“Are there any gentlemen with rooms there?” Stokes asked.
“Two,” Carnaby replied. “Mr. Edward has one of the rooms toward the north end, and Mr. Alaric—Lord Carradale—now he’s staying, has the room one door up from the west wing corridor.”
They quickly filled in where the other unmarried gentlemen’s rooms were situated; the married couples had been accommodated in yet another wing.
“And Mrs. Cleary’s room?” Penelope asked.
“Just there, ma’am.” Mrs. Carnaby tapped a spot toward the end of the ladies’ wing. “She’d come before and liked that room, so we gave it to her again.”
Barnaby glanced at the sketch; the gentlemen’s rooms were on the opposite side of the house from the shrubbery, while the ladies’ rooms lay more or less at the midpoint of the house. Two of the married couples’ rooms overlooked the lawn before the shrubbery entrance, but the chances of anyone having glanced out at just the right moment to see the murderer cross the lawn were slim, and neither of the couples had mentioned any such sighting.
“Those of you who work in the stables.” Stokes looked down the table. “What can you tell me about the times Lord Carradale came and went on Monday and, again, on Tuesday?”
It transpired that Carradale’s gray gelding, Sultan, was a favorite among the stable staff; the stableman, Percy’s groom, and the stable boy all verified the times Alaric had arrived at and had ridden away from the Hall.
With Morgan taking notes, Stokes turned his attention to Carnaby and the footmen who had been circulating among the guests at Monday evening’s soirée. As they’d hoped, the staff were more acutely aware of who had been where, and through judicious questioning, Stokes pieced together a detailed account of Glynis Johnson’s movements through the evening.
“So with Mrs. Collard, Miss Johnson approached Lord Carradale and the group he was chatting with,” Penelope clarified. When one of the footmen and Carnaby nodded, she arched a brow at Barnaby.
Stokes caught her eye and arched a brow back.
She grimaced. “It could be nothing, but it does lend credence to Carradale’s suspicion that Glynis was using him as…well, cover, in some way. For some reason.”
“Sadly,” Barnaby dryly remarked, “that gets us no closer to comprehending that reason.”
The footmen and Carnaby were very certain that no altercation, argument, or even disagreement had occurred among the guests during the course of the evening. “They all seemed very pleasant and civilized,” Carnaby said.
Unfortunately, when it came to the critical time on Monday night immediately after the guests retired, when asked if they’d seen Glynis Johnson anywhere in the house or grounds, all the staff looked blank.
After a moment, they exchanged glances, then Carnaby volunteered, “We all assumed she’d gone upstairs with the other ladies.”
“So no one saw her slipping outside to the shrubbery?” Stokes asked.
The reply was a circle of shaking heads.
Barnaby stifled a sigh. So often in cases such as this, the staff were the investigators’ salvation; they’d almost grown to expect it. After a moment, he asked, “During Monday’s events—earlier in the day or through the evening—did any of you see any interaction, any argument or discussion, between Mrs. Cleary and Miss Johnson?”
The staff clearly dredged their memories, but again, to no avail.
Barnaby glanced at Stokes, who pulled a glum face in reply. Stokes consulted the notebook Morgan held open for him to read, then looked around the table. “That’s all the questions we have for the moment. If any of you remember anything to do with Miss Johnson or Mrs. Cleary that might mean something about their deaths—anything at all, no matter if you think it’s not important—please come and find one of us. Don’t think we won’t want to know.” He glanced around the table one last time, then pushed back his chair. He nodded to Carnaby. “Thank you for your time.”
Getting to her feet, Penelope added, “We know you must be terribly rushed with so many guests in the house.”
“Indeed, ma’am.” Carnaby glanced at his wife, then looked back at Penelope. “We wondered, ma’am, if you and your husband and the inspector would prefer a light luncheon in the small parlor. We’ve a cold collation ready to go out for the other guests”—footmen and maids were already streaming past with dishes suitably laden—“but we thought you might perhaps prefer the privacy.”
“Thank you, Carnaby.” Penelope bestowed her most graciously approving smile. “That will, indeed, suit us better.”
