Constance roused and patted the chaperon’s hand. “Please—no one blames you for this. This was the fault of a dreadful murderer, and no one else is to blame.”
“Thank you for saying that,” Mrs. Macomber all but babbled, “but I know how others will see it.”
“Nonsense!” Constance’s tone switched to bracing. “I can assure you the family will not hold you in any way responsible. Now you must concentrate on regaining your strength.”
“Oh, thank you.” Mrs. Macomber produced a lace-edged handkerchief and blotted her eyes. Then she paused and said, “I really don’t know much of the details of the betrothal, just the fact of it, as it were, but you could likely learn more from Percy’s letters to Glynis. I know she kept every one.”
Constance barely dared to breathe. “Where are they?” Who knew what clues might reside in the letters?
“Glynis kept them in her hatbox. It should be in the room she shared with Mrs. Cleary.”
“Glynis and Mrs. Cleary shared a room?” That was news to Constance—and to Alaric and possibly the other investigators. She’d assumed Glynis’s belongings had been in Mrs. Macomber’s room, but in readying the room for Constance, the efficient maids had tidied Glynis’s things away, and they were being held by Mrs. Carnaby; what with everything that had been going on, Constance hadn’t seen any reason to collect them yet. She blinked. “I glimpsed a hatbox on top of the wardrobe in Mrs. Cleary’s room. I thought it was hers.” She was about to leap to her feet and race off in pursuit of the hatbox, but Alaric’s hand on her shoulder held her down.
“One last question from me, Mrs. Macomber,” Alaric said. “Have you mentioned the betrothal to anyone else—anyone at all?”
Mrs. Macomber reared back. “No—I haven’t mentioned it to a single soul! I would never break such a confidence.”
Alaric managed—how, Constance didn’t know—to produce a reassuring smile. “I would expect nothing else, but we had to ask.” He met Constance’s eyes as she looked up at him, eyes wide, then said to Mrs. Macomber, “And now, we’ll leave you to rest and recuperate.”
As his hand left her shoulder, Constance surged to her feet. “Rest assured, Mrs. Macomber, that we’ll speak with the inspector on your behalf.”
“Oh, thank you, dear. That would be such a relief!”
Constance whirled to the door, but found Carradale before her. She joined him in the corridor, then turned, looked back into the room, and beckoned. “Pearl.”
When Pearl slipped from the room, closing the door behind her, Constance said, “You are not under any circumstances to leave Mrs. Macomber alone.”
“Great heavens, miss—is she in danger?”
“We hope not,” Alaric said. “But better we take precautions and avoid any possible threat.” He nodded at Constance in agreement and encouragement.
She looked back at Pearl. “I’ll send someone else up shortly to spell you, but at all times, there needs to be at least one of you in the room.”
Pearl looked as determined as her mistress. She bobbed a curtsy. “Yes, miss.”
“If you need assistance in the meantime,” Alaric added, “just ring. Someone will come up.”
“Yes, my lord.” Pearl bobbed another curtsy, this time accompanied by a curious glance, then she opened the door and went back into the room.
Constance locked eyes with Alaric. “At last—we have a real clue.”
Grimly, he nodded. “And now I know why Percy’s so wretched. He lost his fiancée, and the idiot hasn’t said.”
Constance frowned. “Why wouldn’t he admit it?”
“That’s easily answered,” Alaric dryly replied. “Edward.” He met Constance’s gaze, hesitated, then explained, “Unless Glynis was the daughter of a viscount or better, Edward would insist the match was a mésalliance. It wasn’t—wouldn’t have been—but he would have described it in those terms to the wider Mandeville family. I’d take an oath Percy was trying to avoid that. But now, with Glynis gone…” Alaric’s lips twisted. “I’m going to find him and talk some sense into him. This can’t go on.”
“Indeed. And I’ll go and get those letters. I’ll have to find Stokes first and get the key from him.”
“I assume they’ll still be interviewing in the back parlor.”
“I’ll go and fetch them—or at least the key.”
