The Murder at Mandeville Hall: The Casebook of Barnaby Adair: Volume 7

  Looking smug at Stokes’s praise, Pemberton accepted his hat from a footman and bade them all goodbye.

  Stokes watched him go, then turned to the others, still gathered in a circle in the middle of the front hall. Lowering his voice, he said, “It appears that whatever Miss Johnson was wearing on that chain was important to our murderer.”

  Penelope nodded. “Could it—whatever it was—have precipitated her death? Did the sight of it enrage the murderer? Or was it something he knew she had, and he wanted it? Perhaps wanted it back?”

  “All good questions,” Barnaby said. “But what I want to know is what the pendant or whatever was on the chain actually was.” He looked at Miss Whittaker. “Surely Miss Johnson’s maid would know.”

  “Glynis didn’t have a maid with her,” Miss Whittaker said. “We could ask if any of the household’s maids was seeing to her—I haven’t yet had a chance to follow that up.”

  “We can ask tomorrow.” Stokes glanced at Philpott, confirming he was making a note.

  Miss Whittaker continued, “Glynis’s chaperon, Mrs. Macomber, might know what was on the chain, but after seeing Glynis dead—she was with me when I reached the shrubbery—she grew hysterical and had to be sedated. Sadly, when she woke the next day, before I could speak with her, a maid told her of Mrs. Cleary’s murder. After that, Mrs. Macomber grew so excessively distressed that the doctor recommended she be kept sedated for at least two more days, and he left a strong sedative. Unfortunately, Mrs. Macomber seems to have been powerfully affected by the draft, and she’s still sleeping too deeply to rouse—at least not to any purpose.”

  Stokes grimaced. “So we’ll have to leave that until the morning, too.”

  Penelope frowned. “If the murderer thinks Mrs. Macomber might know something that might help identify him…” She glanced at Miss Whittaker.

  “Just so,” Miss Whittaker returned grimly. “But I’ve arranged to share Mrs. Macomber’s room, and when I’m not there, my maid is on duty and knows not to leave Mrs. Macomber alone.”

  “Good.” Barnaby nodded approvingly. “So we can rest easy that we’re not going to wake tomorrow to find another dead body.”

  “Indeed,” Miss Whittaker replied; Penelope thought she suppressed a small shudder, which was hardly to be wondered at. Coming upon one dead body, and that of a relative, was bad enough; coming upon two in quick succession would try any lady’s courage—even, Penelope suspected, her own.

  “Right, then.” Stokes looked around their small circle. He nodded to Penelope and Barnaby. “We’re as ready as we can be.” To Carradale and Miss Whittaker, he said, “It would be helpful if the pair of you went in first and preserved the appearance of not being any more connected with the three of us than the other guests. Indeed, you are both on our suspect list until you’re formally cleared of involvement by the testimony of others, principally members of staff. Meanwhile, however, if you would, you could act as two extra pairs of eyes and ears—it’s more likely the guests will lower their guard around you two than us, and you might gain some valuable insight.”

  More mildly, Barnaby said, “Please don’t imagine you’ll be committing any social solecism in observing and reporting on your fellow guests’ reactions. In cases of murder, nothing is sacred beyond our duty to the dead.”

  “Specifically,” Penelope said, “our duty to identify and capture the murderer.”

  Carradale and Miss Whittaker exchanged a glance, then both looked at Stokes, Penelope, and Barnaby and nodded. “We’ll do as you ask,” Carradale said.

  “Indeed.” Miss Whittaker’s chin set, determination writ large in her face. “Nothing can possibly be more important than seeing the blackguard who murdered two innocent ladies brought to justice.”

  With that declaration, she and Carradale turned, crossed the hall, and went into the drawing room.

  Stokes, Barnaby, and Penelope waited for a full minute in silence, then Stokes turned and led the way—into what, for him, was the equivalent of a lion’s den.

  Immediately becoming the cynosure of all eyes, Stokes calmly walked into the room and halted facing the fireplace about which the majority of the company were gathered. Rather than flank him, Barnaby and Penelope halted a few paces inside the door—in support, but not in any way detracting from Stokes’s authority.

