Percy Mandeville came in looking nervous and unsure, but not in a guilty way.
Penelope’s first question was why he’d invited Miss Johnson, an unmarried young lady, to an event more normally the province of the married-and-racy, not to say licentious set.
Percy’s expression blanked. He blinked slowly, then, his tone flat, offered, “I’d met her in town. Freddy Collins and I…we started talking that perhaps it was time to change things somewhat, perhaps make the house party a bit less racy, and why not invite two good-looking young ladies…” Percy swallowed. “Freddy suggested Miss Weldon, and Miss Johnson was an acquaintance, so…” He looked down at his hands, clasped tightly between his knees. “I invited them both.” He quickly looked up. “And their chaperons, of course. There was never any intention of them being…harmed in any way…” His voice faltered and he breathed, “Oh God.”
The shock that still held him was obvious.
After a moment, Stokes took up the questioning; he led Percy through the events of Monday evening, confirming the movements of Glynis Johnson as far as Percy knew them. He denied noting anything out of the ordinary, any altercation or disagreement with any of the men—not even any specific interaction with one.
“Well, other than strolling on the terrace with Alaric—Carradale, that is.” Percy stared at Stokes. “But I think that was just that she wanted some air and saw Carradale as…safe. He’s more mature, and he’s not the sort to pursue young ladies.”
Penelope arched her brows, but then nodded. “That was insightful of her and essentially correct.”
Stokes confirmed that Carradale had left for home before the guests retired.
“Yes.” Percy added, “We talked and chatted for about an hour more, then the ladies went up, and the gentlemen followed.” He paused, then said, “Miss Johnson should have been with the other ladies.”
“You didn’t see her elsewhere?” Stokes asked.
“Edward and I brought up the rear, and I went to my room. I didn’t see Miss Johnson anywhere about.”
“As to your movements during the night, can anyone confirm where you were? And come to that, can you confirm the whereabouts of anyone else?”
Faint color touched Percy’s pallid cheeks. “Er…no. I spent the night alone, in my bed.”
After Percy, they called in Edward Mandeville. Carradale had described him as arrogant and pompous, and for Stokes’s money, stiff-rumped could be added to the list. Edward was thrown off balance by having to face both Stokes—who he patently regarded as a social inferior—and Barnaby and Penelope, who were unquestionably of higher social rank than he. In the interests of getting on as fast as possible, Stokes left the interrogation to Barnaby. As Edward hadn’t been acquainted with the guests prior to meeting them at this party and his attention seemed to have been primarily on Percy and his interactions, in the matter of Miss Johnson, they had little joy of Edward.
When asked as to his movements during Monday night, he looked faintly shocked, then stated unequivocally that he’d retired to his room and had remained there throughout.
Next came Mr. Montague Radleigh, Carradale’s cousin. He hadn’t met Glynis before the party, and although he seemed quite observant, about Glynis, he could tell them no more than Percy.
“Although,” Stokes said as the door closed behind Radleigh, “he did confirm everything Percy Mandeville said.”
Radleigh had also spent the night in his allocated bed; given the reluctance with which he admitted that, they were inclined to believe him.
Thereafter, they proceeded as rapidly as they could through the guests, alternating between ladies and gentlemen. Most could corroborate at least a part of Glynis Johnson’s movements during Monday evening, and more tellingly, no one contradicted the information offered by anyone else.
Neither Fletcher nor Walker showed any hint of consciousness over Miss Johnson; if either was the murderer, he was an excellent actor, which—as Penelope later pointed out—was entirely possible. Both men remained high on the suspect list.
Penelope made a point of asking every guest—male and female—if they had any idea what bauble Miss Johnson had worn on the chain about her neck. Many hadn’t noticed the chain, and those who admitted doing so had no idea of what had been hanging on it.