Alaric hesitated. One part of him insisted that his need to find Percy should take second place to ensuring Constance didn’t run into any danger in her quest to lay hands on the potentially revealing letters. He looked into her eager face—read her confidence and her self-assurance—and accepted that she wouldn’t appreciate him hovering. And she was in a house swarming with servants and guests, and he had to be the one to find Percy.
And it was broad daylight.
He nodded. “Yes. All right. I’ll find Percy and drag him to see Stokes—I’ll meet you with the other three, wherever they might be.”
Constance nodded and hurried off toward the stairs.
Alaric turned and headed for the stairs at the end of the gallery. The last he’d seen, Percy had been on the croquet lawn.
* * *
On quitting the small parlor, Stokes had decided that five people in a single room was too many to mount an effective search. Rather than waste Philpott’s and Morgan’s time, he’d sent the pair to watch and observe the guests gathered about the croquet lawn. “Covertly, of course. See if you can get a handle on anyone the gentlemen, especially, seem to suspect.”
Stokes had glanced at Barnaby and Penelope. “Someone must at least suspect someone, even if they’re keeping it to themselves.”
Penelope and Barnaby hadn’t disagreed. Penelope had led the way toward the front hall, but on passing a set of minor stairs leading upward, Stokes had suggested that to avoid the hall and the chance of encountering any of the guests, they go up that way. On arriving on the first floor, they found themselves in what Penelope’s sketch identified as the married couples’ wing.
She studied her rough map. “We have to go past the main stairs, on past the end of the gallery, then turn left into the first corridor. The room Mrs. Cleary and Glynis shared is toward the end.”
Stokes squashed a cynical, world-weary smile; Penelope believed searching Rosa Cleary’s room, which had also been Glynis Johnson’s last abode, would yield some clue. In Stokes’s jaded opinion, that was highly unlikely, yet nevertheless, the search had to be made.
“I really do think,” Penelope said, bustling ahead, “that Rosa having shared a room with Glynis significantly increases the likelihood that Rosa knew something—enough, at least, to guess who Glynis’s killer was.” She paused, then added, “Mind you, it couldn’t have been something Glynis directly told Rosa, given Rosa showed no immediate suspicion of anyone when Glynis was found dead.”
“I agree.” Barnaby sauntered in his wife’s wake. “If Rosa had any firm idea of who the killer was, she would have said. Instead, she told Stonewall that she hadn’t seen the gentleman well enough to recognize him. If she was going to speak and risk drawing the attention of the killer, why offer such inconclusive information if she knew who he was. She wasn’t an inexperienced girl—she had to know she was putting herself at risk. She would have said if she’d known who he was or even had a strong suspicion.”
Barnaby caught Penelope’s eye as she glanced back at him. “I’m not sure we need to postulate that Glynis told Rosa anything. She sighted the gentleman in poor light, then—if I’m correctly interpreting what occurred in the corridor outside the billiard room—she saw him again in better light and recognized him then…” He paused, then tipped his head. “Or at least the possibility of who the murderer was occurred to her. She might not have been sufficiently sure, so she held her tongue, perhaps thinking to see him again to be certain before she made any accusation.”
“Hmm.” Penelope faced forward. After a moment, she said, “While all that is true, I still think two ladies sharing a room would have gossiped, and i
t’s possible Glynis was sitting on some piece of prime, gossip-worthy material.”
Stokes was content to let the couple bounce ideas back and forth; despite his years dealing with crimes in these circles, their grasp of society and the likely behavior of the people who moved within it was infinitely greater than his.
Yet in Stokes’s experience, the minds and motives of villains didn’t differ much class to class. “Viewing events from the killer’s perspective, he didn’t know Rosa had seen him leaving the shrubbery, so didn’t immediately seek to silence her. He must have received a rude shock when, the next day, she revealed that she had—he must have nearly panicked then—but virtually in the same breath, she revealed she hadn’t seen him well enough to identify him, making her no threat to him and not someone he needed to do anything about.” He frowned. “His emotions had to have swung from smug assurance to panic and then back again, but no one noticed any overt reaction.”