  “Good afternoon,” Stokes gravely said. “I am Senior Inspector Stokes from Scotland Yard. My men and I are here to investigate the recent deaths of Miss Glynis Johnson and Mrs. Rosamund Cleary.”

  A heavyset gentleman peered around Stokes, nodded to Barnaby, then looked at Stokes. “And Adair and his wife?”

  “Are, as is often the case in investigations such as this,” Stokes responded, “officially assisting Scotland Yard.”

  Another gentleman standing by the fireplace frowned in puzzlement, but before anyone could ask anything more, Stokes focused on a portly gentleman with pinched features who was seated in one of the armchairs closest to the hearth. “Sir Godfrey Stonewall?”

  Leaning heavily on his cane, the magistrate pushed to his feet. “Indeed, Inspector. And while I’m sure you understand that none of us here are pleased to see you, in the circumstances, it seemed best to ask Scotland Yard for assistance.”

  Unperturbed, Stokes replied, “All murder investigations are, these days, reported to the Yard. As the representative of the commissioner, I have assumed all responsibility for this case and, henceforth, will report to London.” Before Sir Godfrey could decide whether to be huffy about being virtually dismissed, Stokes continued, “I understand you’ve made no advance in identifying the gentleman responsible for the murders.”

  Sir Godfrey blinked. “Er…no. That is, I did wonder if it might be some itinerant in the case of Miss Johnson, but with Mrs. Cleary…” Sir Godfrey’s face fell into lines of grave concern. “Of course, there might be two murderers.”

  “One hopes not.” Stokes formally inclined his head to Sir Godfrey. “If you have nothing more to tell me, sir, I believe we need delay you no longer. Thank you for making time to hold the fort here. The Yard appreciates your support. Perhaps as a last gesture, you might direct me to the owner of Mandeville Hall.”

  Penelope compressed her lips to stifle a grin. Stokes had clearly been working on tact and charm.

  “What? Oh—yes.” Sir Godfrey waved at the wan-looking gentleman in the chair opposite the one Sir Godfrey had vacated. “Mr. Percival Mandeville.”

  Percy Mandeville rose to his feet and—wearily and warily—inclined his head to Stokes. “Inspector.”

  Stokes nodded back, then looked at Sir Godfrey. “The Yard will inform you of the outcome of the investigation in due course.”

  “Er…right. Yes, of course.” With no alternative offering, Sir Godfrey muttered a farewell to Percy and directed a general bow to the assembled company, then Sir Godfrey stumped to the door, which a footman opened for him.

  Stokes watched Sir Godfrey leave; he waited until the door was shut before turning to address the Hall’s owner. “Mr. Mandeville. I’m sure I don’t need to stress how serious the crimes committed here are.” His gray gaze wintry, Stokes surveyed the guests seated on the sofas and chairs. “I understand Sir Godfrey has already informed you that no one is to quit the property until such time as the investigation allows it. That edict will remain in place. However, my men and I will endeavor to complete all the necessary interviews, searches, and other investigations as soon as possible. Depending on the outcome, I may be able to lift the injunction against leaving sooner rather than later.”

  All the guests were hanging on Stokes’s every word.

  Satisfied, he returned his gaze to Mandeville. “Regarding the crimes, the police surgeon has examined the bodies and confirmed that both ladies were, in fact, murdered. We are, therefore, seeking to identify a man—apparently a gentleman residing under this roof—who has already killed twice.” The bald statement of a fact the guests must already have deduced nevertheless sent a ripple of unease through t
he company.

  “More,” Stokes relentlessly continued, “we believe Mrs. Cleary was murdered because Miss Johnson’s killer believed she might have recognized him—perhaps not then and there, but the prospect had arisen. Consequently, I urge any of you who have any inkling of who the murderer might be to speak with or send word of your suspicions to me, to the Adairs, or to my constables as soon as possible. Sharing any information you have is the best way to protect yourself from coming under attack from the murderer.”

  Now the guests were looking sidelong at each other, which, Penelope knew, had been Stokes’s intention—to put them on guard and get them watching each other.

