“Let’s go.” Barnaby led the way out of the servants’ hall, but instead of heading for the front of the house, he turned toward the rear, eventually halting in the small foyer by the back stairs and the rear door.
“What?” Stokes said as he halted.
Barnaby turned to Percy as he joined them. “I’m not sure I have this right, but bear with me. From the rear end of the terrace, Rosa saw a gentleman leaving the shrubbery. You assumed the man she saw was you, but what if it wasn’t? Let’s say it was another gentleman—specifically the man who murdered Glynis. Am I correct in thinking that from where Rosa stood at the end of the terrace, her view of any man leaving the shrubbery and walking toward the front of the house would have been more or less from the back? At an angle, true, yet mostly from the back? That essentially, she saw the man walking away from her?”
Percy frowned. “I hadn’t really thought of it, but if Rosa was standing at the end of the terrace, then yes—if anyone came out of the shrubbery heading directly for the front of the house, unless they turned and looked squarely at the house or looked back toward where Rosa stood, she could only have seen their back.”
Barnaby met Stokes’s eyes. “We’ve just heard that Rosa nearly fainted at the sight of the gentlemen leaving the billiard room—where she again saw men from the back.”
Stokes’s eyes narrowed. “She recognized him—and he must have realized she had.”
Grimly, Barnaby nodded. “That’s why Rosa Cleary died.”
Stokes grunted. “That still doesn’t tell us which man she saw, but with luck, it will narrow the field.” He stepped forward and opened the back door. “Let’s see if the others have found anything to help with that.”
* * *
Penelope managed to bridle her curiosity until they reached the oak on the south lawn, but immediately they passed into the shade beneath its widespread branches, she demanded, “So what is it—this scenario of yours?”
Constance halted and faced Penelope. “Percy assumed it was him Rosa saw, when he was crossing from the front edge of the shrubbery to the forecourt. But Percy has a mop of bright fair hair—even in poor light, Rosa wouldn’t have missed that. More, Rosa said she saw the man leaving the shrubbery—not just coming from the direction of the shrubbery. So all distractions aside, it now seems clear that Rosa definitely saw the murderer leave the shrubbery via the main entrance.”
With one hand, Penelope made a “go on” motion.
Constance drew breath and rapidly ordered her arguments. “We’ve focused on why Glynis was murdered and not so much on Rosa.”
Penelope nodded. “But Rosa was killed by the same man, presumably because he feared she’d seen him.”
“Precisely. But when she saw him leaving the shrubbery, Rosa didn’t see him well enough to identify him—she consistently said so, and the testimony of the maid we just heard confirmed that the light wasn’t good enough to see features.”
“But it was good enough to see hair coloring, at least to distinguish between bright blond and brown, so it wasn’t Percy Rosa saw.” Penelope paused, then went on, “I accept that’s now certain.”
“Indeed.” Constance beckoned. “Now come over here and look.” She led Penelope to the other side of the oak, closer to where they’d stood earlier. Constance halted and pointed through the leaves. “See—from here, we have much the same line of sight as Rosa had when she was standing at the rear corner of the terrace. You can see the shrubbery entrance. If a man came striding out making for the front door, Rosa would have seen him at a sharp angle to his left side—mostly just his left arm and his back. She would have seen what she reported—the cravat and all the rest—but no real profile. Mostly, what she saw was his back.”
Penelope peered through the foliage; she had to stand on her toes—she was far shorter than Constance—and shift this way and that to get the right angle. Eventually, she allowed, “All right. I agree—Rosa saw the gentleman mostly from the back.”
“Rosa wasn’t lying in saying she didn’t recognize him from that sighting, but later…” Constance met Penelope’s eyes. “She recognized him—at least well enough to raise a real question in her mind—when she saw him leaving the billiard room and walking away from her.”
“You’re saying her turn was—as we’d earlier hypothesized—because recognition struck.”
