Chapter 7 #3
Barnaby glanced at Stokes, but he shook his head. He returned his gaze to Cordingley and smiled easily. “Thank you.” Barnaby rose, bringing the younger man to his feet, and after Cordingley had bowed to Penelope and nodded respectfully to Stokes, showed him firmly out of the room.
“Well!” Penelope grinned at Barnaby as he returned to his armchair. “He was a bit of light relief.”
Barnaby replied, “You would have encouraged him to tell us all about Egypt. But regardless, who’s next?”
Penelope consulted her list. “It was supposed to be Rosalind, but we’ve already spoken with her, so we may as well move on to Nevin-Smythe.”
Stokes got up and went to the door to send the footman to fetch Nevin-Smythe.
On returning to the chairs, Stokes asked, “What do I need to know about this one?”
Penelope grimaced and looked at Barnaby. “Other than him being another of Monty’s victims, albeit not one scheduled to make a payment while here, I know very little about him.”
“He’s another thirtyish eligible bachelor,” Barnaby said. “He belongs to the right clubs, moves in the right circles, and styles himself as a bit of a dandy. Good family. Nothing adverse known about him.”
“Except for the cheating Monty was blackmailing him over.” Stokes sank into his chair. “Let me take the lead on this one—I’m feeling left out.”
Barnaby and Penelope grinned, and when the door opened and Nevin-Smythe was shown in, Stokes rose, greeted him, and waved him to the armchair set before them.
Nevin-Smythe clearly fancied himself quite the dandy.
His hair was coiffed and pomaded, his coat, in a solid shade of purple, bore large mother-of-pearl buttons, and his spotted-silk cravat ballooned about his chin before disappearing into the top of his silver-and-gray-striped waistcoat.
He was quite an eye-catching sight as he glided forward, bowed with a flourish to Penelope, then with studied grace, inclined his head to Barnaby and Stokes before subsiding—elegantly—into the designated armchair.
Stokes began by stating, “We’re asking the same questions of all the guests. To begin with, please tell us when you arrived at the Grange.”
“I drove myself down on Sunday and arrived a bit latish—a little after five, I should think.”
“And you’re here because…?”
Nevin-Smythe hesitated, then admitted, “I believe I have to settle down soon, or so my sisters tell me. They’re older than I am and arranged the invitation through parental connections with the Hurstbridges, so I’m here to cast my eye over the young ladies paraded before me and the other eligible bachelors present.
” He lightly shrugged. “That’s what house parties like this are for, after all. ”
Stokes nodded in acceptance, then asked, “On Monday morning, at what time did you come downstairs?”
“Late. At events such as this, one must be either hideously early or inconsiderately late to have any chance of eating one’s breakfast in peace, and I’m not an early riser.
I came down just before nine o’clock. The others had all left by then, and I grabbed a cup of coffee and a piece of toast and left the staff to clear the board.
When I left the dining room, I heard balls clinking from the billiards room—the sound called to me, and I headed that way.
Griffith was there, and we amused ourselves by playing a few games. ”
“So,” Stokes clarified, “between nine and ten o’clock, you were in the dining room briefly, then in the billiards room with Griffith.”
“Yes.”
“From the time you came downstairs to the time you heard Miss Hemmings scream, did you see anyone else leave the house or notice anyone walking outside?”
“As I left the dining room, I saw Underhill on his way out through the open front door.” Nevin-Smythe paused, then evenly continued, “I suppose that might make me the last of the company to have seen him alive—except for his murderer, of course. Oh, and I saw the two old ladies—Lady Campbell-Carstairs and Lady Kelly—coming down the stairs as I crossed the front hall. I bowed to them, and I know they saw me.”
“They did,” Stokes confirmed. “And I gather neither you nor Griffith left the billiards room until after you heard the scream.”
“That’s correct. We heard someone rush down the last stairs and race outside—apparently, that was Percival—so we put up our cues and went to see what was happening.”
Smoothly, Stokes continued, “How did you view Monty Underhill?”