  He made a production of looking at the clock on the mantelpiece. “As it’s already late and dinnertime is nigh, we will hold off commencing our formal interviews until tomorrow morning. Until then, you’re free to do as you wish, as long as you remain in the house or on the grounds. However, I will ask that you give your names and home addresses to my constable”—Stokes gestured to Philpott, standing just inside the door—“before leaving the room.”

  Formally, Stokes inclined his head to the company, sweeping them with his steely gaze. “Thank you for your attention. I look forward to your cooperation in bringing this distressing episode to a speedy resolution.”

  With a last nod to Percy Mandeville, Stokes turned and walked to join not Penelope and Barnaby but Carradale and Miss Whittaker. “If you would both remain for a moment,” Stokes said, his voice loud enough to be heard by those nearby, “I would like to question you further as to the finding of Miss Johnson’s body.”

  Carradale met his eyes, then somewhat stiffly inclined his head. “As you wish, Inspector.”

  Clearly, Carradale knew how to play a part.

  Miss Whittaker noted Carradale’s distance and mimicked it; her expression aloof, she dipped her head the merest fraction in acquiescence.

  Stokes turned and watched the other guests file out, all pausing at the door to give Philpott names and addresses as requested. None made any fuss. From all Stokes could see, no one appeared to be jibbing under his rein. Yet. He sighed and murmured, “I always live in hope that during such exchanges, the murderer will stand up and bluster and try to have me thrown out. I don’t suppose either of you noticed any unexpected reaction?”

  Carradale softly humphed. “No. This lot have learned to be circumspect. I doubt you’ve much chance of surprising the murderer into giving himself away.”

  “As for the ladies,” Miss Whittaker said, “they were all listening avidly, but at your suggestion of reporting anything they know, they all looked around at each other. None appeared to think the danger you alluded to applied to her.”

  Stokes grunted.

  The owner, Percy Mandeville, was the second last to leave. Stokes nodded at the gentleman who followed Percy out. “Is that the other Mandeville? Edward, the cousin?”

  “Yes.” Carradale faintly frowned. “He seems to have elected himself Percy’s guardian.”

  Morgan slipped into the room and closed the door. After consulting with Philpott, both constables crossed to join Stokes. Barnaby and Penelope also came up.

  Stokes arched a hopeful brow at Morgan, but the baby-faced constable shook his head. “Nothing to report, sir. The staff are all properly rattled, but also properly tight-lipped.”

  Stokes humphed. “We’ll see how they feel tomorrow, once the reality of an investigation takes hold.”

  Penelope widened her eyes at him. “Given the time, I agree that postponing all interviews until tomorrow was unavoidable. So what now?”

  He compressed his lips, then let them twist in a grimace. “Normally, we’d have already studied the scenes of both crimes, but in this case, both scenes are long cold, and if anything incriminating had been left behind, the murderer has had ample opportunity to remove it.”

  “Except that Mrs. Cleary’s room has been kept locked from shortly after the body was found.” Miss Whittaker produced a key and handed it to Stokes. “It’s an old, heavy lock, not that easy to pick or force.”

  Stokes took the key and weighed it in his palm, then glanced at Barnaby, Penelope, and his men. “If the room is secure, we’ll do better searching it tomorrow, in better light.” He sighed and met Barnaby’s eyes. “It’s been a while since I had a case in the country—the different rhythms of life and of the case itself take some adjusting to.”

  “Indeed,” Penelope said. “And in this instance, the most difficult aspect is the time constraint—the short period we have before keeping the guests here becomes a battle in itself.”

  Barnaby grimaced. “Essentially, we have one day—tomorrow.” He met Stokes’s eyes. “We have to make some significant advance by day’s end or face mounting pressure from the guests to be allowed to leave on Saturday.”

  Turning grim at the reminder, Stokes nodded curtly. “We’d best find a place to lay our heads for the night.”

  “Try the Tabard Inn at Wildhern,” Carradale said. “It’s the closest and decently comfortable. Use my name. The innkeeper is Peters. He’s trustworthy.”

  “I stayed there on Monday night,” Miss Whittaker volunteered, “and can vouch for the beds.”

  Barnaby nodded. “We’ll go there.”

