Chapter 6 #5
When asked, Wincombe stated, “On Monday morning, I came down behind the gaggle of ladies at just after eight o’clock.
Morland was heading down as well, and I joined him at the table.
Griffith was just leaving, and Percival followed soon after.
Can’t remember which others were there. Morland and I had a comfortable meal, then headed here, to the library.
The news sheets had been delivered, and Elliot, Morehouse, and Carrington were already settled and poring over them.
Morland and I joined them—there were plenty of copies to go around. ”
“Did you leave the library between then and the time you heard Miss Hemmings cry for help?” Stokes asked.
“No. And the others—Elliot, Morehouse, Carrington, and Morland—didn’t, either.”
“Did you notice anyone leaving the house or walking outside?” Barnaby asked.
Wincombe started to shake his head but stopped.
“Only person I think left the house was Monty himself. He came in—must have been around nine or so—and chatted a bit, as a host does, making sure we were all comfortable. Then, he headed off—I think he said something about strolling out to check on some estate matter—so I assume he left the house, although I didn’t actually see him do so. ”
“Thank you,” Stokes said. “That’s very clear.”
When Barnaby asked Wincombe for his view of Monty, they received a paean that, while at base the same as society’s widely held view of Underhill, was delivered in significantly more glowing terms. “An excellent chap all around, don’t you know? Sound fellow and a sad loss.”
With no real hope, Barnaby asked, “Do you have any idea why anyone might have wanted to kill him?”
“No! Not a clue.” Wincombe appeared entirely flummoxed, then he focused on Barnaby.
“I say, it couldn’t have been an accident, could it?
A case of mistaken identity—that sort of thing?
I mean, it’s hard to wrap one’s head around the notion of some beggar who knew it was Monty walking up and caving his skull in.
” Frowning, he shook his head. “That’s so strange. So very strange.”
Barnaby rose, thanked Wincombe, and showed him out.
Penelope watched until Barnaby turned back and looked at her inquiringly. “Lady Wincombe next.”
While they waited, Penelope expounded, “Her ladyship is in her late forties and is a longtime friend of Susan and also Pamela.”
“And”—Stokes consulted his notes—“she’s the other one who was scheduled to make a payment on Monday.”
Penelope nodded and rose as the door opened, and Lady Wincombe appeared.
Smiling, Penelope welcomed her ladyship and directed her to the interviewee’s chair.
Another established matron, her ladyship wore her light-brown hair drawn back in a neat bun, and her blue eyes and pleasant if unremarkable features signaled both curiosity and uncertainty in equal measure.
As Lady Wincombe settled in the armchair, she confided to Penelope, “I’m not sure what to expect, my dear Mrs. Adair, so do, please, bear with me. ”
Penelope considered her ladyship’s attitude to be rather revealing. Normally, Lady Wincombe was surer of herself, a trifle arrogant and also ready to ruffle her feathers and take offense at the least little thing. Indeed, normally, she was a touch snooty, just like her good friend Susan.
A reassuring smile on her face, Penelope commenced with their now-standard opening questions.
“Oh, we—Lionel, myself, and Harriet, our niece—arrived in our carriage on Sunday afternoon. And our principal reason for being here is to spend time with our friends, meaning the Goodriches and the Underhills.”
“On Monday morning, when did you come downstairs?” Penelope asked.
“Harriet and I came down with Susan and some others. I know what time Susan is liable to be heading for breakfast, and we time leaving our rooms accordingly.” Helpfully, she added, “Susan usually leaves her room at just after eight.”
“And after breakfast? Did you join the group in the morning room?” Penelope ingenuously inquired.
Lady Wincombe hesitated, then opted for the truth. “No. Truth to tell, I felt a trifle under the weather, so I went upstairs to my room, then I decided a quick stroll about the grounds would be more the thing to clear my head, so I went down again and out onto the terrace and so to the rear lawn.”
Without looking up from his notebook, Stokes asked, “In which direction did you walk?”
Lady Wincombe eyed him, then replied, “I walked out to the croquet green. I wasn’t looking for conversation and didn’t think there would be anyone out that way, and there wasn’t. I had the place to myself.”
“So,” Penelope prompted, “between nine and ten o’clock, you were…?”
“First in my room and then on the croquet green, or at least, going to it and returning. I felt much improved after walking around the green, and when I returned to the house, Harriet was waiting on the terrace. She and I then heard the scream and the ensuing brouhaha, and together, we walked into the house and spotted the other ladies making for the front door and joined them.”
