Chapter 10
Richard sat beside Rosalind on a large rug in a pretty clearing in the wood to the west of the Grange.
It was the perfect spot for a picnic, and about them, the company were relaxing on similar rugs and attempting to strike the right balance between somber memory and getting on with life.
In the center of each rug, an array of delicacies provided by the Grange’s cook had been arranged by attendant footmen to tempt the appetites of the assembled guests.
The remaining members of the Underhill family had elected to join the gathering, bolstered by Lady Susan and her daughters.
The unvoiced opinion of the guests seemed to be that, while mourning had its place, the peculiar circumstances and the as-yet-unresolved murder that hung over the house made Lady Pamela’s, Vincent’s, and Cecilia’s attendance understandable and acceptable.
Despite the unexpected death, as hosts of the event, their responsibilities to their guests persisted, especially as, courtesy of the investigation, the guests were forbidden from decently departing.
The Underhills and Goodriches shared the large rug to Richard’s left, along with Elliot, Nevin-Smythe, Patterson, and Fentiman.
In addition to Rosalind, the circle around Richard included Regina, Mrs. Hemmings, Cordingley, Kilpatrick, and Leith.
Mrs. Hemmings sat on Richard’s other side with Kilpatrick lounging beside her.
The pair were quietly discussing various features of the locality, with Mrs. Hemmings drawing Kilpatrick out regarding his neighboring estate.
On the opposite side of the rug, Regina and Cordingley were discussing London pursuits, with Leith indulgently looking on.
On Richard’s right, Rosalind leaned a fraction closer and murmured, “Two days on from the murder. Is it my imagination, or are its gripping effects starting to ease?”
Keeping his voice low, Richard replied, “The tension has definitely lessened, although it hasn’t gone away. And we shouldn’t forget the investigators’ warning. The murderer is still here, among us.” He glanced around at the idyllic setting. “Even here.”
Briefly, Rosalind met his gaze. “That’s a very sobering thought.”
Richard gave a small nod. “Indeed.”
As the warmth of the afternoon wafted beneath the canopies and wrapped them in its embrace, with the victuals largely consumed and glasses of champagne emptied, a semisomnolent postprandial drowsiness was taking hold. Conversations stuttered and slowed, and silences grew longer.
After glancing at the others on their rug, Rosalind again met Richard’s eyes. A faint interrogatory lift of her fine brows effectively conveyed the same question circling in his brain. Surely this is an opportune moment to do a little probing?
Before he or she could decide where to start, Kilpatrick looked across the rug at Leith. “I was just telling Mrs. Hemmings about that last party at Wyndham Castle. You were there, weren’t you?”
“Indeed, I was.” Leith smiled affably. “Have you mentioned the contretemps over the brandy?”
Kilpatrick grinned. “I was attempting to explain why the difference between brandy and whiskey is so…acute.”
Still smiling, Leith glanced at Regina, then shifted his gaze to Rosalind and Richard.
“Someone mixed up the decanters. It caused quite a comedy, with some swearing the brandy in the whiskey decanter was, in fact, whiskey, just from a different region, and others maintaining that the whiskey in the brandy decanter was, indeed, brandy but produced by a different fermentation process. That left those who could correctly identify both liquors—like myself and Kilpatrick here—not quite knowing what to say.”
“In the end,” Kilpatrick said, “the marquess had both decanters emptied and refilled from the correct tuns under the eye of all the gentlemen about the table.”
“That was the only way to settle the arguments,” Leith said. “The sheepish faces when those who’d been so adamant about which liquor was which realized what had actually happened made for a very memorable moment.”
Richard seized the opening to observe, “I daresay this house party will also be remembered by all attending, albeit for quite a different sort of moment.” Mildly, he glanced around the circle of faces.
“Speaking for myself, I doubt I will ever forget the instant when I was coming down the stairs, feeling quite carefree, and heard Miss Hemmings scream for help.”
Cordingley readily nodded. “I was in my room, reading, but I had the window open and heard the scream, too. Quite set the blood racing and had me rushing to the stairs. The gentlemen who’d been in the library had come into the hall and were looking out”—Cordingley tipped his head at Richard—“and we all followed you, Percival, across the lawn.”
Kilpatrick sighed. “I missed it all. I was walking to the Grange from the manor at the time.” To the ladies, he explained, “Coming over the fields is the quickest and easiest way, so I was on the other side of the house, and the scream didn’t reach that far.
