Chapter 2 #5
“And,” Penelope pressed, “there were no particular tensions or arguments with others that you know of?”
“For instance,” Barnaby put in, “any imagined social slight or any difficulties with tenant farmers. Any disagreement with anyone at all.”
“No. None.” Pamela’s declaration was absolute. Penelope noted that neither Cecilia nor Vincent showed any hint of disagreeing or of having a different view.
Barnaby stated, “I know Monty was a member of White’s.” He looked at Vincent. “Did he belong to any other club?”
Vincent shook his head. “Not that I’m aware of.”
“Was he fond of any particular pursuit?” Barnaby asked. “Horses, carriages, racing, guns?”
“He and I ride—rode—to hounds, with the local hunt.” Vincent drew in a tight breath, as if the verb change had suddenly brought home to him that his father was dead.
“So,” Stokes murmured, “would it be correct to say that each year, Mr. Underhill spent about four to five months in London, engaging in the usual gentlemanly social pursuits, then perhaps a month or more at Wyndham Castle and the rest of his time here? I assume he was involved with running the estate.”
“Well, yes. That is what he did with his time.” Pamela looked at Stokes, then, plainly puzzled, shifted her gaze to Penelope and Barnaby.
“But I don’t understand why how and where Monty spent his time is at all relevant.
He was out in the orchard. Goodness knows why, but surely, in the circumstances, it must have been some passing itinerant—a gypsy or some such person—who saw him there and killed him. ”
Declining to point out the illogicality of that statement, Penelope inclined her head. “Even so, surely, you and your family will expect us to investigate every possible cause. The Commissioner will certainly expect us to do so.”
Pamela looked as if she couldn’t quite understand what Penelope meant.
Seizing the moment to change tacks, she ventured, “It’s widely known that your marriage was one of convenience. How did that come about?”
Pamela blinked. Penelope was counting on Pamela’s reputation of having little reservation about anything she said, on any subject, to carry the moment.
“Well.” Pamela shrugged. “The simple truth is I lacked for suitors, and Monty, like all the Underhills, lacked funds, so when he offered for my hand, my parents suggested I accept, and as Monty wasn’t a difficult sort to rub along with, it suited me to do so.
” She met Penelope’s gaze and candidly declared, “I never had reason to regret that decision. Monty and I…worked well together. I suppose you could say our goals, while not exactly the same, aligned well. There was never any drama, which we both appreciated.”
All of that fitted with Penelope’s understanding of the Underhills’ marriage. All practicality and no passion.
Penelope shifted her attention to Cecilia. “Do you know of any reason anyone might have wished your father ill?”
Cecilia’s frown held a sullen quality. “No. I can’t think why anyone would have killed Papa.” The impression she gave was that she felt it was a personal affront that anyone had dared. She added, “He was just Papa. He never gave anyone cause to dislike him.”
Penelope glanced at Barnaby.
Correctly interpreting her look, he turned his gaze to Vincent. “Did your father ever confide any difficulties he had to you? Any arguments with other gentlemen in the ton?”
Vincent looked less certain than his sister, but even he said, “Papa wasn’t really one to have arguments.
” He paused, then said, “I often wondered if, beyond what he did day to day, much mattered to him at all.” Vincent met Barnaby’s gaze.
“And if nothing matters, there’s little reason to bestir oneself over anything, is there? ”
That, Penelope thought, was an interesting observation.
She listened as Barnaby drew Vincent out regarding his own aspirations.
It quickly became clear that Vincent saw himself as entitled to whatever he wanted of life, and he was obviously spoilt by his mother, but throughout, Penelope caught no hint that Vincent had any issue with nor harbored any animosity toward his father.
Indeed, all three had painted Monty Underhill as an uncomplicated and accepted constant in their lives.
When Barnaby smoothly yielded the investigative stage to her, Penelope refocused on Pamela and, once again hoping that lady’s renowned frankness would come to her aid, said, “I believe you’re the actual owner of Patchcote Grange, the house and estate, and also of the funds with which the property was endowed. ”
Pamela curtly nodded. “Indeed. I keep a very tight rein on the total expenses, but Monty—as Vincent alluded to—handled all the day-to-day disbursements.”
“So he acted essentially as your agent?” Penelope asked.
“Yes.” Pamela’s lips tightened. “I suppose one might say that.”
Penelope glanced at Stokes, who had done his best to fade into the background. He met her gaze and fractionally shook his head.
Pamela had followed the interaction and now pounced.
“What I would like to know is how long you imagine this investigation will take and what, if any, disruption it will cause for our guests.” She fixed her large eyes on Penelope.
“I do not want our guests subjected to any distressing experience. I appeal to your insights, Mrs. Adair, Mr. Adair, to ensure that is the case.”
Barnaby inclined his head. “We will do our utmost to ensure that no guests, or indeed, anyone else, is inconvenienced more than is absolutely necessary. That said, our primary task here is to identify and take up your husband’s murderer.”
