Chapter 7
In the warmth of the long summer afternoon, Richard sat with Rosalind, Mrs. Hemmings, Regina, Harriet Cranton, Leith, and Kilpatrick around one of the white-painted wrought-iron tables arranged on the rear terrace and partook of scones and raspberry jam and tiny cucumber sandwiches, washed down with cups of tea.
Sipping from his porcelain cup, Richard surveyed those at his table, then looked farther, scanning the rest of the company, all of whom, it seemed, had dutifully gathered for tea. No one was missing.
Safety in numbers, perhaps?
It was now more than twenty-four hours since their host had met his end, and given the company were prohibited from leaving until the investigation concluded, the general consensus appeared to be that maintaining some semblance of normalcy was the right thing to do.
While attempting to behave in a manner befitting such a summer house party created a superficial facade of calm in that everyone understood what options they had at any given hour, an unsettling undercurrent of uncertainty over what the next hour or day might bring underscored how fragile that assumed facade actually was.
Seated beside him and also surveying while she sipped, Rosalind murmured, low enough that only he would hear, “It’s…interesting to see how our fellow guests are reacting to the situation.”
Richard’s gaze rested on his aunts, seated at a table farther down the terrace and chatting avidly with several matrons and a number of the older gentlemen. “Some seem more curious—even consumed by curiosity—while others are more watchful.”
“They know they aren’t the murderer and are wondering who is,” Rosalind returned.
“Certainly those who’ve lived rather longer,” Richard observed, “are avidly curious over what Monty did that led to his death.”
“They’re experienced enough to realize that there must have been something—some fire to give rise to the smoke—and they scent a sensation.”
Wryly cynical, Richard added, “Or at least, are fervently hoping for one.”
Rosalind threw him an amused glance, then returned her attention to the company. “Although everyone is trying to behave normally, I notice that no one has gone far from the house—for example, for a ramble about the grounds.”
“No matter the comforting theory of a passing stranger being the killer, everyone suspects that the murderer is among us, and deep down, no one feels truly safe.”
Sipping again, Rosalind nodded.
“I say.” Kilpatrick leaned across the table. “Is it true you’re acquainted with our investigators, the Adairs?”
Richard nodded. “I’ve known them for some time. Both are very well-connected.”
“So,” Leith put in, “do you have any notion of what point the investigation has reached?”
Richard smiled faintly. “Would that I did.” After a second, he added, “However, with a group of this size and a murder of this nature, I daresay it will take several days for them to gain some understanding of what occurred about the time of the murder and where each of us was at the time.”
Regina’s cup rattled as she set it on her saucer. When everyone glanced her way, she blushed.
Leith, sitting beside her, glanced at her, then reached for a small platter. “Would you like one of these sandwiches? They’re really quite delicious.”
Regina smiled weakly, thanked Leith, and took one of the tiny sandwiches.
Kilpatrick engaged Richard in swapping tales of crop yields and improvements made to pastures, while Rosalind and Mrs. Hemmings spoke with Harriet about various walks in the extensive Grange grounds.
Leith, meanwhile, questioned Regina about her experiences thus far of the London theaters, using that point to segue into a description of some of the performances he’d witnessed.
An experienced gentleman, he made his comments witty and entertaining and was ultimately rewarded with a spontaneous laugh, one that seemed to surprise Regina as much as her mother and sister.
Noting the somewhat relieved glance Rosalind and Mrs. Hemmings shared before returning to their exchange with Harriet, Richard deduced that, unsurprisingly perhaps, Regina’s recently subdued demeanor wasn’t her natural state.
While Leith’s conversation was entirely aboveboard and Regina’s blush had long since faded, there was color in her cheeks and a tiny spark in her eyes that suggested that, with Leith’s help, she was slowly emerging from the funk into which discovering the body had cast her.
All to the good, Richard thought as he returned his attention to Kilpatrick and his fields.
Later, as the company rose, leaving the empty cups and platters on the tables, and contemplated their next hours, Richard watched Mrs. Hemmings bustle about the table to where Leith was assisting Regina to her feet.
Mrs. Hemmings thanked Leith for his kindness and suggested a turn about the rear lawn.
Leith was happy to oblige, and the trio made for the steps, with Harriet and Kilpatrick falling in behind them.
