Chapter 2 #3
Findlay glanced at Richard. “With the body being outside, exposed to warmer temperatures, it’s difficult to be accurate, but if he was last seen in the house at just after nine o’clock and he was found dead at around ten, then that window—say between nine and ten o’clock this morning—is consistent with what I see. ”
Stokes grunted. “Good enough.” He looked at the others. “So we have our murder weapon, the scene of the crime, and the hour during which the murder occurred.”
Barnaby observed, “I can’t remember when we’ve had so much to work with, straight off the bat.”
Penelope narrowed her eyes at him. “Don’t jinx us.”
Stokes looked at Findlay. “Anything more you can tell us?”
“Well.” Findlay held up the stake. “I can’t see any more of these lying around, and if you look closely, there’s a number painted on this end”—he offered the end he’d been holding, not the end used to crack a skull—“a good long while ago. Reddish paint, number thirty-five.”
Barnaby moved with Penelope and Stokes to peer at the number on the stake.
“What could that mean?” Penelope asked.
“I suggest you ask the gardeners,” Findlay said. “They might be able to tell you where this came from.”
“And that,” Stokes said, “might tell us where the murderer was before he set off to follow Underhill with murderous intent.”
Findlay nodded. “Exactly.”
Sir Henry, who had been a silent observer throughout, shifted nervously. When the others looked his way, he grimaced faintly. “I fear the natives will be growing restless.”
Penelope inclined her head. “Indeed. You’re right.” She looked at Stokes. “We need to return to the house and do what we can to reassure the company.”
Stokes nodded and turned to Findlay. A discussion ensued over who got to keep the stake, but in the end, Stokes prevailed, and Findlay grudgingly cleaned off the gory end and kept the rag as evidence.
Satisfied, Stokes handed the stake to O’Donnell and ordered Walsh and the footman to help Findlay move the body to the police wagon.
“Once I get the body to the morgue, I’ll send the wagon back.” Findlay nodded to Sir Henry, Richard, Barnaby, and Penelope. “I’ll send word if my detailed examination turns up anything new that might prove useful.”
Stokes thanked him, then waved Sir Henry, Barnaby, Penelope, and Richard toward the house. Stokes joined the group, and O’Donnell and Morgan followed.
As they crossed the wide sweep of lawn, Stokes said to Sir Henry, “It would help, Sir Henry, if you could share with us what you know of the Underhills.”
Sir Henry obliged, painting a picture of a family well established in the county, but not as connected with local society as might be supposed.
“Her ladyship is a bit high in the instep, if you know what I mean. She doesn’t spend much time playing gracious lady of the local manor.
Against that, Monty was always a genial chap.
He and his son ride with the local hunt—they have quite decent kennels and stables here—and you were likely to bump into Monty at the local markets and occasionally at the local inn.
He kept in touch with the farmers—well, he had to, given the number of tenant farms and the acres and fields within the estate. ”
“It’s quite large, I gather,” Barnaby said.
Sir Henry confirmed, “It’s a significant holding in these parts.”
“And Underhill managed those farms and acres?” Stokes asked.
“Indeed, he did. Well,” Sir Henry explained, “it’s not something a lady can do, is it?”
“Speaking of that,” Penelope said, “it’s widely known among the ton that Lady Pamela and Monty’s marriage was arranged as one of simple convenience.” She looked at Sir Henry. “From what you saw of them, did they get along well?”
Sir Henry frowned, then said, “They were contrasts in character and personality, certainly, but strange to tell, they actually seemed to rub along well. Very…undramatically. No fuss, just got on with it.” He shrugged. “It seemed to work.”
They reached the forecourt and stepped onto the gravel.
When they arrived at the porch steps, Sir Henry halted. He looked at the maw beyond the house’s open door, then faced Richard, Barnaby, Penelope, and Stokes. “Inspector, I see no reason to intervene in your investigation. I’m happy to leave this case in your hands.”
His expression impassive, Stokes inclined his head. “Thank you, Sir Henry.”
As if released from some burden, Sir Henry smiled and rapidly made his farewells. With a last cheery wave, he strode off, making for the stable around the corner of the house.
Stokes, Barnaby, Penelope, and Richard watched him go.
Stokes ventured, “I take it he didn’t want to tangle with Lady Pamela and her guests.”
Richard snorted. “And who can blame him?”
Penelope threw him a disapproving glance and led the way inside.