“I see.” Penelope continued, “During your walk, did you notice anyone else—any other member of the company—also outside?”
“Well, from the croquet green, I spied Kilpatrick marching over the fields from next door. He was still some distance away when I turned back to the house. And of course, I met Harriet on the terrace. Apparently, she’d seen me go off, and the dear girl had waited on the terrace to make sure I returned safely. ”
Penelope made a mental note to check why Harriet had been so concerned for her aunt. “If you were asked to describe Monty Underhill, what would you say?”
Lady Wincombe’s expression cleared. “He was always such a pleasant, jovial sort. A nice gentleman, one might say. He seemed an undemanding sort of person, very easygoing and likeable.”
Bluntly, Penelope asked, “Do you know of any reason why anyone would want to kill him?”
The answer came immediately. “No. None at all.” Her ladyship’s gaze swept all three investigators. “I own to being quite bamboozled over why anyone would want to kill Monty, of all men, and indeed, in sympathy with Susan and Pamela, I’m really rather upset.”
Penelope exchanged a quick glance with Barnaby and Stokes, then returned her gaze to Lady Wincombe and, while watching her closely, stated, “In searching Monty’s study, we discovered a small book, hidden away, in which Monty had kept a record, one dating back several years, of what we’ve confirmed with others are payments made to him by people he was blackmailing.
” Lady Wincombe’s eyes slowly widened as the meaning of those words sank in.
Penelope continued, “All of his victims are members of the ton and include a large number of those who called him ‘friend.’ Including you.”
Lady Wincombe’s hands had drifted to the chair’s padded arms, and now, she gripped them tightly, as if she was trying to stop herself from leaping up. She stared in patent horror and disbelief at Penelope, then she moistened her lips and, faintly, said, “What?”
Then, every last vestige of color fled from her face, her eyes rolled up, and she slumped in the chair.
“Good Lord!” Stokes struggled to his feet.
Penelope had already leapt to hers, simultaneously ferreting in her reticule. She hauled out a small vial, tossed the reticule on her chair, and after uncapping the vial, waved the open end beneath Lady Wincombe’s nose.
Lady Wincombe frowned and snuffled, then weakly batted at Penelope’s hand.
Penelope retreated a step and, smelling salts still at the ready, watched her ladyship gradually revive.
Finally, Lady Wincombe’s blue eyes fluttered open, and she looked at Penelope and weakly smiled.
“Oh, thank you, Mrs. Adair. Silly me!” She waved ineffectually as she struggled to sit upright again.
“I thought you said Monty was…” Her words faded, then abruptly, she refocused on Penelope’s face, and what little color she’d regained drained away.
Eyes wide, her ladyship gasped, “Oh God! You did say that—that he was the blackmailer!”
Solemnly, Penelope nodded. “He was the person who was blackmailing you. Your name is in his book, along with the sums you paid him, as well as a notation that you were to pay him another thirty pounds on Monday.”
But Lady Wincombe was shaking her head. “Oh no, dear. It just can’t be. Surely not. Not Monty!”
Despite Penelope reiterating the evidence, Lady Wincombe continued to go around and around, apparently unable to accept that her friend’s husband—her nice gentleman—had been the one steadily milking cash from her.
In the end, Penelope showed her the page in Monty’s black book that related to her and her payments. Only then, as her gaze scanned the list of payments, did the ineradicable truth sink in and, finally, take hold.
“Dear God,” her ladyship whispered and slumped in the armchair again.
Penelope studied her for a moment longer, then, deciding the threat of fainting was past, subsided into her chair. Catching Stokes’s impatient look, she refocused on Lady Wincombe and stated, “You were due to make a payment on Monday.”
Her ladyship was recovering her composure, and as sometimes happened, having had her acumen and judgment regarding Monty’s character proved to be wildly wrong, she was growing angry.
“Yes.” Her tone was now rather clipped. “As usual, I received a note delivered to the kitchen door of our London house last Thursday. The note stated that I was to place thirty pounds in an envelope and leave it in the cupboard beside the croquet green—the one holding the mallets and balls and hoops. I was to leave the payment by half past nine on Monday morning.”
Her features set, she looked at Penelope, then at Barnaby and Stokes. “It was always like that—a place that virtually anyone could get to—and from experience, I knew there was no point lying in wait and trying to see who picked it up. That never worked.”