Page 63 of Death at the Dower House

“Or perhaps it isn’t yours at all,” I added. “It doesn’t have your initials on it. Maybe it belongs to someone else.”

Both Geoffrey Marsden and Gilbert Peckham had the means to afford onyx cufflinks, I assumed. And so did Christopher and Francis, of course, but they wouldn’t have been in Lady Peckham’s room with Johanna last night, either.

“Or maybe you’re right.” Crispin glanced at me. “Maybe it was in my pocket and got tangled up with the handkerchief, and Johanna had them both when she went into the Dowager’s Chamber.”

“Well, then the other one should still be there,” I said.

Pendennis looked inscrutable. “The final thing. What can you tell me about this?”

He put a small piece of writing paper on the table in front of Crispin. It had a couple of lines of handwriting on it. I leaned closer, close enough that my shoulder brushed his, to get a better view, and he slanted a look at me, perhaps not entirely thrilled that Pendennis had put this in front of both of us and not just him.

C, it said, or perhaps the first letter was a G. The handwriting was curly enough, girlish and loopy, that it was difficult to be entirely sure.

Come find me after everyone is in bed. J

The J was unmistakable, anyway. It wasn’t an L or a C or—most certainly not—a P. Or at least one would have to squint most grievously to turn it into any of those.

“Johanna,” I said.

Pendennis nodded. “We have confirmed that it is her handwriting.”

It looked like something a twelve-year-old girl might have penned. A twelve-year-old girl who had not been educated at the Godolphin School for Girls in Salisbury.

“Who confirmed it?”

“Mr. Peckham,” Pendennis said. “And it matches the other notations in her room.”

“Where did it come from?” There was no date on it, and no names, just initials.

“It was found in the pocket of the jacket Lord St George wore to dinner last night.”

There was a beat of silence.

“You already checked the pockets of his jacket?” I asked.

Pendennis nodded.

“Was there a second cufflink there?”

“There was,” Pendennis confirmed.

“So he must have taken them off Thursday night and put them in his pocket, and then Johanna—”

“I wasn’t wearing black tie to the funeral, Darling,” Crispin interjected. “Etiquette dictates a black mourning coat.”

I turned to look at him. “So on Thursday, you wore a black mourning coat with onyx cufflinks. On Friday night, you wore black tie with another set of cufflinks…”

“Pearl,” Crispin nodded. “With matching studs.”

I rolled my eyes. “Of course. But somehow, the pair of black onyx ended up in the pocket of your dinner jacket, where one of them got tangled with your handkerchief and wound up in bed with Johanna, while the other was still there along with this note for an assignation?”

“So it seems,” Crispin said.

“That doesn’t make any sense.” I turned to Pendennis. “I think you ought to ring up Sutherland Hall and see if St George’s onyx cufflinks are there. Because if they are, this set belongs to someone else.”

Pendennis looked at me. Impassively. And then he turned to Crispin. “About the note?”

Crispin shook his head. “I’ve never seen this before. There was no need for her to pass me notes. We danced at least ten dances last night. If she had wanted to make an assignation, she could have done it then. Or in the garden, later.”