“And struck hard—enough to make her giddy and faint. Something must have happened to trigger the realization.” Constance closed her eyes. She felt Penelope’s gaze on her face and said, “I’m reliving the moment in the corridor. I was there—I must have seen something.”
“Replay the memories slowly.” Penelope’s voice was almost hypnotic in tone, but with an undercurrent of eagerness. “Don’t force things, just observe as if from a distance. Start from where you left the conservatory.” After a moment, she asked, “Where are you in relation to Rosa Cleary?”
“Behind and to her left. There were six of us all told, three ladies walking in front—Rosa in the middle, with Mrs. Collard on her left and Mrs. Finlayson on her right—and Mrs. Cripps was to my right with Miss Weldon beyond her, behind Mrs. Finlayson.”
“Good,” Penelope said. “So you started walking along the corridor. What happened next?”
“We strolled, as one does, in the direction of the drawing room. None of us were in any hurry. Then the door to the billiard room, which was farther up the corridor on the right, opened, and the gentlemen started streaming out. I think all of them had been in there.” Constance paused, the recollection now vivid in her mind. “They didn’t see us—I suspect we were just far enough away that they didn’t glimpse or sense us as they came through the door. I could only see the tops of heads over those of the ladies before me, but I’m sure none of the gentlemen paused or looked back—not then. They turned out of the door and strode on, making for the front hall and the drawing room.”
“Did Rosa react straightaway—as the men streamed out?”
Constance frowned. “No. She didn’t.” Of that she was now sure. “In fact…it was after the last of the men had stepped into the corridor. They were in groups of three or four, so fell in much as we were, two or three abreast.” Constance paused, wracking her memory of the relevant moment. “As to the timing…I’m sure it was after all the men had stepped into the corridor and the last had taken at least a few steps. Then Rosa gasped and stopped and clutched Mrs. Gibson’s arm.”
Penelope waited, then prompted, “And…?”
“We all gathered around Rosa.” Constance concentrated, trying to focus on every little detail of who and what and in what order. “She’d gone as white as the proverbial sheet. The expression on her face…she didn’t look horrified so much as…well, uncertain. Shaky and shaken. That’s why we all so readily accepted her word that she’d come over faint and thought no more about it at the time. But…” Constance pored over one little snippet of memory, then her lips firmed. After a second of replaying, yet again, the relevant second, she said, “Reviewing what I saw as we crowded around, just before Rosa looked down, drew in a breath, and seemed to regain a little of her composure, she was looking straight ahead, and her eyes were wide. From where I stood, I couldn’t see all of her face, her full expression, but I did see that.”
Constance’s description was sufficient to allow Penelope to envisage the scene. “So as we suspected, she was staring at one of the men who had just left the billiard room.”
“But given her height—she was only average at most—and the timing of her reaction, the man who triggered it had to have been one of the last to leave the billiard room. Indeed, he was almost certainly in the last three or at most five or six—the men who made up the rear of the pack.” Constance opened her eyes and met Penelope’s. “He must have done something to trigger Rosa’s recognition. She’d been among the guests all day without realizing who he was.”
Penelope thought for a second, then raised her arms and mimicked closing them around the invisible throat of some
one shorter than herself. “Strangling a lady.” Then she changed position. “Playing billiards.” She pantomimed leaning over a billiard table and striking a ball with a cue.
She straightened, shrugging her bodice into place—then she looked at Constance, and with dawning wonder, they chorused, “She saw him resettling his coat!”
Penelope felt the upsurge in confidence that told her they’d got it right. Then she realized, “He must have a particular way of doing it—some idiosyncrasy that marked him definitively as the murderer.”
Constance considered. “I suspect many men have a particular way of doing it—it’s one of those little actions they do constantly, so it becomes a habit.”
“One almost impossible to change.” Penelope’s eyes gleamed. “Rosa may be dead, but she’s left us with one solid clue to the murderer’s identity.”
