Chapter 1 #2
“I say, Percival.” Lord Morland, another of the older men, shifted his bulk uncomfortably. “Shouldn’t we at least have Monty carried to the house?”
“That will risk the ire of whoever is sent to investigate.” Richard had already decided to dispatch his groom hotfoot to Scotland Yard. “Underhill’s been murdered. There’s no getting around that. No denying it. The police will be summoned.”
A strangled cry drew everyone’s gazes to the gathered ladies.
One of the men returning to the house had told them what had been found.
Indeed, Lady Pamela would have insisted on being told, and now she’d heard the news, she’d fainted into her sister’s arms, and the other ladies were closing supportively around their hostess.
The men with wives in the group promptly returned to their ladies’ sides.
A footman came flying from the house with a folded sheet in his arms.
Carrington, one of the eligible bachelors, helped the footman unfold the sheet and decently cover the body.
With that done, solemn and concerned, the remaining gentlemen turned and slowly filed out of the orchard and walked heavily back to the house, following the ladies, who were already retreating.
Richard checked with the footman that he knew he was to remain on guard.
Standing ramrod straight, the lanky man declared, “Until the police or the magistrate say I can go.”
With an approving nod, Richard turned to Rosalind. His gaze following the men crossing the lawn toward the house, he murmured, “Did you see Vincent Underhill?” Aged about twenty-five, Vincent was Monty and Pamela’s only son.
“No.” Rosalind softly snorted. “He’s probably still abed.”
“That is a possibility.” Richard had noted that others—Vincent’s friends—had also not appeared.
Rosalind glanced at the sheet-draped form resting in the grass. “That might be just as well.”
The retreating gentlemen had reached the forecourt. Richard saw a rider appear from the rear of the house and gallop hard down the main drive.
Richard looked at Rosalind. “Are you up to facing the inevitable inquisition?”
He’d dallied to give her time to regroup.
She looked at the house and sighed. “If they get too bad, I’ll pretend to feel faint.”
He almost laughed, but, instead, offered his arm. “Come, then. I’ll escort you back.”
She regarded his raised sleeve, and her brows arched. “Into the lions’ den?”
“Worse. Into a gathering of ton gossips who know you know what they want to find out.”
That surprised a faint laugh from her, and she took his arm and raised her head. “Onward, then.”
With her on his arm, he strolled as slowly as was reasonable out of the orchard and over the lawn.
As they neared the house, Rosalind cynically observed, “What would you wager that all too soon, many of the ladies, both young and old, come to view this house party as one they were especially lucky to have attended?”
“Because once they return to town, they’ll be in high demand to divulge every scandal-laden detail?”
“Exactly.”
Supporting her up the low steps to the front porch, equally cynically, Richard replied, “Betting against the ton’s rampant curiosity is a wager I would never take.”
Penelope Adair sat behind the desk in her garden parlor and doggedly slogged her way through the remarkably boring yet difficult translation she’d agreed to complete for the British Museum’s history department.
“For my money,” she muttered to herself, “this is one scroll that could have vanished beneath the sands with no one the poorer.”
But she’d agreed to do it, so she would.
The knowledge that this would be her last project before August and the family’s regular summer excursions to visit her sisters at their homes and then Barnaby’s family at Cothelstone Castle helped to keep her focused on the arduous, not to say mind-numbing, task.
Finally—finally!—she reached the last page, the last line, the last character.
“There!” Triumphantly, she blotted her last line, read it over to make sure she hadn’t made any mistake, then sat straight in her chair and set aside her pen. “Wonderful!”
“And you haven’t even heard the news yet.” Barnaby walked in, a letter in his hand, a smile on his face, and an intrigued expression in his blue eyes.
Penelope opened her eyes wide. “What’s happened?”
Advancing, Barnaby waved the missive. “Monty Underhill’s been killed, and Percival is there, at Patchcote Grange, attending a house party, and he’s written to beg us to come down and help Scotland Yard investigate.”
“Have they been notified?” Penelope held out her hand for the letter, and Barnaby handed it over.
“Richard says he sent for Stokes directly.” Barnaby paused while she read, then asked, “How’s the scroll going? Can you manage a few days away?”
Having perused Richard’s scant and uninformative few lines, Penelope looked up and beamed. “I’ve finished! That’s what I was celebrating when you walked in.”
“Excellent.” Barnaby grinned back.
