Chapter 9 #6
Caught in his memory of the moment, Fentiman added, “Initially, I thought it might be one of the gardeners, but his coat was far too well-cut. And I would think most gardeners or any estate workers would have come running after hearing that scream.”
Barnaby exchanged glances with Penelope and Stokes, then asked, “What was your view of Vincent’s father? You must have interacted with him a fair bit over the years.”
Fentiman nodded. “He was a good sort. I always thought Vincent was lucky to have such an easygoing—even indulgent—pater, but it’s always different when it’s not one’s own parent, isn’t it?”
“Do you know of any reason why anyone would want to kill Mr. Underhill?” Stokes asked.
Fentiman frowned. “None at all. It seems rather strange. As far as I’ve ever heard, Mr. Underhill was universally well thought of.”
Barnaby arched his brows at Penelope, but she shook her head, as did Stokes; they had no further questions.
Returning his gaze to Fentiman, Barnaby smiled. “Thank you for your assistance.” He rose, as did Fentiman, and Barnaby showed the young man out.
When he returned to the armchairs, Penelope was leaning toward Stokes, plainly eager to discuss what they’d heard.
Barnaby halted behind the interviewee’s chair and widened his eyes at his coinvestigators. “Well, that’s a new and potentially revealing part of the puzzle.”
“If,” Penelope said, “we credit both Patterson and Fentiman’s accounts—and there’s no logical reason we should discount either—then someone, most likely a gentleman and therefore most likely a guest, left the house via the side door at somewhere between eight-thirty and nine o’clock, before Monty was killed, and someone, and surely that has to be the same gentleman, returned through the woods to the side door after Rosalind found Monty dead in the orchard. ”
Stokes was madly flicking through his notebook. “We need to work out who was where and which of the guests our mystery gentleman could have been.”
Penelope straightened. “We have two more to interview. While I’m inclined to say let’s leave them aside and forge on with what we’ve recently learned, given we didn’t expect to get anything useful from the younger crew—”
“We’d be wise not to dismiss any potential gift horses before we even examine them,” Stokes stated unequivocally.
Barnaby nodded. “A tortured analogy, but I agree. Let’s get the last two in and done, then see what we have.” He looked at Penelope. “I’ve lost count. Who’s second last on our list?”
She told him, and Barnaby returned to the door and dispatched the footman to fetch Miss Samantha Goodrich.
As Barnaby returned to the armchairs, Penelope said, “Samantha is Susan’s younger daughter.
I don’t think she’s twenty yet. Her reputation paints her as very young, flighty, and somewhat silly.
However, from the few occasions on which I’ve encountered her, while the young, silly, and flighty might, indeed, be true, I would say she’s also highly observant and wide awake to everything that goes on around her. ”
“So”—Stokes looked hopeful—“we might be pleasantly surprised?”
Rather primly, Penelope replied, “We can hope.”
She rose as the door opened, and Samantha walked confidently in. The wide-eyed blue gaze that scanned the three investigators as the men politely got to their feet testified to the accuracy of Penelope’s observations.
To Penelope’s eyes, Samantha was like a curious bird, eager to find a worm.
She was very young, with a figure that had yet to fully blossom, and her brown hair was put up in a simple knot. Her features were less aggressive than her sister’s and mother’s, and her attitude as she readily took the chair to which Penelope waved her was distinctly sunnier.
Firmly, Penelope took Samantha through their opening questions, eliciting answers that mirrored her mother’s and sister’s.
Asked to divulge her reason for attending the party, Samantha smiled and, in a light, melodic voice, assured Penelope, “I’m too young to be bothered with anything other than enjoying myself and watching everyone else having to go through the awkwardness of learning about each other. ”
Having herself been the youngest of four sisters, Penelope comprehensively understood and, indeed, sympathized.
Aware that Stokes preferred to keep the questions rolling in their agreed order, she led Samantha through her movements on Monday morning, to the point of leaving the dining room with the other young ladies.
“We went to the conservatory—it’s brighter there, and we wanted to sit in the sunshine and chat—but Lady Carville was already there, admiring Aunt Pamela’s orchids, so instead, we went to the music room and settled there.”
“And you and the others remained there until you heard Rosalind scream?”