Nevin-Smythe blinked, then rather carefully said, “I didn’t know him all that well.
As I said, the family connection is with the Hurstbridges—Pamela and Susan’s family.
I’ve only visited here once before, but I’ve often stayed at the marquess’s principal seat at Wyndham Castle.
” He paused, then more airily added, “Truth be told, I hadn’t really thought about Monty that much.
He was of an older generation, and what little I saw of him painted him as a genial character, helpful and, overall, rather harmless. ”
Stokes arched a black brow. “So you have no idea who might have wanted to end his life?”
“Not a clue. I really have no notion of why anyone would want to bop him over the head.”
Stokes paused, regarding Nevin-Smythe steadily. To his credit, the man didn’t squirm, although a wary look entered his eyes. After a lengthy moment, Stokes said, “We now know that Monty Underhill was a blackmailer.”
Nevin-Smythe’s already pale faced blanched further. “What?” he whispered.
Inexorably, Stokes went on, “His victims were members of the ton, and according to the record he kept of those victims and the payments he demanded and that they paid, you were one of those victims.”
Patently utterly dumbfounded, Nevin-Smythe just stared.
When Stokes simply stared back, waiting, Nevin-Smythe moistened his lips, then he blinked and shook his head. “No. It can’t be…” His gaze went to Barnaby, then Penelope. When they looked steadily back and volunteered nothing, he returned his gaze to Stokes. “Monty? It was him?”
Stokes nodded. “It seems he believed you cheated in some fashion, and as you’ve been meeting his demands in order to buy his silence for rather more than a year, it seems you believe you cheated, too.”
Still staring at Stokes, slowly, Nevin-Smythe nodded.
“I did, God help me.” His jaw set, then he blurted, “I only did it once! It was a card game, and I thought I had the winning hand and got in too deep, and I knew I couldn’t afford to just up and walk away.
I couldn’t pay, so I had to recoup, and I cheated on one hand. Just one!”
From his expression, Nevin-Smythe had regretted that transgression for the past year and more.
Deflating, he shook his head. “Just once—and I paid for it. Again and again.”
“Where was this card game?” Penelope inquired.
Nevin-Smythe looked at her blankly, then he refocused and uttered a harsh laugh. “At Wyndham Castle. At a major ball. And yes, Monty was there, in the card room, moving around the tables. He must have seen…”
Stokes arched a brow at Penelope and Barnaby, but both shook their heads.
Nevin-Smythe looked like he’d bitten into a sour lime. Stokes considered him for a moment, then said, “Please keep the news of Underhill’s illicit activities under your hat. Not least because if you do, no one else will ever know of your own slip from grace.”
“As matters stand,” Barnaby said, “you won’t be hearing from your blackmailer ever again.”
Nevin-Smythe stared back for a moment, then nodded. “I won’t breathe a word.”
After the door closed behind him, Penelope sent the footman to summon Cecilia Underhill.
Penelope had wondered if the girl would be sufficiently recovered for them to question, but when Cecilia took her seat before them, Penelope was relieved to see that determination was etched in every line of Cecilia’s rather plain face.
In her early twenties, Cecilia appeared less sulky than when they’d first spoken with her.
Less arrogant, perhaps, now the reality of her father’s murder had sunk in.
Although she remained subdued, and her light-brown hair appeared lackluster and brittle and her features were drawn, there was enough awareness in her blue eyes to suggest that, normally, she was rather livelier.
Once Cecilia had settled, Penelope commenced by confirming that Cecilia had arrived at the Grange with her parents some weeks before, then gently inquired what hopes Cecilia had had of the house party.
From her expression, it was plain that Cecilia debated whether or not to answer truthfully, then she lightly shrugged and said, “I was hoping to forge an understanding with Lord Griffith or Mr. Elliot. Mama and Papa favored Mr. Elliot, but Lord Griffith is much more entertaining.” She paused and tipped her head.
“On the other hand, after a time, ‘entertaining’ might wear thin.”