  “Meanwhile”—Stokes regarded Carradale and Miss Whittaker—“you two could assist by keeping your eyes and ears open through the rest of the evening. I’m hoping all the others in the company will view the time you’ve spent with us as merely due to our questions rather than you actively assisting us. The longer they believe that, the longer they’ll remain unguarded in your presence.”

  Carradale and Miss Whittaker nodded.

  “We’ll do our best,” Miss Whittaker confirmed.

  “What we’re looking for,” Penelope said, “is anything that seems the least bit odd—out of place or out of character.”

  “Anything,” Barnaby said, “that doesn’t ring true.”

  Carradale inclined his head. “We’ll observe as we can, but I feel compelled to point out that, thus far, our murderer has maintained a cool head and shown no inclination whatsoever toward giving himself away.”

  Chapter 6

  Although it wasn’t quite time to change for dinner, most of the other guests appeared to have retreated to their rooms, no doubt to consider what being at a house party with a murderer might mean for them, socially speaking.

  For some, Alaric suspected, the answer wouldn’t be all bad; being the bearer of juicy gossip opened doors in the ton.

  He needed to return to Carradale Manor and change for dinner and the evening’s entertainment, whatever that might now prove to be, but first…

  After seeing Adair, Stokes, and company off to the village, on returning to the front hall, instead of leaving Miss Whittaker at the base of the stairs, he touched her arm and glanced upward. “There’s an alcove off the gallery that will allow us to speak privately without actually being in private. I’d like to know your thoughts on events thus far.”

  She looked at him in the very direct way he was coming to expect from her, then nodded. “Indeed. I wouldn’t mind hearing your opinions as well.”

  He walked with her up the stairs and ushered her into the gallery that ran down one of the odd wings of the house. The alcove at the nearer end was open to the gallery itself; it wasn’t visible from the entrance to the gallery, yet anyone drawing near on the polished oak floors would instantly be heard. Built into one of the turrets of the house, the circular alcove offered deep window seats that ran around the perimeter beneath windows that looked out over the gardens.

  Miss Whittaker observed and approved. As she drew in her skirts and sat, she looked up at him and remarked, “A useful spot.”

  “Percy and I have often found it so.”

  “You’ve known our host for a long time, haven’t you?”

  He sat opposite her and waved toward the woods. “We’re neighbors with no other families of similar station close. Although Percy’s several years my
junior, throughout our childhoods, during the months we both spent in Hampshire, we were together for much of the time.”

  “Do you also know Edward Mandeville well?”

  He shook his head. “I know Edward more by repute—via Percy and Percy’s older brother—than by direct exposure. Prior to this house party, I’d only met Edward a handful of times at family events.” He caught her green eyes. “But turning to the investigation of your cousin’s and Rosa Cleary’s murders, are you comfortable with Scotland Yard’s intervention?”

  She arched her brows. “I wouldn’t say comfortable. Resigned, yes, and perhaps, now that I’ve met Inspector Stokes and his…I suppose the Adairs are consultants of sorts, then I’m rather more accepting of the notion that placing the investigation into their collective hands is our best hope for catching the murderer.”

  She held his gaze, then her lips twitched, and she added, “I was watching the other ladies and some of the gentlemen, too, and I got the distinct impression that Stokes was a great deal more civilized than they’d expected.”

  He felt his lips lift fractionally in response. “One can only hope the realization will make the others more amenable to assisting in whatever way they can.” He paused, then, his gaze steady on her eyes, went on, “I appreciate the reasoning behind Stokes’s request for us to continue to observe the others, but again, I deem it unlikely that the murderer, who thus far has remained entirely unruffled, will suddenly grow nervous or guilty and give himself away. And despite the edict that keeps all the others here, you are not a guest as such and therefore not subject to it, any more than I am.”

  He wished he could foresee how she would react to his next suggestion; regardless, he felt compelled to make it. “I hope you won’t consider this impertinent, but there is a murderer in this house, under this roof, and there’s no real call for you to remain here and expose yourself to potential danger. You could retreat to the inn with Stokes and the others. There can be little question that you would be safer there.”