Pamela dipped her head. “Of course. Nevertheless, I cannot imagine that Monty would wish any search for his murderer to cause additional harm to our family.” She focused on Penelope.
“Mrs. Adair, with your experience of such cases, what is the ton’s reaction to Monty’s death and the manner of it likely to be? ”
Will it harm my standing and that of my children and family more broadly?
Penelope heard the unvoiced query clearly.
Suppressing her reaction to the implications of the question, she answered factually.
“At this point, most of the ton will have yet to hear of the murder. By the time they do, depending on how cooperative people are, we would hope to have already closed the case, and then the matter will largely feature as old news. A happening to be noted, but of little ongoing interest. The ton, as you know, will always move on to the latest titillating news.”
Digesting that, Pamela nodded. “I see.”
Stokes stirred and offered, “Your guests will only be asked to account for their movements and what they know of your late husband’s movements over the hours before he was killed. It’s unlikely we’ll need to know more than that.”
Barnaby added, “Finding the murderer as quickly as possible will be in everyone’s interest, and collating the guests’ recollections of Monty’s movements will be key to that.”
“For instance,” Stokes said, “regarding why he was in the orchard this morning, was Mr. Underhill a birdwatcher? Was he interested in birds?”
All three Underhills looked mystified.
“No,” Vincent said. “He had no interest in birds.”
“He might just have wandered out to the orchard,” Cecilia offered. “No real reason, just to take the air.”
Stokes inclined his head. “Maybe so.”
“On the question of guests,” Penelope said, “do you have a list we might borrow? It will save us from having to ask everyone’s names.”
“Yes, of course.” Pamela sent Cecilia to a writing desk across the room. “In the top right-hand pigeonhole.”
Cecilia returned with a sheet of paper and, at her mother’s nod, handed it to Penelope before returning to the sofa.
Penelope scanned the list. “I see.” There were twenty-three names plus the family, which included Susan and her two daughters.
“If I may…” Quickly, she asked, guessed, and ultimately received confirmation of why each guest had been invited.
As they’d already learned, the primary purpose of the house party was to facilitate suitable matches by introducing eligible gentlemen to the selected young ladies—all daughters of the family or of close connections or friends.
Pamela’s unrestrained candor was a blessing, her fabled lack of tact distinctly helpful in this case. Her comments proved that, despite any other shortcomings, her knowledge and understanding of her guests was sound.
Once Penelope was sure she had all the details she would need, she glanced at Stokes and faintly arched her brows.
He caught Pamela’s eye. “We’ll need to glance over your husband’s papers to ensure, for instance, that he’s received no threats. Where does he keep his correspondence?”
Pamela looked blankly at her children. “His study? Or in the library?”
“The study,” Cecelia stated, quite categorically.
Penelope noticed that Vincent frowned at his sister, but he said nothing.
“Thank you.” Stokes rose, and Penelope and Barnaby got to their feet. Stokes bowed to Pamela. “We appreciate your assistance and your support. We will do our level best to complete this investigation in as short a time as possible.”
Regally, Pamela inclined her head. “Thank you, Inspector. I have instructed the staff to assist your endeavors in whatever way you require.”
Penelope and Barnaby made their farewells, then trailed Stokes to the door.
Vincent rose, followed them, and slipped through the door behind them.
With Barnaby and Stokes, Penelope turned toward the stairs, aware that, after closing the parlor door, Vincent had gone the other way.
They walked into the gallery, and Stokes halted at the head of the stairs. He turned to Barnaby and Penelope. “Should we start interviewing the guests or the staff, or should we check the study first?”
After noting the time—past four o’clock—and briefly debating their options, they accepted that it was too late to commence any interviews, especially as they’d yet to decide on their questions, and opted to examine the study instead.
“Who knows what we might find?” Penelope said as she started down the stairs.
Gearing was waiting in the front hall. As they stepped onto the tiles, he asked, “If I may inquire, Inspector, sir, ma’am, will you be staying at the Grange?”
Barnaby smiled understandingly. “No. We prefer to put up at a nearby inn.”
Penelope asked, “Is there one you can recommend?”
Greatly relieved, Gearing was happy to point them toward the Red Lion in the village of Hackbridge. “It’s not far at all from the entrance to the main drive. Just head a short distance north on the London Road, and you’ll see the sign.”
“Thank you.” Penelope smiled at Gearing. “That sounds perfect.”
“We plan to start interviewing the guests tomorrow morning,” Stokes told Gearing. “And at some point in the next few hours, the police coach will return from London. Please redirect them to the Red Lion.”
“Of course, Inspector.”
“Now,” Barnaby said, “we need to examine Mr. Underhill’s study.” He looked at Gearing. “Which way?”
Relieved of his earlier apprehension over having to accommodate them all, Gearing readily led them down a corridor and into another wing of the house.