Chapter 9
The following morning, Penelope led the way up the steps to the Grange’s front door with a clear plan for the day fixed in her mind: Interview the remaining nine guests, combine their information with the facts she, Barnaby, and Stokes had already learned, and see who was still unaccounted for.
Reinterview as required, then study the final picture that emerged.
She was entirely happy with that plan and confident that, by the end of the day, they would have a very firm idea of who the killer was.
With a determined and enthusiastic smile on her face, flanked by Barnaby and Stokes, she swept into the front hall.
And immediately came to a halt as Gearing, transparently agitated, came hurrying toward them.
“Thank God you’re here, Inspector!” Gearing all but gasped. “Grimshaw, Mr. Underhill’s valet, has been attacked!”
Stokes stepped forward. “When did this happen?”
“Last evening!” Gearing visibly drew in a deep breath, gathered himself, then more calmly explained, “Grimshaw was set upon yesterday evening, upstairs. He was hit quite viciously and fell unconscious, and he only regained his senses this morning and raised the alarm.”
Stokes exchanged a glance with Barnaby and Penelope, then asked Gearing, “Where is Grimshaw?”
“We have him in the kitchen under Cook’s eye.
He’d gone upstairs yesterday evening because the mistress had asked him to select clothes for laying out the master’s body once it’s returned to us.
Grimshaw went into the master’s dressing room, not expecting anyone to be there, and was coshed over the head. ”
“We’ll speak with Grimshaw immediately,” Stokes said, “and then we’ll need to examine the dressing room.”
“Yes, of course.” Gearing stepped back, gestured toward the green-baize-covered door at the rear of the hall, and led them in that direction.
“I mentioned the assault to your constable when he arrived this morning, and he sent up the constable who’d kept watch in the study overnight to keep an eye on things upstairs. ”
“Good.” Stokes followed at Gearing’s heels. “Let’s see what Grimshaw can tell us.”
As they strode along the narrow corridor beyond the baize-covered door, from his position at the rear of the small procession, Barnaby asked, “Who else have you told of the attack?”
Gearing glanced over his shoulder. “I reported the incident to her ladyship at once, and she suggested it would be best to keep silent about the matter until the inspector was informed.”
Stokes grunted in clear approval, and facing forward, Gearing added, “Constable Morgan assured me you would be along shortly, or else I would have sent word.”
The corridor ended in a very large kitchen that, to Penelope’s eyes, was neat, clean, and efficiently run.
At that hour, maids and footmen were ferrying breakfast dishes into the scullery from which emanated sudsy sounds punctuated by the clinking of cutlery and crockery mixed with the clang of pans being scoured.
An older footman was sorting silverware on a bench along one wall, and a pair of kitchen maids were making what Penelope thought was dough for scones, while a younger maid was sieving berries for a sauce. The delicious aroma of baking bread filled the already warm room.
Gearing led them down the long, freshly scrubbed deal table to where, at the far end, a solidly built, middle-aged man sat slumped on a stool, his elbows propped on the table with his bandaged head held between his hands.
Behind him was the massive hearth, and the cook stood nearby, polishing a copper bowl while keeping a careful eye on the injured man.
“Grimshaw,” Gearing said as they neared. “The inspector and the investigators are here.”
Moving carefully, Grimshaw shifted his head enough to look up at them, then he tensed to stand.
“No, no.” Penelope waved him back to his stool. “Please remain seated. You’re in no condition to stand.”
The intervention earned her a grateful look from the cook.
With a pained grimace, Grimshaw complied. “I won’t argue with that. My head’s still splitting.”
Judging from what she could see of the bandage, Penelope concluded he’d taken a powerful blow to the rear of his head.
Stokes sat on the end of the nearest bench so he could see Grimshaw’s face without forcing the man to lift his head completely. “Tell us what happened.”
Grimshaw moistened his lips, then stated, “Last evening after we’d had our tea, I went to the master’s dressing room.
Her ladyship had asked me to pick out suitable clothes for…
Well, I’d been steeling myself to do it since the morning, when she asked me, so I thought I’d better get it done before I went to bed. ”
“Is there a door to the dressing room from the corridor?” Penelope asked.
Grimshaw started to nod, then caught his breath and said, “Aye, ma’am. That’s the door I used. There’s another from the master’s bedchamber and, opposite that, a door leading to his bathing chamber, but when he’s not in the house, I always use the corridor door.”
“To be clear,” Barnaby said, “all three doors leading into the dressing room are at the corridor end of the room?”