Pleased, the butler bowed. “If you will repair to the parlor, we’ll bring in the platters momentarily.”
Morgan indicated he would take his meal with the staff.
As she turned to follow Stokes, Penelope glanced at her sketch of the house, then paused and turned back. “Mrs. Carnaby.”
The housekeeper turned from testing a jelly. “Yes, ma’am?”
“After luncheon, I believe we’ll need to search the rooms of the deceased ladies. I have Mrs. Cleary’s room marked, and I assume Miss Johnson was sharing the room with Mrs. Macomber.”
“Oh no, ma’am. Miss Johnson specifically didn’t want to share her chaperon’s room. Quite put out about it, Mrs. Macomber was, but Miss Johnson held firm. Of course, the rooms had already been allocated, and the only other room in that wing with a spare bed was the one Mrs. Cleary preferred. Luckily, Mrs. Cleary said she didn’t mind sharing, so Miss Johnson was in with her.”
Penelope slowly blinked. They’d been searching for a connection between Glynis Johnson and Rosa Cleary, and there it was. A situation that would have allowed—nay, very likely encouraged—Glynis to share secrets with the more-experienced Rosa.
In a daze of whirling thoughts, Penelope thanked Mrs. Carnaby and followed Barnaby and Stokes, who had paused and looked back and had heard the exchange, to the small parlor.
Before they’d even had a chance to sit about the desk, which had been set with a cloth, plates, and cutlery, Philpott rejoined them. In a few short words, he confirmed that, according to several people’s testimony, neither Alaric nor Constance could have murdered Glynis Johnson—“Neither of them could have been here at that time”—and Alaric also could not have killed Rosa Cleary. “Not unless he walked here and back through the wood in the dead of night, and even then, his people are attentive. They likely would have heard him leaving or returning to his house.” Philpott shut his notebook.
Barnaby pulled a face. “That’s a small step forward, but it’s already lunchtime, and we’re still left with seven possible culprits on our suspect list.”
“Hmm. At this sort of house party, I would be surprised if more of the gentlemen didn’t have an alibi, but getting the ladies involved to come forth with those alibis…” Penelope sighed and shook her head.
Stokes frowned. “Mrs. Gibson came forward without too much prompting.”
“Ah,” Barnaby cynically said, “but she’s a widow.”
“Mrs. Gibson,” Penelope explained, “risked very little in alibiing Viscount Hammond. The other ladies, however, are all married. They are not going to—as they would see it—publicly admit to a liaison.”
Stokes humphed.
The door opened, and Philpott stepped aside to allow three maids to ferry in various platters. He looked at Stokes. “Shall I join Morgan, then?”
Stokes nodded. “Go and eat. We’ll want you both shortly.” He arched a brow at Penelope. “I understand we have a room to search.”
“Indeed, we do!” She felt much more enthused. The instant the maids finished laying out the platters and withdrew, she continued, “If Rosa and Glynis were sharing a room…well, that opens up all sorts of possibilities…” She paused, then grimaced. “Mainly as to why Rosa was killed. Still”—she was determined to remain optimistic—“there might well be something in the room that will cast light on what Glynis wore on that chain. Like a jeweler’s box.”
The three of them fell to. When they were served and
eating, Barnaby glanced at Penelope. “Don’t get your hopes up—remember, the murderer has been back in that room at least once since he killed Glynis. After killing Rosa, he might well have searched—in fact, that might have been his primary reason for killing her. To clear the way to search.”
“Possibly.” Stubbornness glinted in Penelope’s eyes. “But I still say a search might turn up something—the murderer is a man, and men never know where to look. And even when they do, they often don’t see.”
Barnaby exchanged a glance with Stokes, then both addressed themselves to their plates.
* * *
Alaric was the first to reach the alcove off the gallery, where he and Constance had arranged to meet to share their thoughts and observations.
Sliding his hands into his pockets, he walked across to look out of the turret window. Spread out beneath him across the green sward of the croquet field, the rest of the company—virtually everyone including Mrs. Fitzherbert and Mrs. Cripps—were attempting to stoically get on with things by playing a tournament.