Constance thought, then sighed. “Sadly, he now knows that, or at least he should.” She met Penelope’s disgruntled gaze. “If you’re imagining getting all the men to take off their coats, then put them on again, just to see who stands out as having a memorable way of resettling his coat’s shoulders and sleeves, I can’t say I favor your chances.”
Penelope made a disgusted sound. “Sadly, you’re correct. However”—she held up a finger—“we do know that the murderer was among the last gentlemen to exit the billiard room. After all our floundering—and given time is running out—it’s something definite at last. Surely we can use that to winnow our suspects.” Her expression turned grimly determined, and behind her spectacles, her eyes glinted. “We need to learn which of our four candidates was walking at the rear of that gentlemanly pack.”
* * *
The company of guests had, at last, quit the croquet lawn and retreated to the morning room. Alaric had to smile and exercise his considerable charm and the social skills learned through a decade and more of consorting with society’s raciest elements to cut Monty from the horde; his cousin was a gregarious soul and tended to be in the thick of animated gatherings—very often featuring as the center of attention—which was part of what made him so useful.
Finally, Alaric had Monty by the elbow, gripping hard enough for his cousin to understand his attention was required and that resistance was futile. Relentlessly, with nods and aloof smiles to others who might have waylaid them, Alaric steered Monty out of the morning room and across a hall into the rarely used—and currently helpfully deserted—library.
Once inside with the door shut, Alaric released Monty. Rubbing his abused elbow, his cousin turned to him, his face a mask of puzzlement. “What is it?”
Alaric waved to a setting of two armchairs. Ever obliging, Monty sank into one while Alaric rather more elegantly claimed the other. “I need you to cooperate and pick through your memories.”
It was something of a family secret that Monty had well-nigh perfect recall; if society ever learned of his unexpected talent, he’d be shunned.
Monty heaved a put-upon sigh. “Very well. What do you want to know?”
“We need to know which gentlemen went or could have gone upstairs, alone and separate from the other guests, during the day. Start from the period immediately after breakfast ended and before the guests were gathered together in the drawing room at Inspector Stokes’s direction. Did any of the gentlemen leave the general group of guests—on any pretext, for any reason—and possibly go upstairs?”
Monty frowned, his attention going inward. After a moment, he said, “I’m assuming other than you and Percy?”
“Yes.”
“Guy Walker slipped upstairs immediately after breakfast to change his cravat—bit of egg, don’t you know?”
When Monty fell silent, Alaric prompted, “Anyone else?”
Monty shook his head. “Not before we were all cooped up in the drawing room.”
“Go on to after, once we’d been released.”
Monty’s gaze grew distant. “Wynne went up to fetch a book he said he would loan Prue Collard—they’d been discussing it while we were waiting for our interviews with the inspector. Then came luncheon, and just after we’d risen from the table, before we headed out to the croquet lawn, Fletcher went up. No idea why, but he was back down within a few minutes. Then, just as we were about to head out of the house, Edward excused himself and went upstairs to change his coat. He was wearing a morning coat, and it did look a trifle too tight across the shoulders for wielding a croquet mallet—and you know Edward. He always takes any competition seriously, and we’d already settled on a round-robin tournament.”
“And did he rejoin you in a less-restricting coat?”
Monty nodded. “He was back soon enough in a herringbone jacket. Quite nice.”
“Anyone else?”
Monty sighed again and closed his eyes.
Alaric waited with what patience he could muster; he knew better than to try to rush Monty’s mind.
Finally, his eyes still closed, Monty said, “Those four, I’m sure of.” He opened his eyes and looked with some asperity at Alaric. “But as to whether there might have been others…you’ll have to remember that you hadn’t asked me to keep track, so I wasn’t counting heads. Someone could have slipped away, and I didn’t notice. F’r instance, the colonel and Captain Collins ambled off during the tournament. That was to enjoy a cheroot, I’m certain, but they didn’t return for quite a while. For all I know, they might have gone upstairs, either together or separately.”
