Chapter 2
As the Adair carriage wended its way up the long Patchcote Grange drive, Penelope peered out of the window at the large, sprawling Jacobean mansion with its many chimney pots rising to the sky.
The building appeared in excellent order, and the extensive grounds were in similar condition with thick plantings of established trees and manicured lawns enclosing the mansion in a green embrace.
The carriage drew to a smooth halt on the graveled forecourt. As she waited for Stokes and Barnaby to descend, Penelope checked her small watch. They’d made excellent time from Mayfair; it was only just two o’clock.
Having heard the clop of hooves, Richard walked out of the house with the local magistrate, Sir Henry Coutts. They paused on the porch, and recognizing Phelps, the Adairs’ coachman, on the box of the carriage, Richard owned to some relief.
He and Sir Henry, a sensible sort, had just come down from speaking with Lady Pamela.
Despite the shock and, somewhat unexpectedly, very real grief Pamela transparently felt, she was bearing up well and had insisted that the investigators Richard had taken it upon himself to summon were given free rein to find and apprehend her husband’s murderer.
Stokes descended from the carriage first. At a trifle over six feet tall and of solid build, the experienced inspector exuded an aura of command.
His harsh-featured face and dark hair and eyebrows added to the image, and his steely gray gaze, already scanning the house assessingly, suggested that little escaped him.
Richard had encountered Stokes in a professional capacity before, and in the present circumstances, there was no other police officer Richard would rather see.
Stokes was gentry born, well-educated, and able to move within the ton, navigating society’s shoals as few others in the force could.
Early in his inspector days, Stokes had crossed paths with the Honorable Barnaby Adair, and immediately, the pair had struck up a friendship. Shared values and a mutual thirst for justice had seen friendship deepen into a lasting bond.
Now, Barnaby followed Stokes from the carriage and, like Stokes, paused to look around.
An inch or so taller than Stokes but with golden curls and striking blue eyes, Barnaby was the epitome of a tonnish gentleman—the sort many young gentlemen aspired to become.
No one seeing his aristocratic features and the understated elegance and quiet assurance that clung to his broad shoulders like a cloak could doubt that he was an earl’s son.
His knowledge of the ton and government institutions and his connections within those spheres were extensive, and his influence opened doors that would otherwise remain closed to Stokes and most others.
His unwavering focus on seeing justice done regardless of the victim’s status had, in more recent years, broadened into social projects aimed at improving the lot of those less fortunate.
After glancing around, Barnaby turned back to the carriage and offered his hand. The third member of their investigating team, Barnaby’s wife, Penelope, grasped his fingers and climbed down the carriage steps.
In marked contrast to Barnaby and Stokes, Penelope was petite, a pocket Venus with dark hair and beautiful dark eyes perennially screened behind the spectacles she’d worn since girlhood.
On other women, spectacles might detract from their appearance, but with Penelope, they were simply a part of her mystique, and she remained strikingly pretty and, it had to be said, precocious.
If Barnaby represented the apogee of the conventional gentleman, Penelope was deliberately and determinedly unconventional in many ways.
Although now the mother of two young boys and the undisputed general who ran their household, she was also an expert in ancient languages, much in demand as a translator and widely respected in academic circles.
With her unrelentingly curious, inquisitive, and inventive mind combined with her intuitive grasp of people’s feelings, she brought to the group an intellectual and emotional depth, the importance of which was impossible to overstate.
As she was even more auspiciously connected with the major ton families than Barnaby and was also an accredited darling of the ton’s grandes dames, she was a force to be reckoned with on many levels, and her knowledge of ton mores was beyond compare.
Richard couldn’t think of a trio of investigators he would rather have dealing with this case. He glanced at Sir Henry. “Come. I’ll introduce you.”
On firm ground, Penelope shook out her skirts in preparation for greeting Richard and the older man with him.
But before the pair could descend from the porch, the sound of heavy carriage wheels rolling up the drive had them all pausing to watch as the ponderous police wagon drew up behind the carriage.
The wagon was still rocking on its springs when the door burst open, and Findlay, Scotland Yard’s medical examiner, leapt to the ground. His black bag in hand, he strode forward.
Stopping beside Penelope, Barnaby, and Stokes, Findlay scanned what he could see of the grounds. “The orchard, you said. Where is it?”
Footsteps crunched, and they turned as Richard and the older gentleman joined them.