“Yes. We’d been chatting and laughing. Well,” Samantha confided, “I was mostly just listening while the others compared notes on the eligibles here.”
“While you were in the music room, did you notice anyone outside?”
“As a matter of fact, I did.” A puzzled frown tangling her brows, Samantha went on, “As we were leaving the music room, after we heard the scream and decided we’d better find out what had happened, I forgot my handkerchief.
I’d left it on the chair, but when I got to the door, I remembered and ran back to pick it up.
As I bent to get it, through the side window, I saw a gentleman striding toward the house.
He was in the wood, and I thought he must have heard the scream, too, and was coming back to find out what had happened. ”
Holding her breath, hope welling, Penelope asked, “Could you see which gentleman it was?”
But Samantha shook her head. “It was all shadowy under the trees. I couldn’t see his face clearly.”
“But you’re sure he was a gentleman?” Barnaby pressed.
“Oh yes.” Samantha’s tone rang with confidence. “He wasn’t a vagrant or a gypsy or anyone like that. His coat was far too well-tailored. And there’s a certain way a gentleman strides along, if you know what I mean?”
Penelope nodded. “Indeed.” She exchanged a swift glance with Barnaby and Stokes. It now seemed incontestable that one of the gentlemen was returning to the house when Rosalind screamed.
“Just a few more questions.” Penelope returned her gaze to Samantha. “You’ve known your uncle Monty all your life. What did you think of him? How did you see him and find him?”
Samantha’s lower lip trembled, and suddenly, she looked much younger.
She blinked her large blue eyes, now shining with unshed tears, then drew in a tight breath, tipped up her chin, and gamely replied, “He was a lovely uncle, and I’m very sad he’s gone.
” Her eyes sparked, and her lips and chin firmed.
“And I’m not at all in charity with whoever killed him. ”
Penelope seized the opening to ask, “Do you know of any reason why anyone would want to kill him?”
Samantha’s frown was patently genuine. “No. None. He was a good, kind man, and it seems so strange that anyone would think to even hurt him.”
Penelope glanced at Barnaby and Stokes, then rose. “Thank you, Samantha.” As the younger woman got to her feet, Penelope assured her, “You’ve been a very real help.”
The words pleased Samantha. With a polite nod to Stokes and Barnaby, she followed Penelope to the door.
After Penelope dispatched the footman to find and deliver Vincent to them and she returned to sink into the chair beside Barnaby, he observed, “Well, it seems that, finally, matters are growing a little clearer.”
His tone hard, Stokes repeated, “We can hope.” He glanced toward the door. “Let’s speak with our last interviewee and see where we end up.”
The instant Vincent Underhill walked into the room, Barnaby, rising to greet him, saw that the young man was much more somber than he’d previously been. His dark gaze held a bleakness it hadn’t before. Clearly, the reality of his father’s death had started to sink in.
As Vincent took the chair Barnaby indicated and nodded soberly to each of them, it seemed that Vincent was evolving—maturing—before their very eyes, as if the weight of his inheritance falling squarely on his shoulders was forcing him to change and grow.
Added to that, sorrow had scored new lines in his face. His feelings over losing his father, and in such a way, could not be doubted.
“We’ll try to make this as quick as we can,” Barnaby said, “but we’re asking everyone the same questions. First, when did you arrive at the Grange, and what did you hope to take away from the house party?”
Vincent faintly grimaced. “I live here some of the time. When I’m not in town.
I came down with the rest of the family—that was just over two weeks ago, after we’d been visiting at Wyndham.
As for what I hoped to gain from the week, it was simply to spend time with my friends—Patterson and Fentiman.
” His next grimace was stronger. “It doesn’t do to try to skive off—Mama won’t stand for it—so I have to be here.
” He shrugged. “Best I could make of it was to invite Patterson and Fentiman to join me. At least I have good company.”
Barnaby nodded understandingly. “On Monday morning, when did you come downstairs?”
“We three left my room at just on seven-thirty. We were rushing to beat Mama and all the females and their noise. Then…” Delivered in a low monotone, his account matched Fentiman’s and Patterson’s exactly.
“What time did you head off for the stable and kennels?” Stokes asked.
Vincent frowned. “I really can’t say. It would have been after eight-thirty, I think—say five or ten minutes after that.”
“And between nine and ten o’clock?” Barnaby gently probed.