When it came to where people were over the critical hours of Monday night, a surprising number claimed to have spent the night alone in their beds. The only gentlemen to be provided with alibis were Colonel Humphries, whose wife, Maude, swore he’d been snoring beside her the whole night, Mr. William Coke, whose wife, Margaret, gave much the same response as Maude Humphries, and Viscount Hammond, who—refreshingly—admitted to spending the night with Mrs. Gibson in her room, a claim Mrs. Gibson subsequently rather haughtily verified.
Of interest, Mr. Henry Wynne’s alibi proved to be unverifiable; he claimed to have been in his room with Mrs. Cleary. “We met at the rear corner of the side terrace and agreed to adjourn to my room—she was sharing a room, but I had a room to myself.” Almost glowering at having to explain, he grudgingly continued, “I went upstairs first, and she joined me about ten minutes later. She didn’t mention seeing the gentleman come out of the shrubbery, but we weren’t there to chat.”
Beyond that, Wynne could tell them nothing; as he pointed out, he hadn’t been interested in Miss Johnson, so he hadn’t been watching her.
In surprisingly good time, they reached the end of the interviews of those above stairs.
Stokes pushed back from the table and raised his voice. “Carradale. Miss Whittaker. Would you join us?”
The pair appeared and resumed the seats the interviewees had recently vacated. “No one lied that I could tell,” Carradale said.
“From what little I’ve gathered over the past days, no one said anything out of character. I detected nothing false,” Miss Whittaker offered.
Penelope frowned. “Do you mind, Miss Whittaker, if we switch to first names? It seems the time for formality between us is long past. My name is Penelope.”
Constance Whittaker inclined her head. “Please call me Constance.”
“Barnaby,” Barnaby said.
“Alaric,” Carradale responded. “But I’ve been Carradale to most for a very long time.”
Stokes grunted. “No one—not even my wife—calls me anything other than Stokes.”
Penelope grinned and caught Constance’s eye. “That’s true. He remains forever Stokes.”
Stokes stirred. “Now we’ve got the niceties out of the way, to the case.” He glanced at Alaric and Constance. “You two are formally suspects until we can speak with those staff members here, at Carradale Manor, and at the Tabard Inn who can verify your movements. Obviously, that’s purely a formality. However.” Stokes rapidly counted down a list in his notebook. “Now we’ve interviewed all the guests and eliminated a few, we still have eight gentlemen without alibis.”
“And,” Barnaby said, slouching in his chair and sliding his hands into his trouser pockets, “we still have no sighting of Glynis between the time the ladies retired upstairs and her being found dead the next morning. It seems remarkable that no one saw her.”
“That’s something we’ll need to push with the staff.” Stokes made another note in his book. “Someone had to have seen her.”
Barnaby shrugged. “Staff are often more observant than their masters.”
“So we can hope,” Stokes returned.
“We also have no information as to what Glynis was wearing on her chain—the object that might have caused her to be murdered,” Penelope said. “It’s possible a maid assisting Glynis might have glimpsed it, but we really need to speak with Mrs. Macomber.”
Constance nodded. “We’ll be told when she wakes.”
Silence fell, then Stokes tapped his notebook with the end of his pencil. “The thing that worries me most is that we’ve got no real hint of any strong motive. We can hypothesize and imagine what might have been, but as yet, with not one guest mentioning
any altercation or even tension between Miss Johnson and anyone else, there’s precious few facts to follow.”
Barnaby drew his hands from his pockets and straightened. “I believe that’s our cue to get on with investigating.” He caught Stokes’s eye. “But before we adjourn to the servants’ hall, might I suggest that a report to those still corralled in the drawing room might be in order?”
Stokes arched a brow. “How so?”
“There’s no need to tell them we have a list of eight suspects. Given they already entertain erroneous views of how Scotland Yard and its investigations operate, why not simply say that the interviews are proceeding, but that there’s nothing of any moment to report at this point and, without actually stating it, reassure the murderer that we’re not closing in on him.” Barnaby’s expression hardened. “We want no more murders.”
Stokes grunted. “We aren’t closing in on him. But I take your point.” He shut his notebook and straightened. “I would rather he—whoever he is—believes he’s safe and need do nothing more.”