Barnaby nodded. “Our murderer is a very cool customer. For whatever reason, Glynis was his target. He wouldn’t have harmed Rosa, except—”
“For that moment in the corridor.” Penelope led them across the entrance to the gallery. “Something—something unexpected by both Rosa and our villain—opened Rosa’s eyes. Or at least, she reacted in a manner that made the villain think so. That’s why he killed her.”
“And he did so quickly, coolly, and efficiently.” Barnaby frowned. “I can certainly see Rosa noticing something that tipped her off as to his identity, but…” They paused at the head of the ladies’ wing. Barnaby looked at Penelope, then glanced at Stokes. “What I’m not so clear about is how did he know? What caused him to think that Rosa had—or might have—realized who he was? She didn’t join the company in the drawing room.”
Penelope’s eyes narrowed, and her chin firmed. “We need to ask more questions about what happened in that corridor.”
Her frown deepened, then she humphed, swung on her heel, and led the way down the wing.
She glanced at her sketch as she went, then pointed to a door almost at the end. “That’s the room.”
She paused before the door. Instinctively, Barnaby reached past her and turned the knob.
Stokes was still reaching for the key in his pocket when Barnaby shot him a surprised look and sent the supposedly locked door swinging wide.
Their surprise wasn’t half that of Percy Mandeville; he stood frozen, hovering over the open drawer of the nightstand beside one of the two beds. He’d obviously been searching.
Stokes, Barnaby, and Penelope remained clustered in the doorway, Stokes looking over Penelope’s head; none of them said a word.
“Ah…er…” Percy stared at them much in the manner of a startled sheep. Then he straightened and swallowed and tugged at his cravat. “I say—I was just…well, searching. I realized you hadn’t searched in here—for any clues or whatever there might be. Indications of who might have been in here…well, other than Rosa and Glynis, of course. And I suppose the maids, as well. But…” He hauled in a breath, then gestured, encompassing the room. “You know what I mean, of course. You’re the experts.” He stopped talking and stared at them, panic very close to his surface if the way he wrung his hands was any guide.
Penelope finally walked into the room. Her gaze on Mandeville, in a conversational tone, she inquired, “Did you find anything?”
“Er…” Percy looked around, as if hoping something useful might magically appear. “Ah, no. I mean”—he pointed to a slim volume on the nightstand by the second bed—“that’s Rosa’s address book, but I haven’t looked through it.”
Stokes took that to mean that Percy had been searching the nightstand Glynis Johnson had used.
“I…ah…” Percy gulped in a breath and, apparently, managed to engage his brain. “It occurred to me that as the host and owner of this house, I should make a greater effort to assist the police. Scotland Yard, that is.” His gaze darted from Stokes to Barnaby, then settled on Penelope. “There’s only so many of you, after all, and so many guests to interview. I thought I’d do my bit and see if there was anything to be found.”
Barnaby shot Stokes a glance, then looked back at Percy and inclined his head. “For which we thank you. However, as we’re here now, we’ll take over the search. You have your guests to attend to, after all.”
“Yes. Of course. I didn’t mean to suggest…” Without looking down, Percy nudged the nightstand drawer closed with his knee, then edged toward the door. “And yes, I really should see to my guests. If you’ll excuse me?” He bobbed and nodded to Penelope. “Mrs. Adair.” He nodded vaguely toward Barnaby and even more vaguely to Stokes. “Adair. Inspector.”
His expression impassive, Stokes stepped aside and allowed Percy to flee through the door.
The three of them stood and listened to his footsteps as he strode rapidly down the corridor. Then his steps faltered and halted, but after a second, started up again, even more rapidly than before. A moment later, they heard him clattering down the main stairs.
His brows rising, Stokes reached out and shut the door. “Evidently, Percy Mandeville should be a lot higher on our suspect list.”
Barnaby wrinkled his nose. “Alaric’s certain Percy isn’t our man, and whether he acknowledges it or not, Alaric Radleigh is a very astute judge of character.”
“Be that as it may,” Stokes said, hands rising to his hips as he surveyed the room, “Mandeville was here searching for something. And while I admit we have nothing by way of motive linking him to either lady, I suspect that if we ransack this room, we might well find something.”