“Aye. That’s right.”
Stokes asked, “As near as you can remember, what happened? Walk us through it.”
“I went up the main stairs and along the corridor. I opened the door… I paused then, steeling myself. It was the first time I’d been in there since…”
“All right,” Stokes said. “And then?”
“I pushed the door fully open, stepped inside, and turned to shut the door. That’s when he rushed in and hit me.
He came from the bedroom—I’d put my back to that door as I shut the one from the corridor, and the door to the bedroom was open, now I think of it.
Shouldn’t have been. I usually leave it shut so I can go in and out of the dressing room without disturbing the master.
” Grimshaw paused, then added, “Can’t say as I remember much more. ”
Barnaby had circled behind Grimshaw enough to visually examine his bandaged head. He winced. “That’s a very nasty lump.”
“Aye. It was a tremendous blow, I can tell you that.”
Stokes looked at Barnaby. “Just the one?”
Barnaby nodded. “Looks like it.”
“I only remember one, of course.” Grimshaw met Stokes’s eyes. “I’ve been in my share of dust-ups, and I don’t normally go out that easily. You learn how thick your skull is from experience, you know?”
When Stokes nodded, Grimshaw went on, “So this time, I tried to cling to my wits, at least long enough to get some sense of who the attacker might be, but the pain was so bad, I couldn’t focus, and my wits just slipped away.”
“You said ‘he,’” Penelope stated. “Are you sure it was a man?”
Grimshaw tipped his head enough to faintly smile at her. “Aye, ma’am. I’m sure. Not many women strong enough to deliver such a hammer blow, and I got the sense—just before he struck me—of a body bigger than mine.”
Penelope studied him, then gently asked, “If you can, do you think you could manage to stand? Just for a moment so we can get some idea of how tall you are and how large is bigger than you?”
Grimshaw winced, but gamely placed his palms on the table, and Gearing and the cook rushed in to help him to his feet.
Once he was upright, Stokes, Barnaby, and Penelope studied him. Unlike most valets, many of whom were short, and in keeping with his solid frame, Grimshaw was a touch above average height.
After checking to confirm that Barnaby and Stokes had seen enough, Penelope waved Grimshaw back to the stool. “Thank you, Grimshaw. That will help us identify your attacker.”
Stokes glanced at her, then looked at Gearing. “I’m officially advising Grimshaw to rest up and take things easy for the next several days.”
“Until his headache eases off, preferably to nothing,” Penelope said and received a grateful nod from the cook.
“Not only is that a very nasty knock,” Barnaby said, also catching Gearing’s eyes, “but we would all feel better if Grimshaw remained with others, including having a footman sleeping on a pallet in his room, until we have your master’s murderer—who was almost certainly Grimshaw’s attacker—by the heels. ”
The cook sucked in a breath. “You think the dastard might come after Grimshaw again?”
“It’s possible,” Stokes said. “He won’t know if Grimshaw saw and will remember something that gives us a clue to his identity, and he might well want to be sure.
” He looked at Grimshaw, who was even paler than he had been before.
“So no going about the house by yourself. Stay down here and use the servants’ stairs, but even then, keep someone with you all the time.
We don’t want another murder on our hands. ”
Penelope looked at Gearing. “I’m sure Lady Pamela will agree.”
Gearing and the cook looked at Grimshaw with stern and sober determination. “We’ll do as you say, Inspector,” Gearing assured them.
Stokes rose from the bench, then paused. “One last question.” He caught Grimshaw’s gaze. “Do you know what time it was when you went into the dressing room?”
Grimshaw, Gearing, and the cook exchanged glances, then the cook murmured, “Had to be about nine. It was a bit after the tea trolley went out. That, I do know.” She looked at Stokes. “That was at eight-thirty.”
Gearing nodded. “I delivered the trolley to the ladies in the drawing room and waited to see if Lady Pamela had any further orders for us, then at about a quarter to nine, Grimshaw and I did the rounds of the gentlemen, who were in the billiards room, offering brandy. After that”—he glanced at Grimshaw—“we came out into the hall, and we parted at the foot of the stairs. I came back to the kitchen, and Grimshaw went upstairs.”
Grimshaw frowned. “I can’t remember if the clocks had struck the hour, but when you live with that happening all the time, you don’t really pay attention anymore.”
“About nine o’clock is good enough.” Stokes finished jotting in his book, looked up, and nodded to Grimshaw. “Thank you. Your information will help.”