Alaric released a frustrated breath; he’d hoped Monty’s memory would help shorten the list of suspects. Lips thin, he slumped back in the chair and eyed Monty. “So we have Walker, Wynne, Fletcher, and Edward who definitely went upstairs.”
Monty nodded and earnestly added, “There might have been others.” He shrugged. “I simply can’t say.”
Alaric swallowed a growl, pushed up from the armchair, and nodded to Monty. “Thank you.”
Monty huffed. “I won’t say it was my pleasure.”
Alaric uttered a short laugh. He dropped a hand on Monty’s shoulder as he moved past, then strode to the French windows, opened them, stepped out onto the terrace, and headed for the south lawn.
* * *
Alaric walked around the rear corner of the house and made for their meeting place. Situated partially behind the walled kitchen garden and backed by the wood, the south lawn was rarely used by guests, and as Alaric strode onto the sward, heading for the old oak, he confirmed that today was no exception.
Instead, he spied Barnaby, Stokes, and Percy ahead of him and jogged to catch up with them.
He fell in beside Percy. “Any advance?”
Barnaby waggled his head. “In a way—yes.”
“But in general,” Stokes grumbled, “no.”
Alaric looked inquiringly at Percy, but he only grimaced and shook his head.
Barnaby glanced at Alaric. “You?”
He raised his brows in frustrated resignation. “Yes and no sums it up all too aptly.”
Stokes snorted.
As they neared the oak, they spotted the two ladies waiting in the deep shade. The four men ducked under the branches and immediately saw from both Penelope’s and Constance’s expressions that they had had better luck.
“What?’ Stokes asked.
Penelope all but jigged with eager earnestness; Constance, Alaric noted, was rather more contained, yet was also distinctly enthused.
“First,” Penelope said, “did anyone learn anything regarding who might have put the letters in Percy’s room? We didn’t—not the faintest hint of a clue.”
Stokes grunted. “We, too, got nowhere as to the letters.” He looked at Alaric. “You?”
“Since breakfast, at least four men left the rest of the company at some point and went upstairs alone. Walker immediately after breakfast, Wynne later, after you’d released the guests from the drawing room, then Fletcher immediately after lunch, and lastly Edward just before the company went outside.” Alaric paused, then disgruntledly continued, “That said, as M
onty pointed out, at various times, others drifted here and there—some off to smoke a cheroot, for instance—and they could have gone upstairs unnoticed by the other guests.” Alaric looked around the circle of faces. “Trying to identify who put the letters in Percy’s room is—”
“Not really a viable way forward,” Penelope concluded.
Several gave vent to frustrated sounds, but no one disagreed.
Stokes glanced at Alaric. “While I agree with our general consensus, those four definites—Walker, Wynne, Fletcher, and Mandeville—keep cropping up.”
“If only one of them would crop up without the others,” Barnaby dryly observed, “we might have a chance of solving this case.”
“Hmm. Yes, well, on to what else we discovered.” Behind the lenses of her spectacles, Penelope’s eyes gleamed. “From one of the maids, we learned more about what Rosa must have seen in the night.” She glanced at Percy. “Incidentally, what we heard makes it impossible that it was you Rosa saw. She definitely saw the murderer.”
Percy frowned. “Are you sure?”
Penelope lifted her gaze to his hair. “As sure as you are a very fair blond. Despite the poor light, Rosa would have seen your hair and recognized you. None of the other gentlemen have such fair hair—the closest is a mid-brown, which would look darker, not lighter, in poor light. We also went over all Rosa herself said, and one thing we can now be sure of is that Rosa saw the murderer leave the shrubbery.
“Then,” Penelope continued, “adding everything together—what Rosa might have seen of the murderer and what Constance can remember of the incident when Rosa turned faint after seeing the gentlemen leave the billiard room, presumably inadvertently alerting the murderer so that he realized she had—or was close to—recognizing him, we’re now as certain as we can be that the murderer must have been one of the last men to quit the billiard room. He had to have been at the rear of the group—and we believe Rosa recognized him, or suspected it was he, based on the way he resettles his coat.”