Penelope arched her brows but, for once, didn’t argue. The three of them exchanged a long glance, then they turned and set to.
* * *
Alaric reached the edge of the croquet lawn to discover that Percy had vanished.
“Think he went back to the house,” Monty offered. “Said there was something he had to check.”
Alaric stepped back.
“Aren’t you going to take a turn?” Monty asked.
“No. I, too, have something to check.”
With swift strides, Alaric strode back to the house. He entered via the front door. After the bright sunshine outside, he was, for an instant, almost blind.
Desperate hands seized his shoulders. “There you are! I’ve been looking for you everywhere!”
Alaric blinked. “Percy?”
“You have to help me—I don’t know what to do!” White faced, Percy stared helplessly at Alaric. “They caught me searching Glynis’s room, and now they think I killed her!”
“Slow down.” Alaric caught Percy’s wrists, breaking his near-death grip on Alaric’s shoulders. “I was looking for you. Clearly, we need to talk.”
When Alaric released him, Percy lowered his arms and nodded, looking more pathetic than Alaric had ever seen him.
Alaric glanced up the main stairs. “Let’s go to the alcove off the gallery. None of the guests are likely to find us there.”
“Yes. Good idea.” Percy turned and rushed up the stairs.
After ascending the stairs more circumspectly, Alaric followed him into the deserted alcove.
Percy was waiting; he locked his gaze on Alaric’s face. “I didn’t kill Glynis—why would I have? We were hoping to marry…” Percy’s face crumpled. “It’s all gone so horribly wrong. I keep thinking this is all a bad dream, and I’ll wake up and she’ll be there, smiling at me…”
Before Percy could descend further into maudlin sorrow, Alaric commanded, “Tell me about this engagement. Especially tell me about why you suddenly wanted it kept secret.”
Percy calmed, then snorted. “The latter should be obvious to you—Edward! He arrived without warning—I had no idea he intended to come.”
When Percy all but weaved on his feet, Alaric pushed him toward the nearest window seat. “Sit.”
Percy tumbled back onto the cushions. Alaric sat opposite, his gaze fixed on his erstwhile playmate’s face.
&n
bsp; Percy started speaking without further prompting, his tone that of one relating an occurrence that was now distant. “I met Glynis in London this Season. She and I…we simply got on. We felt…happy in each other’s company.” Percy wiped his hand beneath his nose and went on, “You know m’mother’s always been at me to wed, and Glynis…she wanted to marry me. I thought it would be perfect—it would have been. When I proposed and she accepted, I explained about having to carefully manage our announcement, as my parents were up in Scotland until…” He broke off, then continued, “They should be getting home today, but that meant I couldn’t do anything—couldn’t speak with my father—straightaway.
“So instead, I invited Glynis and Mrs. Macomber here, to my party, and this year I only invited others I thought would be…well, appropriate. So the company wouldn’t be risqué. I invited Miss Weldon and her chaperon, too, really just to lend verisimilitude, but as it turned out, Freddy Collins is keen on Holly Weldon…” Sadness seemed to wash over Percy, dimming what little animation panic had lent him.
After a moment, Alaric prompted, “Was there a reason you wanted to have Glynis here at the party?”
Percy gestured helplessly. “To introduce her to Aunt Enid. She—Aunt Enid—might be a crusty old soul, but she’s always liked me, and Mama and even Papa listen to her, at least in matters such as family alliances. I also wanted to show Glynis the Hall. To let her see it and meet…well, friends like you. I told her that if she wanted to slip away from the crowd for a moment, that you were the one to ask—that you would be safe for her to get to know.”
“I see.” Alaric wasn’t sure he appreciated being cast as a benign uncle, but that explained Glynis’s request for his escort for their stroll on the terrace.
“But then Edward arrived, and you know as well as I that if he’d learned of our engagement, he would have done everything he could to scupper it. He would have declared it a mésalliance and would have immediately gone off and stirred up his father and brothers, and they would have descended on Papa—all before I could make our case.”