I didn’t realize anything was wrong until I got to the forecourt and found everyone gathered outside. ”
Mrs. Hemmings artfully shuddered. “I was with the other matrons in the morning room, and I can tell you that hearing that scream gave us quite a shock. Then, we gathered ourselves up and followed the gentlemen outside, but at that point, we had no idea what had happened, and we stopped on the lawn just beyond the forecourt to wait for news.”
When everyone’s gazes shifted to Leith, he also sighed.
“I, too, missed the excitement, such as it was, entirely. I was in my room, putting the finishing touches to several letters, and unlike Cordingley, my room is in the east wing, and the window was shut, so I didn’t hear any scream.
I did, however, hear the commotion downstairs, and ultimately—and, I admit, reluctantly—I put aside my pen and came down to see what was going on.
By then, most of the company were clustered on the front lawn. ”
Smoothly, Leith turned to Regina and, with a kindly smile, asked, “And where were you, my dear?”
Along with everyone else, Richard looked at Regina, then bit back a curse. Her expression was that of a rabbit bailed up by a fox.
It was Rosalind who, equally smoothly, replied.
“Regina and I had left the house via the rear terrace. We’d walked around the grounds, circling the house.
Regina had had enough, but I wanted a longer walk, so we parted in the shrubbery, and Regina headed back to the house while I went on to the orchard. ”
Rosalind directed a smiling—encouraging—glance at her sister, and Regina managed a wooden nod. “Yes,” she rather breathlessly said. “I…was still in the shrubbery when I heard Rosalind scream, and I… I just didn’t know what to do.”
Her tone, her expression, and her tightly gripped fingers testified to that being the truth and that the recollection upset her.
Mrs. Hemmings reached across and bracingly patted Regina’s hands. “Indeed, dear. That’s hardly surprising. We all had a dreadful shock that morning.”
Rosalind said, “I do hope the investigators find the murderer soon so that everyone here, and the Underhills, too, can start to put this experience behind them.”
Taking the hint, obligingly, Cordingley offered, “The book I was reading is about Egypt. Quite a fascinating place, it seems.”
“My uncle traveled there recently,” Kilpatrick said. “He’s something of an amateur adventurer.”
“Oh? How did he find it?” Cordingley asked.
“Hot.” Kilpatrick grinned. “But he did say he found lots to see.”
Cordingley shifted to face Kilpatrick. “Such as?”
As the conversation moved on, Richard glanced at Rosalind and saw that she was looking at Regina.
Leith, too, had his gaze fixed on the younger sister’s face. Under cover of Kilpatrick’s account of his uncle’s recollections, Leith caught Regina’s gaze and, his expression comforting, asked, “Do you have any ambition to walk in Lady Stanhope’s shoes, Miss Hemmings?”
Regina sucked in a breath, then considered and replied, “I really don’t think I’d enjoy traveling over sand dunes on a camel.” Rallying, she added, “I prefer cool woodland”—she gestured about them—“like this.”
Rosalind volunteered, “I, too, prefer cooler climes, but I’m sure Lady Stanhope craves the adventure and new sights rather than the heat.”
“Very likely,” Richard said. Regina had calmed, and the awkward moment had passed. Somewhat relieved, he lent Rosalind his support in guiding the conversation into clearer waters.
In the library, Barnaby collected the last flaky crumbs from the slice of delectable game pie he’d consumed. “Everyone here, even Monty’s victims, viewed him in the same way as all of society—as a genial, innocuous, well-meaning, and entirely harmless older gentleman.”
Seated behind the desk in the library at which they’d eaten, Penelope added, “Not someone likely to inspire anyone to viciously murder him.”
“Except”—Stokes set his empty plate on the desk—“for the blackmail.”
Sitting back, Barnaby looked at his coinvestigators. “Is there any other motive that might apply? Or are we correct in assuming one of his victims realized he was their blackmailer and killed him in a fit of rage?”
“The latter, I think.” Penelope scrunched up her face, then stated, “While theoretically, the killer might have been hired by someone else—Vincent or even Pamela—for some reason we’ve yet to learn, the search of the study and the attack on Monty’s valet argues that the correct motive is Monty’s blackmailing. It was that that led to his death.”