Page 27 of Mischief at Marsden Manor

Breakfast was laidon in the breakfast room the next morning, in a come-and-go fashion. By the time I made it down there, the room was practically empty. Bilge Fortescue and his wife were sitting across from one another enjoying a post-breakfast cigarette and cup of coffee, while Constance, Francis, and Christopher were grouped around a table at the other end of the room with their heads together. Other than that, the room was empty.

Francis looked faintly green, a similar shade to Cecily’s pyjamas, while Christopher was gesticulating with one hand and waving a cigarette around with the other. Or gesticulating with both, while holding a fag. Francis must not have been able to stomach the idea of food, because the only thing in front of him was a cup of coffee. There was also a plate of buttered toast, but it was untouched, and pushed in front of the chair no one was sitting on.

I snagged a scoop of eggs and a rasher of bacon before they disappeared, and took the empty seat. “Thanks for the toast.”

“Don’t mind if you do, Pipsqueak,” Francis said, with a baleful eye towards my eggs. Constance, meanwhile, wasnibbling on kippers, but that didn’t seem to bother him much at all.

“Feeling poorly this morning?”

“Sick as a dog,” Francis said succinctly.

I nodded. “Cecily Fletcher, as well. I ran into her coming out of the toilet last night—I was going out, she was coming in—and she didn’t even wait for me to leave, just dropped to her knees in front of the commode and proceeded to empty her stomach.”

“At least I wasn’t in bad enough condition to have to worship the porcelain god,” Francis commented, while Constance added, concernedly, “Is she all right?”

“Expectant,” I said, with my mouth full of egg.

“Come again?”

I swallowed. “I don’t want to say it again. I said I wouldn’t talk about it. But I’m certain you heard me the first time.”

They all eyed me in silence for a moment.

“It’s not—?” Christopher began.

I shook my head. “They both said no.”

“You saw Crispin last night?”

“As he left her room. He looked a bit like Francis does now.” Pale and drawn, faintly green. “I thought I ought to ask what was wrong.”

“But it’s not…” Christopher hesitated, “his problem?”

“He said not. And so did she.”

“Whose problem is it, then?” Francis wanted to know.

I stabbed my fork into the eggs. “I didn’t want to ask. None of my affair, as long as it doesn’t involve anyone I hold near or dear.”

“And that includes Lord St George?” Constance inquired.

I eyed her. “Well… he’s near, anyway. But one would hate for anything to get in the way of the happy nuptials in December.”

“Of course.” She went back to her kippers.

I grabbed a piece of Francis’s toast. It was cold by now, and the butter a bit too congealed, but I chewed and swallowed determinedly anyway. “I took her back to her bedchamber and put her to bed. I even asked if she wanted me to stay.”

And I was fairly certain that I deserved a medal for that bit of empathy.

“And did she?”

I shook my head. “I told her to come find me if she needed help, or to yell loudly if she couldn’t make it out of bed?—”

“She looked bad enough for that?” Christopher asked.

I nodded. “She looked awful. Pale and shivery, with circles under her eyes. I had to practically carry her from the lavatory to her room. She must have been all right, though, because I didn’t hear from her again.”

I took another bite of egg and added, “Her door was shut this morning, but so was everyone else’s, so I suppose she might have left already. I didn’t knock, just in case she was still asleep.”