The unknown man was in his late fifties, perhaps even sixty.
He appeared a solid country-squire sort and carried himself well.
His curling gray hair matched his wiry eyebrows, and his features, surely initially craggy, had softened with the years, although at present, those features were set in serious and sober lines.
Despite the circumstances, Penelope smiled delightedly at Richard.
Returning her smile in more muted fashion, Richard gestured to the older gentleman. “This is Sir Henry Coutts, the local magistrate.” To Sir Henry, he continued, “Allow me to present Inspector Stokes of Scotland Yard, the Honorable Mr. Barnaby Adair, and Mrs. Adair.”
“Inspector.” Sir Henry offered his hand to Stokes, then turned to Barnaby and Penelope.
Before Sir Henry could ask, Stokes supplied, “Mr. and Mrs. Adair act as official consultants to the Yard, and they are here at the Commissioner’s behest.”
Still puzzled but now curious, Sir Henry shook Barnaby’s hand and nodded politely to Penelope.
She smiled understandingly and explained, “We assist Stokes in dealing with cases involving members of the ton.”
“Ah. I see.” Sir Henry glanced back at the house. “I can imagine that in cases such as this, your presence would be beneficial.”
“Exactly so.” Penelope fixed her gaze on Sir Henry. “Now, what can you tell us of this murder?”
Sir Henry grunted, and his features clouded. “Bad business. I’ve known Monty Underhill these past decades. Utterly harmless fellow. Good man. But a young lady out walking this morning found his body in the orchard. Bludgeoned to death, it seems.”
Findlay appeared around Stokes’s shoulder. “The body?”
Stokes introduced Findlay as the Yard’s and London’s premier medical examiner—which was, in fact, Findlay’s growing reputation—and Sir Henry looked duly impressed.
He pointed across the lawn to the far corner away from the drive.
“Still in the orchard. Percival here was the first man on the scene and knew not to move him, so he’s as he was found. ”
Richard added, “I confirmed Monty was dead but otherwise didn’t disturb the body, and we’ve had a footman on guard since then.”
“Excellent.” Plainly pleased, Findlay half bowed to the company. “If you’ll excuse me, the sooner I get to it, the sooner I can return to town and the morgue and the other bodies awaiting my attention.”
Penelope hid an appreciative grin as Findlay strode off across the lawn, his black bag swinging.
“Now,” Sir Henry continued, “I’ve had all the guests gather in the drawing room and asked them to remain there for the nonce.
I’ve spoken with Lady Pamela, and she’s given the authorities—specifically Scotland Yard—free rein to uncover the dastard who murdered Monty.
She’s understandably overset, but bearing up.
” Sir Henry paused, then somewhat uncomfortably added, “I did gather that she expects the culprit to be taken up in short order.”
Stokes eyed the color in Sir Henry’s cheeks and wryly asked, “Did she suggest that said culprit will likely be a passing vagabond?”
Sir Henry’s eyes widened. “She did.”
Barnaby smiled faintly. “It’s always easier to believe a murder happened through some unpredictable, unforeseeable outside agency rather than being the action or reaction of one of the victim’s peers.”
Sir Henry nodded. “Human nature, I suppose.”
Stokes had glanced toward the open front door but turned to Sir Henry. “Findlay will want to remove the body to London as soon as he can, so we’d better take a look at the scene first.”
Richard waved them on, and he and Sir Henry fell into step beside Penelope, Barnaby, and Stokes. Stokes beckoned his men—O’Donnell, Morgan, and Walsh, who had come in the wagon with Findlay—to follow.
As they left the forecourt and started across the lawn, Richard dipped his head and murmured to Penelope and Barnaby, “Thank you for coming.”
Penelope shot him a wry grin. “You knew very well that we’d answer your call.” She looked ahead. “It’s not every morning one is invited to investigate a murder.”
“Especially,” Barnaby added, “a murder of one of our own.”
Richard raised his head. “It does strike closer to home.” As Sir Henry and Stokes drew ahead, Richard glanced at Penelope and Barnaby. “You were acquainted with Underhill, weren’t you?”
“Indeed,” Penelope replied. “Although I’m more familiar with Pamela, of course.”
Richard arched a brow at Penelope. “A connection?”
“Very distant on Mama’s side,” she replied, “but a connection nevertheless.”
“I knew Underhill,” Barnaby said, “but only socially, in passing, as it were.”