Penelope was quietly impressed by that unexpected sign of deeper thought and continued with her next question.
“I came downstairs with Mama,” Cecilia said, “at a bit before eight o’clock.
Mama makes a point of being early on the first morning of a house party so she can make sure all is running smoothly and all the guests—well, the female ones—have rested well.
After breakfast, I went with Alison, Enid, and Samantha to the conservatory.
We wanted to chat without our mamas being able to hear, but when we reached the conservatory, we saw Lady Carville was already there, so we went to the music room. ”
“Did you see anyone leave the house or notice anyone walking outside?” Penelope asked.
Cecilia shook her head. “I didn’t see anyone venture outside.”
Penelope paused, wondering at the wisdom of voicing their next question, but in the end, she asked, “How did you view your father?”
Cecilia straightened. “Papa was always a good sort—about everything. He balanced Mama, if you know what I mean. It wasn’t that he wasn’t strict, but he wasn’t unreasonable about it.”
“Do you know of any reason anyone would want to kill him?”
“No. None.” Cecilia’s features crumpled, and her lips quivered. “Truly, I can’t believe he’s gone.”
Her last word was a faint wail. Before she could dissolve into tears, Penelope stood and rather bracingly said, “Thank you.” She drew the now-wilting girl to her feet and helped her from the room.
Penelope was relieved to find Alison Waterhouse waiting in the hall and gratefully handed Cecilia into her friend’s care.
Returning to Barnaby and Stokes, Penelope blew out a breath. “Phew! That was close.”
“I thought she did well to remain so composed,” Stokes said.
“She wants us to find who killed her father,” Penelope said.
Barnaby sighed. “We all want to solve that mystery, but frankly, my head is spinning with all the details we’ve heard.”
Penelope glanced at the clock on the library’s mantelpiece. “It’s getting rather late to call people in.”
Stokes rumbled, “For my money, we need to call a halt and digest what we’ve learned. There are all sorts of pertinent snippets mixed in with otherwise irrelevant details.”
“Such as,” Barnaby said, “Nevin-Smythe giving Griffith an alibi and vice versa.”
“And Cecilia and her friends placing Lady Carville in the conservatory,” Penelope said.
“That’s almost enough to strike her ladyship off our suspects list.” She paused, then went on, “It occurs to me that, in this case, with so many people in the house and moving about, given Monty was killed in the orchard, that means whoever killed him couldn’t have been in the house at that time. ”
Barnaby nodded. “Theoretically, we should be able to identify the killer or at least get a strong sense of who he is by cross-checking where everyone was.”
Stokes had been consulting his notes. “People saw others here and there. The orchard’s far enough from the house that the killer had to have been outside and out of sight of any of the other guests for a substantial amount of the critical hour between nine and ten.”
Penelope nodded decisively. “Our murderer will be unaccounted for during most of that time. And if he searched the study while everyone was distracted by the body in the orchard, he should also be unsighted by anyone during that interval as well.” She tipped her head, considering that.
“No one should remember him at the orchard with the other men or on the front lawn with the women.”
“We have several guests with sound memories and acute observational skills,” Stokes said.
“But before we go too far with our thoughts and suppositions, I suggest we retreat to the inn and go over all we’ve heard thus far, then work out what we can be certain of in terms of where people were.
Once we have that, we can come back tomorrow and interview the rest and see what confirmations we can get for those we’ve yet to definitively alibi. ”
“I agree.” Penelope looked at Barnaby.
He nodded and pushed himself out of his chair. “But before we quit the premises, I suggest we report to Pamela.”
They sent the footman to fetch his mistress and met Pamela in the front hall.
They kept their report brief, merely saying they believed they’d made some progress and would return the following day to interview those they’d yet to speak with and that after that, they hoped to have a clearer view of the events that had led to her husband’s death.
Rather wan, Pamela thanked them and reiterated her support for their efforts.
With bows to her and thanks to Gearing, who had thought to summon their carriage, they quit the house, descended the steps, climbed into the carriage, and set off for the inn.