He scanned the heads, but as he’d hoped, Constance wasn’t there; presumably, she was on her way.
At the thought of her—as her image formed in his head—his mind returned to their last moments in the drawing room when, apparently without any awareness of committing any solecism, she’d spoken for him. She’d used the royal “we” as if he and she were…if not an acknowledged couple, then certainly a team.
Partners in the pursuit of justice.
He’d found the moment faintly amusing—and also distinctly revealing.
Discovering that the Amazon was inherently bossy had come as no surprise; what he had found odd was that he didn’t mind.
Not in the least.
As revelations went…
Quick footsteps sounded on the gallery floor, then Constance swept in. She was slightly breathless, and her cheeks were faintly flushed. “Mrs. Fitzherbert wanted chapter and verse as to where I was off to.” Constance frowned. “I think she’s feeling a touch guilty over the deaths—she’s nominally Percy’s hostess, after all—and is, in her way, attempting to shut the door after the horse has bolted, so to speak.”
She’d spoken as she crossed the room; she fetched up beside Alaric and looked out, too. “Did you learn anything at all useful over luncheon?”
He returned his gaze to the scene below. “Nothing.” He paused, then added, “While the ladies seem to be still chattering unreservedly, the men have become a touch more circumspect about what they say around me.”
“Around us.” She grimaced. “Hardly surprising, I suppose—none of them are idiots.”
After a moment, she went on, “The one thing I did notice was your friend, Percy. He seems to be becoming steadily more maudlin, not less as one would expect.” She cast Alaric one of her very direct looks. “Do you have any idea why?”
Partners. He and she were, indeed, partners—at least in this. Alaric grimaced. “I noticed, but no, I have no idea why Percy seems to be so…deeply affected. In terms of his usual resilience, I would definitely not cast this as normal.”
She stared down at the lawn for several seconds, then drew breath and said, “I know he’s your friend, and you don’t think he could be the murderer—”
“I still don’t think he is.”
“That wasn’t what I was about to suggest.” She met his gaze as he looked at her. “But could Percy have guessed who the murderer must be and be in a funk over that?”
Alaric frowned, then he looked back down at those on the lawn. He picked out Percy’s shining head. After a moment of consulting his instincts about Percy, he offered, “I don’t think he’s in a funk or anything like that. It’s something else. It’s as if the murder—and whether it’s Glynis’s murder, Rosa’s, or both, I can’t say—has affected him in some deep and fundamental way.” After a moment, he added, “Percy’s parents are alive, and so are all his siblings. I don’t think that, as an adult, he’s ever had to mourn the passing of someone near to him. That Glynis and Rosa were guests—in Glynis’s case, invited specially, and Rosa was an old friend…it’s possible he’s weighed down with emotion, a mix of shock, grief, and guilt combined, and he simply doesn’t know how to deal with it.”
“He seems to be struggling.” Constance’s gaze touched Alaric’s face. “Have you spoken to him about it?”
“No. I haven’t had the opportunity.” He set his jaw. “But if he continues this way, I will.”
They heard footsteps in the gallery, passing the entrance on the way to the head of the stairs.
Constance whirled. “That’s Pearl—my maid.”
She rushed out into the gallery and around toward the stairs.
Alaric followed on her heels.
The maid—Pearl—heard them, looked back, and relaxed. “There you are, Miss Constance. I was wondering where you might be.” The maid was about to go on, but then her gaze reached Alaric, and she paused.
Constance waved in his direction. “You can speak freely before Lord Carradale. What is it?”
The maid dragged her gaze back to her mistress’s face. “It’s Mrs. Macomber, miss. She’s awake and—thank the stars—lucid at last. But when I said I was going to fetch you, she grew querulous and said she didn’t think she was up to answering any questions.”
Constance’s face set. “Be that as it may, she will speak with me. We need to know what she knows, and we need to know urgently.”
Without further ado, she strode for Mrs. Macomber’s room. Alaric fell in alongside her. The maid, he noticed, hurried close behind.