“Hmm. And making such a statement will give us an opportunity to observe how it’s received,” Penelope said. “Will anyone show, however fleetingly, relief—or even guilt?” She swung her gaze to Alaric and Constance. “Apropos of watching everyone at once, might I suggest that you two leave and make your way to the drawing room by a circuitous route? Perhaps via the gardens. It will be to our advantage to preserve for as long as possible the appearance of you not being allied with the investigators.”
Stokes glanced at the clock on a sideboard. “We can give you ten minutes.”
Alaric rose and held Constance’s chair as she came to her feet. He nodded to the three on the other side of the desk. “Until later.” With that, he escorted Constance out of the parlor, down a corridor, and out onto the side terrace.
Strolling easily, they made their way to the corner and around onto the front terrace and so to the drawing room, entering through the open French doors. Others asked where they’d been and if they’d heard anything; smoothly Alaric explained that they’d been the first to be questioned and, subsequently, had strolled the gardens, waiting for the others to be released.
Other than a few humphs, no one made any further comment. A love seat near the windows was the only vacant seating; Alaric touched Constance’s arm and nodded in that direction. They’d just made themselves comfortable, seated side by side with, courtesy of their heights, a reasonable view of the room’s other occupants, when the door opened and Stokes, Barnaby, and Penelope walked in.
While Barnaby and Penelope hung back by the door, Stokes walked forward to claim center stage.
Alaric found his respect for the man growing; this wasn’t Stokes’s milieu, yet he commanded attention with a calm professionalism that was impressive.
Glancing at his fellow guests, Alaric sensed he wasn’t alone in thinking that.
“I’ve come to inform you of progress thus far and to thank you all for your patience.” Stokes’s deep voice riveted his audience. “As of yet, we have garnered no facts that point to Miss Johnson’s and Mrs. Cleary’s killer, but our investigations are continuing. You are now free to move about the house and grounds. Should we need to speak with any of you further, we will summon you individually.”
Alaric could almost see Stokes bite back the words Rest assured we will do everything in our power to see the miscreant brought to justice.
Despite Stokes’s effort, all the assembled guests remained tense, almost on tenterhooks; far from being relieved or reassured, the guests cast suspicious glances at various gentlemen, and not all such glances were covert. Nevertheless, in the circumstances, no one’s reaction seemed out of place. There were no guilty looks that Alaric could see.
Then Edward Mandeville, standing to one side of the mantelpiece, spoke. “If we might inquire, Inspector, what line of investigation are you pursuing?” Edward glanced around the company. “Is there any particular point you would like us, as a group, to try to recall?”
Stokes, reluctantly to Alaric’s ears, replied, “The critical point we are endeavoring to ascertain is who Miss Johnson met in the shrubbery—indeed, why she went out there at all.” Stokes paused and looked around, brows lightly arching in invitation, but while many frowned in transparent thought, no one volunteered any insights.
Alaric allowed his gaze to drift over the company; he glanced back at Edward in time to see him slant a strangely intent look at Percy. Following Edward’s gaze, Alaric noted that, far from recovering from the shock of the murders, Percy seemed to be sinking deeper into…despondency? Ever-deepening gloom, certainly.
Could Percy be the murderer after all? Was that what Edward was worried about? Given Edward’s reason for being at the Hall, Alaric could understand his concern; having a murderer in the family would play havoc with the family name.
Alaric considered Percy anew, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t see his old playmate committing such heinous acts. He could, however, see the pressure of Edward’s continuing presence weighing heavily on Percy’s weaker personality and worsening the remorse Percy was undoubtedly feeling over having invited both ladies to their deaths. That, Alaric could easily imagine Percy feeling guilty over.
“If no one has anything to add,” Stokes said, “I repeat, you are free to move about the house and grounds as you wish.”
Because he was watching, Alaric saw Percy haul in a huge breath, hold it, then make a valiant effort to rise to the occasion. “Thank you, Inspector. I’m sure I speak for all of us in saying we hope your investigations move forward apace.”
