“Francis Astley?”

“Like as not,” Wilkins said. “No way to know.”

There was a moment’s silence. Then?—

“Thank you, Mr. Wilkins,” Sammy told the chauffeur. He tried to be professional about it, but I could tell that for him, Christmas had come early. He probably thought all his wishes were about to come true. “Don’t go anywhere.”

Wilkins muttered something. I eased the door shut before they could see me eavesdropping and vanished back into the hallway.

CHAPTERTHIRTEEN

In the kitchen,it was business as usual. Aunt Roz was still feeding the baby, while Uncle Harold was looking on, scowling. Every so often, he’d glance from Bess to his son, as if he were comparing them, and his scowl would deepen. Occasionally, he’d look from Bess to Christopher or Francis instead, and then his face would relax a little.

Francis had made it to the kitchen while I’d been tucked away in the boot room, and was leaning on the wall next to Christopher. Constance had not, and I guessed she was upstairs in her room with Laetitia, still getting ready for the day. None of the other Marsdens were anywhere to be seen. Too good to sit in the kitchen with the rest of us, I assumed. Uncle Herbert might be keeping them company, because he wasn’t in attendance, either. Crispin was propping up the wall on the other side of Francis, and seeing the three of them in a row, all with their fair hair and light eyes and Sutherland features, brought home, yet again, just how much alike they all look. Christopher and Crispin, especially, could be brothers—twins—instead of cousins.

I averted my eyes and headed across the room. “Shall I turn on the kettle? I could use a cup of tea. Or coffee.”

“Or something stronger,” Francis muttered.

I busied myself with water and the hob. “I know we’ve indulged rather early in the day before, but surely drinking before eight is pushing it a bit far.”

“I was considering it more as an extension of last night, Pipsqueak.”

“Hair of the dog?” Crispin inquired, and Francis shot him a look.

“Not like you’ve never done it, is it?”

Crispin shook his head. “No, indeed.”