Chapter 2 #2
“That’s much the same as me,” Richard said. “One couldn’t have said we moved in the same circles.” He glanced shrewdly at Penelope and Barnaby. “But what you know of the family will be helpful. You’ll have some understanding of the familial and social dynamics at play.”
From his tone, Penelope deduced he was referring to the issue of Pamela being the actual owner of all they were presently surveying. The orchard was quite some way across the lawn; Penelope could only just make out an entrance archway. “The orchard’s walled?”
“Yes. All the way around,” Richard replied, “but there are at least three archways—the one we’re approaching, another giving onto the shrubbery, and one at the rear corner, which leads into the wood.”
Barnaby asked, “How many guests are presently here?”
“The rest of the immediate family—so Pamela, the son, Vincent, and the daughter, Cecilia. Also here are Pamela’s sister, Lady Susan Goodrich, along with her daughters, Enid and Samantha.
” Richard went on, “None of that group were at luncheon, and there were twenty-three around the table, including myself.”
Penelope slanted him a glance. “Also including your aunts?”
Richard met her gaze and warily admitted, “Including my aunts.”
“And the Hemmingses?”
Richard sighed. “I suppose it was too much to imagine you wouldn’t know about that. But yes, Mrs. Hemmings and her daughters, Rosalind and Regina, are here. It was Rosalind who discovered the body and raised the alarm.”
With the orchard nearing, Penelope slowed her steps to ask, “What’s your family’s connection with the Underhills? I can’t place it.”
“My aunts are close to the family via an old and longstanding friendship with the late marquess.”
“Pamela and Susan’s father?” Penelope clarified.
“Yes. And courtesy of that, Pamela has always had a soft spot for my aunts, so when they asked, she was happy to oblige them by inviting not just them but me and the Hemmings ladies.”
Penelope nodded. “And the rest of the company? Why are they here?”
“As I’m sure you’re aware, the principal purpose of Pamela’s house party is to promote suitable matches.
To that end, I gather Pamela hopes to entice Leith into offering for Cecilia.
I imagine that would be hailed as an acceptable match on all sides, and it seems that Leith is interested enough to look.
As for the others, Mrs. Waterhouse has hopes of snaring Elliot for her daughter, Alison.
The Waterhouses and, indeed, most of those here are close acquaintances of one or another of the Underhills, and I understand most of the middle-aged set are reasonably frequent visitors, either here or at Wyndham Castle. ”
Stokes had reached the orchard archway and paused, waiting for them to catch up. He’d heard the last comment and arched his brows. “Wyndham Castle?”
“The seat of the Marquess of Skeldon,” Barnaby supplied. “It’s in the Midlands.”
“The castle was Lady Pamela and Lady Susan’s childhood home,” Penelope added. “On their father’s death, the title, castle, and estate passed to their cousin, Bradley Hurstbridge.”
She looked past Stokes into the orchard. Some way inside, she could just make out a white sheet tossed aside and a still form stretched on the ground beneath a tree. Findlay was already crouched beside the body.
Penelope, Barnaby, and Richard hung back, allowing Stokes and Sir Henry to approach the body first, then the three followed the pair deeper into the orchard, with the uniformed officers at their backs.
As they neared the scene, Barnaby noticed a footman standing back against the stone wall a few yards from the body. On seeing the man, Stokes asked his name, then sent him to wait at the archway. Patently grateful, the footman decamped, leaving the rest of them to take in the scene.
Quietly, they drifted wide around the body, observing and cataloguing what they could see while Findlay continued with his necessarily cursory examination, yet not that much study was required to establish the cause of death.
Finishing his circuit, Stokes halted beside the crouching Findlay and glanced at Richard. “Do you know Underhill’s movements prior to him coming to the orchard? When was he last seen alive?”
Standing nearer the tree trunk, Richard replied, “He came down to breakfast later than I. He arrived a few minutes before I left the dining room, which must have been about seven-thirty. I’ve heard others say he was at the table with them, and by all accounts, he was one of the last to leave.
At a guess, that would have been closer to nine o’clock, when the staff would have wanted to start clearing the board.
Several gentlemen had settled in the library with the day’s news sheets, and they say he looked in and chatted for a few minutes before wandering off, apparently outside. ”
Stokes had fished out his trusty notebook and was busily scribbling. “When was the body found and by whom?”