Constance was glad—even a trifle relieved—to have Alaric with her; if Mrs. Macomber revealed anything of importance, Constance wanted an unimpeachable witness. But when they reached Mrs. Macomber’s door, she paused; looking into his face—looking up into his face, something she rarely had to do—she felt compelled to warn him, “If you can, resist the urge to ask Mrs. Macomber questions, at least at the start. She was never what you might call a strong woman.”
She saw his lips twitch, but he merely inclined his head, reached past her, opened the door, and held it for her.
Constance swept into the room and saw Mrs. Macomber, wearing a knitted bedjacket and with her hair in a cap, propped up by a mound of pillows in the bed. Alaric stepped around Constance, lifted the dressing table stool, and set it alongside the bed. She thanked him and sat, then focused on the chaperon’s soft, lined face. Her color was still poor, and her eyes had grown round; she was staring at Alaric.
Constance reined in her impatience—barking questions at the timorous chaperon wasn’t going to get them the results they needed—and calmly stated, “Lord Carradale is here because it’s really quite urgent that we learn answers to certain questions. Please bear with us, Mrs. Macomber, but with an inspector from Scotland Yard in the house, we felt it would be easier for you if you spoke with us rather than be interrogated by him.”
Alaric only just managed to hide his grin and assume a suitably concerned mien. His Amazon clearly thought quickly on her feet and was accustomed to dealing with difficult females.
Mrs. Macomber’s old eyes had grown even rounder at the mention of Scotland Yard. At the word “interrogation,” she shivered. “Oh! I hadn’t realized things were that bad.”
Constance nodded. “Sadly, there are constables in the house. So if you can tell us what you know about Glynis, we’ll do what we can to keep the inspector from your door.”
“Oh, thank you, dear. I never imagined…”
“First,” Constance forged determinedly on, “why did Glynis accept Mr. Mandeville’s invitation? She must have known her mother and the rest of the family would be horrified.”
Mrs. Macomber blinked owlishly. “But it was because of the betrothal, of course. I thought, when Glynis told me of it, that there would be no question over her coming here…well, I thought the family would be delighted, you see.”
Alaric appreciated the control Constance exhibited in keep
ing her “What betrothal?” to an even tone.
“Why, the one to Mr. Mandeville. Mr. Percy Mandeville. This visit was supposed to allow Glynis to meet his people—not his parents; that was to have come later—but his close friends and his old aunt. He felt sure his aunt would support him in taking Glynis to see his parents and gaining their approval of the match.” Mrs. Macomber frowned. “Of course, when we got here, Percy told Glynis that because his meddling cousin had arrived out of the blue, that it was necessary—essential, even—to keep the betrothal a secret.”
When Constance appeared to be struck dumb, Alaric softly asked, “As you know, I’m a close friend of Percy’s, and I suspect he thought to gain my support for the match as well, and then had to conceal the betrothal instead. How long ago did Percy ask Glynis to marry him?”
Mrs. Macomber pursed her lips in thought, then replied, “At least three weeks ago. I can’t be sure without consulting my diary.”
“I see.” Alaric exchanged a glance with Constance.
She looked at Mrs. Macomber and asked, “How did Glynis react to Percy’s request to keep the betrothal a secret?”
“Well, she was put out, of course, but Percy convinced her it was only until his cousin Edward went away. Sadly, they both suspected that would mean the end of the house party, but still… As Glynis said, against spending a lifetime together, what were seven more days?”
Somewhat carefully, Alaric asked, “Miss Johnson was wearing a chain about her neck on Monday evening. Do you have any idea what she wore on it—there was a weight of some sort dangling from it.”
Mrs. Macomber’s expression grew puzzled. “I don’t know—she didn’t normally wear a chain. Indeed, I think she only put it on—the chain she had on that night—after we arrived here on Sunday.”
When neither Alaric nor Constance immediately responded, Mrs. Macomber stretched out a hand and weakly gripped Constance’s wrist. “My dear, I know I have no right to throw myself on the family’s mercy, but I had no idea that accepting Mr. Mandeville’s invitation would lead to this…” Her old eyes filled with tears. “I am truly, truly sorry.”