With Penelope, Stokes, and Richard, Barnaby walked into the cool shadows of the front hall of Patchcote Grange. The drawing room lay to their left; the double doors were cracked but not open, and a low murmur of conversation emanated from within.
A butler came hurrying from the depths of the house. “Good afternoon, gentlemen.” His demeanor distinctly solemn, he bowed. “Ma’am.”
Richard gestured to Stokes. “Gearing, this is Inspector Stokes of Scotland Yard. He’s in charge of the investigation, and Sir Henry has consigned the matter of finding your master’s murderer into the inspector’s capable hands.”
“Indeed, sir.” Gearing looked at Richard hopefully.
Richard obliged. “And these are Mr. and Mrs. Adair, who at the request of the Commissioner will be assisting the inspector in making his inquiries.”
“I see.” Judging by his expression, Gearing didn’t see at all but was too well-trained to say so.
“My men”—Stokes directed Gearing’s gaze to O’Donnell and Morgan, who had halted just inside the door and been joined by Walsh—“will be moving about the house and estate. It would help if you would notify the staff that it’s possible they might be questioned about the movement of people they might have noticed and that you and your mistress, who I understand has already given the investigation a free hand, have no reservations over the staff sharing whatever they might know. ”
Gearing didn’t look delighted but inclined his head. “I’ll make that clear to the staff, sir.”
A rise in the babel coming from the drawing room had everyone glancing at the doors.
“Before we address the guests,” Stokes said, and Gearing’s relief was instantly visible, “could you confirm when this house party commenced?”
“Well,” Gearing said, “the family have been here for nearly two weeks, and the guests arrived yesterday—Sunday—from after lunch until just before dinner. Everyone was here before six o’clock.”
“And the party was to last until when?” Penelope asked.
“Until next Sunday, ma’am. The guests were due to leave after Sunday luncheon.”
“Thank you.” Stokes shut his notebook. “It will save time if we speak with everyone presently residing under this roof simultaneously. If you would gather the staff and have them join us in the drawing room, we’ll endeavor to keep the disruption as brief as we can.”
The last phrase was plainly music to Gearing’s ears. He bowed. “I’ll assemble the staff immediately.”
“Meanwhile”—Stokes turned to the drawing room—“we’ll introduce ourselves.”
With Richard, Penelope, and Stokes, Barnaby walked toward the drawing room.
As they reached the almost-shut doors, Richard held up a hand and whispered, “Give me a minute to slip inside.” He met Stokes’s eyes. “No reason to make a point of my connection to those investigating.”
Stokes nodded. “Good point.”
He, Barnaby, and Penelope stepped to the side of the doorway.
While Richard slipped into the room, pushing the doors almost closed again, Stokes beckoned to his men.
When they joined the group, in a low-voice, Stokes said, “I’m not yet sure what we need you to search for, but as we’re liable to be in the house for the next hour, you may as well scout out the surroundings.
Look for anyone out and about—gardeners, field workers, and the like. ”
“You might take that stake to the gardeners,” Barnaby suggested. “See if they can at least confirm it belongs on the estate.”
Morgan, who now held the stake, nodded.
With a tip of his head, Stokes sent the three on their way.
Then, Stokes met Barnaby’s and Penelope’s gazes. “Ready?”
Penelope arched her brows at Stokes. “Who gets to lead?”
Stokes grinned. “You do. This is more your arena than mine.” He tipped his head at Barnaby. “Or even his.”
Penelope tilted her head in regal acknowledgment and advanced on the double doors. She set them wide and swept inside, putting an abrupt end to every last conversation.
Clothes rustled as guests turned to look expectantly at the newcomers.
At the entirely unexpected newcomers. Surprise rippled through the crowd as several there recognized Penelope and Barnaby. Judging by the sudden hiatus that followed, recognition was swiftly superseded by recollection of their frequent successes in assisting Scotland Yard.
From the corner of his eye, Barnaby saw Richard standing by the windows with a group of male guests. Barnaby recognized the majority of the gentlemen present, although, unsurprisingly, he hadn’t previously encountered the younger men.
Penelope halted and swept her gaze over the assembled company.
Her expression solemn, she inclined her head, including the entire group with the gesture.
“Good afternoon. Many of you will know or recognize my husband and me. For those yet to meet us, I am Mrs. Penelope Adair, and”—with a wave, she indicated Barnaby, who had halted to her left—“this is my husband, Barnaby Adair. The Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police has requested that we assist Inspector Stokes”—she gestured to Stokes, standing behind and to her right—“in apprehending the murderer of Mr. Montague Underhill.”