“One of the guests—Miss Rosalind Hemmings—was taking the air and came this way. She saw the body, realized who it was and that he was dead, and screamed for help. I was on the stairs at the time—I’d been writing letters in my room and was on my way down to leave them for posting when I heard the scream.
That must have been about ten o’clock. I came racing out, and others followed. ”
Stokes nodded, paused in his writing, and looked down at Findlay. “What can you tell us?”
“He’s dead. Definitely. And judging by the depth of that”—Findlay nodded at the indentation in the back of the corpse’s skull—“he was dead within seconds of being struck.” Findlay paused, head tilting as he studied the wound.
“He was hit with something entirely unforgiving. Something heavy. You might want to look around.”
Stokes turned and looked at his men.
O’Donnell saluted, and the other two nodded, and the three fanned out, searching through the thick summer grass.
Stokes returned to Findlay. “Anything else?”
Findlay rocked back on his heels, then blew out a breath.
“This is more an educated guess, but I’d say he didn’t hear his assailant approach.
He was distracted.” Findlay raised his gaze to the tree trunk and, with his head, indicated a large hollow about six feet from the ground.
“He might have been poking around in there.”
Penelope bustled over to look, and Barnaby followed.
Penelope was too short to see inside the hollow, but Barnaby peered in easily enough. “There’s nothing in here but leaves and twigs.”
From beside them, Richard said, “Monty was shorter. I doubt he would have been easily able to see inside, not unless he went up on his toes.”
“Or he felt inside.” Penelope demonstrated, then retrieved her hand, frowned, and brushed debris off her fingertips.
“Guv!” O’Donnell called.
They turned to see the experienced sergeant deeper in the orchard.
He pointed at something in the grass. “Looks like this might be the weapon.”
The rest of them waited by the body as Stokes strode across, ducking beneath branches heavy with fruit to where his sergeant stood. Morgan and Walsh, deeper in the orchard, ceased their searching and started back, eager to see what O’Donnell had found.
On joining O’Donnell, Stokes halted and stared downward, then he bent and carefully picked up what appeared to be an iron stake. After examining the stake’s end, Stokes nodded to his men and carried the stake back to Findlay.
As Stokes approached, those about the body saw tufts of light-brown hair and other matter crusted along a section of the stake.
Findlay grunted, got to his feet, and reached to take the stake from Stokes.
Findlay squinted at the encrustation, then hefted the stake.
“This’ll be it.” Stepping across the body’s legs, Findlay lowered the stake and held it just above the corpse’s caved-in skull.
It wasn’t hard to see that the hair color and fineness matched that of the body and that the indentation in the skull held a similar shape to the edge of the stake.
Findlay raised the stake. “I’ll take measurements back at the morgue, but I don’t think you need to search further. This is the murder weapon.”
Barnaby eyed the stake. “Could a woman have wielded that?”
Findlay’s brows rose. He weighed the stake, then looked at Penelope.
She sighed and rounded the body and took the stake. She raised it easily enough.
“Wait!” Findlay ducked around to stand behind her. “Now, slowly lower it.”
She complied.
Once she was holding the stake horizontally, Findlay grunted.
Reaching around to retrieve the stake, he looked at Stokes and Barnaby.
“Clearly, any woman could have lifted the stake. But given his height”—Findlay nodded at the corpse—“only a woman of at least average height could have struck that blow.” He turned to smile at Penelope.
“For instance, Mrs. Adair could not have been the murderer. The angle of the blow would have been more vertical.”
Penelope sighed. “Sadly, saying someone must be taller than me won’t narrow our suspects list much at all.”
The men smiled.
Barnaby caught Findlay’s gaze and arched his brows. “Would our murderer have had blood on their hands or clothes?”
Findlay lightly shrugged. “It’s possible.
” He looked at the corpse, then at the length of the stake.
“That said, I think it’s unlikely. I think the victim collapsed under the blow.
It was quite ferocious, so I tend to think you’re looking for a man.
However, the victim fell forward, and most of the bleeding you see occurred after he hit the ground, so any splatter at the moment the blow connected would, I judge, have been minimal, and the length of this stake means the murderer was standing a good yard away from his victim. ”
“All right.” Stokes looked up from his notebook. “Time of death?”