Page 47 of Mischief at Marsden Manor

“I’m not familiar with Mr. Rivers,” Collins said.

Of course not. That had been a different murder case. “Dark-haired gentleman. A bit swarthy. A dope peddler from London down for the festivities.”

Collins’s eyebrows rose. “A dope dealer?”

I nodded. “Scotland Yard is aware. You remember Detective Sergeant Gardiner, don’t you?”

“Of course.” Collins glanced around vaguely. “He’s not here, is he?”

“I’m afraid not. But he knows about Rivers. If they had enough evidence against him, I’m sure he’d be in Wormwood Scrubs by now.”

Collins nodded. “So you opened the door and Mr. Rivers was there. Was anything said?”

“Nothing pertaining to her death,” I said. “He tried to give Lord St George a hard time. I reminded him that Lord St George wasn’t the only one to have had a conversation with Miss Fletcher last night—the maid told me that Mr. Rivers had been in there, too—and then he withdrew to his room, and Crispin went downstairs, and I went to bed.”

Collins scribbled it all down. “You mentioned a teacup?”

“It was in her room,” I said. “She said she asked for peppermint tea for an upset stomach, but it smelled more like spearmint to me. Do you know for certain what killed her?”

“Doctor will have to do the autopsy first,” Collins said, “but pennyroyal’s as good a guess as any. Do you know what happened to the cup?”

“I dumped the dregs down the drain and put the cup and saucer on the floor outside her door. It was gone the next morning. I’m sure by now it’s been washed and put away.”

“Just so.” Collins looked at his notebook for a moment. “Anything else you can tell me?”

“She came into the lavatory when I was brushing my teeth,” I said. “She was already unwell then. She vomited. I had to help her back to her room and into bed.”

“Did you talk?”

“Not about the tea. She did confirm that Lord St George is not—wasnot—the father of the child.”

“And you think she told you the truth?”

“She had no reason to lie,” I said steadily.

Collins nodded. “Who does that leave?”

“Of the men here, I suppose you mean?”

“If someone killed her,” Collins said, “as you seem to think someone did, it’s likely to be connected to the situation, don’t you think?”

It was, rather. Although— “I didn’t imply that anyone killed her deliberately, you know. Pennyroyal—if it was pennyroyal—is fatal in large doses. But someone might have just tried to induce a miscarriage, not kill her. The murder might have been an accident.”

“It’s still murder,” Collins said coolly. “And in case you’re unaware, just procuring the means to induce an abortion is a crime, too.”

Yes, of course it was. “I wasn’t quarreling,” I said blandly. “As for who is here, you already know a lot of us. Lord Geoffrey Marsden is local, of course.”

Collins made a face, one he tried to smooth out a moment later, a bit too late.

“He gets around,” I added, “as I’m sure you know. I don’t think anyone would be surprised if it turned out to be his baby.”

Collins shook his head.

“You probably know him better than I do—I’ve only met him a few times—so you might know better than I would whether dosing someone with pennyroyal is something he’d do if he found himself in this position.”

Collins’s eyes were distant, as he undoubtedly thought about whether Geoffrey was capable of such a thing or not.

“You met Christopher and Francis Astley, me and Lord St George at the Dower House in May. I can assure you that neither Christopher nor Francis was responsible for what happened. Francis is engaged to Constance Peckham now, so in that sense he might have had motive, but he didn’t know Cecily Fletcher.”