Rosalind caught Richard’s eye. “I suppose I should go, too.”
He smiled and offered his arm. “We don’t need to stick too close.”
Smiling back, she looped her arm in his, and together, they walked to the steps and descended to the lawn.
As they strolled more slowly in the others’ wake, Richard saw that Mrs. Hemmings was doing her damnedest to encourage Leith. And really, who could blame her?
To return from this house party with a firm understanding between Rosalind and Richard would be viewed as a very good outcome. To go home with the Earl of Leith with his eye fixed on Regina would, in ton terms, be nothing short of a notable coup.
Penelope had presided over the tea tray Gearing had delivered to the library. Now, with nothing left of the scones and sandwiches but crumbs, she drained her teacup, set it aside, and gave her attention to their suspects list.
“It seems to me,” she stated, “that Lady Wincombe and Lord Kilpatrick alibi each other. And Lady Carville saw Susan go out, which places Lady Carville in the conservatory, at least at that point, and it’s difficult to see how she could have reached the orchard and committed the murder if that’s so.
” She glanced at Barnaby and Stokes. “That leaves Susan highest on our list, and even she isn’t that compelling in the role of murderer. ”
Stokes grunted and set down his cup and plate. “Let’s move on. Time’s ticking, and there’s quite a number of the company we’ve yet to speak with.”
Barnaby drained his cup, set it on the tray, then rose, hoisted the tray, and carried it to the door. He opened the door, handed the tray to the footman on duty, and asked for Mr. Elliot to be fetched.
On returning to the other two, in reply to Penelope’s interrogatory look, Barnaby offered, “Elliot’s in his late thirties and, being well-born and distinctly well-heeled, definitely qualifies as an eligible bachelor.
He’s widely known as a quiet, reserved sort and, I gather, is in fact on the lookout for a suitable wife, but unsurprisingly given his character, he’s being wary and careful.
He’s an investor of some note, owns a decent estate, but doesn’t make a show of his wealth. ”
Elliot arrived moments later, and Barnaby greeted him and showed him to the interviewee’s chair.
Barnaby reclaimed the armchair opposite and embarked on their now-standard questions.
Quietly urbane, Elliot answered readily. “Having been encouraged by Pamela and Susan—both of whom I’ve known for some time—to attend, I drove down in my curricle and arrived in the middle of the afternoon on Sunday.”
Barnaby inclined his head. “On Monday morning, at what time did you leave your room?”
“I came down to breakfast quite early. Percival was already there, as well as Morehouse, Carrington, and Cordingley, and Griffith arrived soon after. Monty came in a few minutes later, followed by his son and his friends, but I left soon after with Percival, Morehouse, Carrington, and Cordingley. Morehouse, Carrington, and I came in here, while Percival and Cordingley headed upstairs.”
Barnaby saw that Stokes was busily taking notes. “Thank you. That’s very clear. What did you do next?”
Elliot replied, “I settled with a news sheet, and Morehouse and Carrington did the same. Leith was here when we arrived, glancing at a news sheet, but he left soon after, saying he had letters to write. Griffith looked in, cast his eye over a news sheet, and went out again—he didn’t say to where—and after quite some time, Morland and Wincombe joined us.
We five sat and read and occasionally traded comments.
” Elliot frowned. “About ten or so minutes after Morland and Wincombe came in, Monty arrived. He chatted and circulated, asked if we had all we needed—that sort of thing. Then, he said he had to check on some estate matter and was going for a stroll to attend to it and went out.”
“That must have been, what?” Barnaby asked. “Ten or so minutes after nine?”
Elliot considered, then nodded. “Yes. About that.”
“And neither you nor any of the others left the library after Underhill went out?” Stokes asked.
“No. We were all there until we heard Miss Hemmings scream for help.”
“While you were in here, did you notice any of the company leave the house or see them outside?” Barnaby asked.
Elliot frowned. “Well, Monty headed toward the front door, so I imagine he went out that way. Other than him, the only person I saw leave was Percival, who must have been on the stairs when we all heard the scream. He went racing past the library doorway and out onto the porch. We—the five of us—followed him outside and across the lawn.”
After glancing at Stokes, Barnaby returned his gaze to Elliot. “We gather you know the Underhills reasonably well. What was your view of Monty?”