Penelope glanced again at the letter. “A house party at Patchcote Grange. That’s Pamela’s regular event, which is always devoted, first to last, to matchmaking.
Especially now that her daughter has made her come-out and her nieces, Susan’s two, have as well.
And Richard’s there?” Dark eyes gleaming, she looked at Barnaby. “Well, well…”
Trying to hide his smile, Barnaby shook his head at her. “I expect it’s his host’s murder that Percival wants our help with, not his love life.”
Penelope pushed back from the desk. “I can’t see why he shouldn’t have the benefit of our expertise on both fronts.”
As she rose from her chair, the doorbell pealed. She met Barnaby’s eyes and arched her brows. “I wonder…”
Barnaby waved her on, and letter still in hand, she led the way along the corridor to the front hall.
Sure enough, Stokes had arrived.
He looked up as she and Barnaby neared. “Have you heard?”
Penelope waved Richard’s letter. “That Monty Underhill’s been murdered? Just now. And yes, we’re free.”
Stokes blew out a breath. “Good. Because I’ve been instructed that in light of the personages involved, your assistance is highly recommended. Indeed, the Commissioner’s tone suggested that he considered your inclusion in the investigative team all but mandatory.”
“In this case,” Barnaby said, “the Commissioner’s instincts are sound. I can guarantee that some there will be only too keen to quash any investigation.”
“And that’s regardless of whether they have anything at all to hide,” Penelope added. “For some, keeping the police at bay is still second nature—an ingrained habit.”
Stokes huffed. “So we’ll have our work cut out for us.”
“At least,” Barnaby said, indicating the letter with a tip of his head, “Percival is there.”
“True,” Stokes said. “That means we’ve at least one pair of reliable eyes and ears among the company.”
“I suspect his aunts will be there, too,” Penelope said. “Lady Campbell-Carstairs and Lady Kelly. Both are old, but they’re observant and will know more than I about many of the guests. The ladies, at least.”
“So what do you know about this gathering?” Stokes asked.
“It’s a regular event—a summer house party hosted by the Underhills at Patchcote Grange, with the primary focus being on introducing marriageable young ladies to suitable, eligible gentlemen.
” Her gaze distant, Penelope paused, then refocused on Stokes.
“And you might need to be aware that Patchcote Grange—the house and attached estate, which is considerable—is owned by Lady Pamela.”
Stokes frowned. “Not Mr. Underhill?”
Penelope shook her head. “Lady Pamela is one of two daughters of the previous Marquess of Skeldon. Patchcote Grange was the property her father settled on her for her lifetime, and on her death, it will pass from her to her eldest son, Vincent Underhill.”
“Is that a common arrangement?” Stokes asked.
Again, Penelope shook her head. “However, when it comes to daughters of the nobility, it’s not without precedent. It ensures that the property, which was originally a part of the marquessate, ultimately passes to the marquess’s grandchildren and cannot be diverted via a spouse gaining control.”
“I see.” Stokes continued to frown, clearly working his way through the implications.
Helpfully, Barnaby confirmed, “Because of that, there’s no inheritance involved in Underhill’s murder. Whoever killed him, it wasn’t in order to inherit Patchcote Grange.”
Stokes grunted. “Well, that’s one motive less.” He eyed Barnaby and Penelope. “Regardless, the sooner we get down there the better, so when can you leave?”
Penelope volunteered, “Patchcote Grange is in Surrey, a stone’s throw south of Beddington Corner, so only about an hour away.”
“That close?” Stokes looked hopeful. “With any luck, we’ll be there by the afternoon.”
Barnaby had been exchanging a look with Penelope. He raised his brows. “Can we set off from here in half an hour?”
She beamed. “I can’t see why not.” She turned to Stokes. “So half an hour from now, and don’t be late.”
Stokes huffed and turned for the door.
After returning to the house and escorting Rosalind to the morning room, where her mother and all the other ladies had taken refuge to talk in hushed tones of the horror of the discovery, Richard had diverted to his room and dashed off two notes that he’d dispatched with his groom to be delivered poste-haste to London.
Subsequently, he’d remained in his room, staring into space while trying to fix in his mind all he’d noticed in the orchard, before finally stirring and making for the library, where, predictably, the gentlemen had gathered.
Most had helped themselves to tots of brandy from the tantalus.
All appeared shaken, some more than others.