“To a rapid and speedy resolution,” Edward added in his usual, high-in-the-instep tone.
Others murmured agreement, and the guests rose and, in groups of three and four, filed out of the room.
Alaric glanced at Constance. She arched a brow at him, then rose; he came to his feet and offered his arm. She placed her hand on his sleeve, and they fell in at the rear of the company, dawdling behind Percy, Monty, and Edward.
They’d almost reached the door when Philpott intercepted them. “The inspector would like a word regarding your alibis.” He directed them to where Stokes, who had retreated to confer with Barnaby and Penelope at the side of the room, was waiting to beckon them over.
Alaric realized that Philpott had spoken loudly enough for several of those ahead of them to have heard. Some glanced back, but then continued on their way, clearly seeing nothing odd in the summons.
Hiding a cynical smile—Stokes and his men were not to be underestimated—Alaric changed tack. He heard Philpott shut the drawing room door as he and Constance joined what was clearly an investigators’ conference.
Stokes met Alaric’s gaze. “That wasn’t just a ruse.” He shifted his gaze to Philpott. “Take a horse and go to the Tabard and check Miss Whittaker’s movements with the staff there, then go on to Carradale Manor and speak with his lordship’s staff—verify his movements on the nights of Monday and Tuesday. Then ride back via the bridle path his lordship uses to go back and forth—note how long it takes. We’ll be speaking with the stableman along with the rest of the staff regarding the times his lordship came and went.”
Philpott saluted. “Yes, sir.”
“Wait.” Carradale had hauled out his note tablet and had been scribbling. He tore off a sheet and handed it to Philpott. “Give that to my butler, Morecombe. I doubt he or the others will cooperate without that instruction.”
Philpott read the note with Stokes peering over his shoulder.
Stokes humphed, and Philpott tipped a smiling salute to Alaric and departed.
“Right, then.” From behind the lenses of her spectacles, Penelope’s eyes gleamed. “We need to interview the staff, and despite our best efforts, it’s already after eleven o’clock. We need to get on.”
Stokes looked at Alaric and Constance. “As we’re relying on members of the staff to alibi you two, you can’t be present when we speak with them.”
Along with Constance, Alaric inclined his head in acceptance.
“Is there anything we can do while you’re busy with the staff?” Constance asked.
“I suggest you mingle with the other guests and continue to listen and observe,” Barnaby said. “We have several questions we’ve yet to find answers to, and at some point, someone is going to let something fall.”
Alaric looked at Constance, and both of them nodded. “Very well,” Alaric said.
Constance’s chin firmed. “We’re happy to do whatever we can to help identify Glynis’s and Rosa’s killer.”
Chapter 7
In order to move things along as quickly as possible—and as they had no grounds whatever to imagine the murderer was one of the staff—Stokes, Barnaby, and Penelope elected to speak with the staff as a group in the servants’ hall.
The staff duly gathered around the long deal table that ran the length of the room, sitting in what were no doubt their customary places, although Carnaby and Mrs. Carnaby forsook their positions at the table’s head, leaving those for the investigators.
At Stokes’s direction, they started at the beginning, with the arrival of the guests and, subsequently, the guests being shown to their rooms. Stokes and Barnaby questioned, while Penelope used the answers to draw up a rough sketch of the first floor and the position of the various wings and bedrooms. “So Miss Johnson followed Mrs. Macomber upstairs. Where, exactly, is Mrs. Macomber’s room?”
Seated at Penelope’s elbow, Mrs. Carnaby peered at the sketch. “At the start of the wing where we put the unmarried ladies and the matrons without husbands attending, ma’am. Close to the main stairs on the west side of the corridor”—she pointed—“just there.”
“Good.” Penelope scribbled that down. “And the unmarried gentlemen?”
“In the west wing, ma’am,” Mrs. Carnaby said. “It’s the long corridor leading to the master’s room.”
“I see.” Penelope wielded her pencil. “Here?”
“More or less, ma’am.” Carnaby added, “From the master’s suite, what we call the family wing runs north.”