Page 52 of Death at the Dower House

“Collins and I shall start to process the crime scene.”

He nodded to the young constable, surely no older than Christopher or Crispin, who tucked away his notebook and pencil and got to his feet. I had forgotten he was there again, and I daresay I wasn’t the only one.

The two of them left the dining room, and left the rest of us to stare blankly at one another.

“Anyone for lunch?” Peckham wanted to know.

No one took him up on the offer.

“Cocktails in the dining room at five, then. Or tea for those who want it.”

He walked out, perhaps to deal with his mother’s passing in private, or perhaps to see if he could talk Tom into letting him see Johanna. I glanced at Constance. Francis had her by the hand and was murmuring things to her bent head. She looked like she was in good hands, so I turned to Crispin and tucked a hand through his arm.

“Walk in the garden with me.”

It wasn’t a request, and I’m sure he could hear it, because all he did was nod.

Everyone in the family knows that I don’t seek out St George’s company for anything but the most compelling of reasons. As a result, Christopher and even Francis looked at me as if I’d grown a second head.

“You’re welcome to accompany us,” I told them both. “We’re not planning to do anything illicit.”

Crispin murmured something, but I decided I didn’t care to know what it was, so I didn’t ask him to repeat it.

Francis declined in favor of staying with Constance, but Christopher followed behind us when I tugged Crispin out of the dining room, across the reception room, and out the front door.

“What’s going on?” Christopher asked when we were down the steps and far enough away from the house that no one could overhear.

I glanced at him over my shoulder. “I want to know why your cousin was lying to Tom earlier.”

“I didn’t lie to Tom,” Crispin said, and twitched his arm out of my grasp.

I scowled at him. “You most certainly did. You saw Johanna in the garden after you went outside last night, and you denied it.”

He flushed. “Are you a witch, Darling? How could you possibly know that?”

“I saw you through the window,” I said.

“Your room is on the front of the house!”

“The lavatory window, if you must know. It overlooks the back garden. I saw you storm out of the parlor and onto the lawn—”

Christopher nodded, since he had seen the same thing. “Which of them called you a coward as you ran away?” he wanted to know, his voice uneven with laughter. Crispin shot him a look of concentrated dislike, but didn’t volunteer a name.

“And then, a minute later,” I continued, “I saw Johanna come running out and fling herself at you. It looked quite romantic.”

He looked at me down his nose. “Been reading Austen, have you, Darling?”

“Hull,” I said, more to shock him than for any other reason. WhileThe Sheikhhad been a titillating read when I was sixteen, these days I much prefer a good detective novel.

“That’s appalling.”

I shrugged. “My reading habits are none of your concern, St George. Nor are your amatory habits any of mine. Except Johanna’s dead, and you lied about it.”

“I had nothing to do with her being dead!”

“You had something to do with her in the garden,” I said, “and instead of admitting it, you said, several times, that you didn’t see her after you left the parlor.”

“Would you admit to a snuggle with a girl who ended up dead, Darling?”