Chapter 10 #2
Stokes was soberly nodding. “I believe we’re on solid ground in assuming the blackmailing is the foundation of our murderer’s motive.
There’s the dispute with Lady Pamela over Underhill’s lack of independent income, but that appears to be a longstanding issue, so if that was the cause, why now?
Also, that dispute is surely more a motive for Underhill to murder Lady Pamela rather than the other way around.
From all we’ve learned, including from Lady Pamela herself, she valued what Underhill brought to the marriage, and she doesn’t seem the sort to cut off her nose to spite her face. ”
“You’re definitely right there,” Penelope said. “I really can’t see Pamela, Vincent, or even Susan committing this crime. It wouldn’t suit any of them, in the sense of creating more problems than it solves.”
“However”—Barnaby tipped his head—“the lack of personal funds might well be what drew Monty to blackmail. Even if he wasn’t in any sort of debt, and there’s no hint that he was, the temptation of having a nest egg of his own could well have proved too great to resist.”
Penelope said, “That would fit with the care he took to hide his identity and also explains why he never asked for too much—for more than his mark could easily pay. He made it as easy for them as he could. He wasn’t blackmailing them to hurt them or even exercise power over them.
His sole purpose was to accumulate some funds he could call his own. ”
Stokes nodded. “I agree. So the blackmail, it is—that’s the root cause of this murder.”
“Most if not all of his victims were friends of the family,” Penelope pointed out, “and it seems likely he used their stays at Wyndham Castle to gather his intelligence—to learn their secrets.”
Stokes frowned. “I have to wonder if there’s any particular reason that makes Wyndham Castle a good location to learn of people’s secrets.” He looked at Penelope and Barnaby. “Is there anything special about the place?”
Penelope arched her brows. “It’s a drafty old castle. The modern house—and it’s not that modern—is built within and around the ancient shell, which I understand dates to early medieval times.”
Barnaby was staring into space. “I wonder…” After a moment, he looked at Penelope and Stokes. “Let’s get Vincent back in. He might be able to shed some light.”
Barnaby rose and walked to the door.
While one footman went to fetch Vincent, another came in and cleared away their luncheon plates and platters.
Several minutes later, Vincent arrived. He shut the door behind him and walked to join them where they were again occupying the conversational grouping of four armchairs. He looked from one to the other. “You wanted to speak with me?”
“Yes. Just a quick question we’re hoping you might be able to help us with.” Barnaby waved him to the central chair, and once Vincent had sat, Barnaby asked, “If you wanted to learn people’s secrets, is there any reason you might choose Wyndham Castle as the place to do so?”
Vincent frowned. “Learn people’s secrets?” Then his face cleared, and he looked at Barnaby, Penelope, and Stokes. “The secret passageways. From them, you can listen to people and, in some rooms, spy on them as well.”
“Secret passageways?” Penelope inquired.
“The old staff corridors from when it was a medieval castle,” Vincent explained.
“They’ve been closed up for years. Probably full of cobwebs.
When we were little, Cecy and I used to play in them with Enid and Samantha.
I doubt anyone’s been in them since then.
” He studied their faces. “Why do you ask?”
Penelope smiled innocently. “It was just an idle point that came up regarding the castle. Now you’ve explained, we can see where the information fits. Thank you—that’s a help.”
Barnaby rose, and more slowly, Vincent came to his feet. He regarded them suspiciously but then inclined his head. “I’ll leave you to your investigation. If you need me again, I’ll be in the billiards room.”
Barnaby showed Vincent out, then returned to the armchairs. “Well,” he said, dropping into his chair, “that explains that.”
Stokes was studying his notes. “If we accept that Underhill learned his victims’ secrets via the secret passageways of Wyndham Castle, then what are the odds that most of those here have, at some point, visited the castle?”
Penelope grimaced. “Excellent, I would say. Pamela and Susan, together and also independently, host several events and even a house party or two there every year. Their cousin, the current marquess, is a widower, and his sons and their wives live in the north, so he’s happy to have the daughters of the previous marquess continue to use the castle socially and keep the place alive.
That’s how he described it to me the last time we spoke. ”
Still studying his notes, Stokes rumbled, “Is there any point interviewing the Grange staff?”
Penelope tipped her head one way, then the other, then said, “I doubt we’ll gain any value from that—at least not at this stage.
From breakfast to the time of the murder, they would all have been very busy, more than usual with so many guests in the house.
There would be rooms to tidy, beds to make, curtains to be neatened, water jugs refilled, basins emptied, and a host of other chores. And that’s just upstairs.”
“It’ll be more use,” Barnaby said, “to speak with Gearing and pertinent staff once we have some specific question to pursue. Such as if they saw Mr. X leaving the house before nine o’clock.”
A tap fell on the door, and when Barnaby called, “Come,” Morgan entered, closely followed by an older, heavyset man wearing old-fashioned gaiters on his sturdy legs and with a battered cloth cap perched on a head of bountiful gray curls.
Morgan carried the iron stake believed to be the murder weapon, and judging by his expression, he bore good news. He confirmed that with a jaunty salute and a “You’ll want to hear this, guv.”
The constable halted before the chairs, and whipping off his cap, the older man stopped by his shoulder. Morgan gestured at the man. “This is the head gardener, Winston.”
Winston had a weather-beaten face and shrewd brown eyes.
He nodded respectfully to the investigators, then tipped his head at the stake in Morgan’s hand.
“That’s definitely one of ours. There’s a collection of ’em.
They were used by the old lord—the one who had the arboretum out front planted.
The stakes were used to steady the young saplings, and the number painted on each stake identifies which tree it was.
There’s a plan somewhere that matches the numbers to the trees, saying what type of tree they are.
Even though, now, the trees are well-grown, we’ve left the stakes in the ground.
” Winston shrugged. “Might be useful to someone sometime to know which tree is which.”
Stokes asked the vital question. “Do you know which tree that stake was supporting?”
“Oh, aye.” Winston half turned to the door. “If you need to know, come outside and I’ll show you.”
They found themselves in the thick band of trees bordering the front lawn. Winston led them through the shade beneath the massed canopies, weaving between thick trunks on a path that ran roughly parallel to the right-hand facade of the huge old house.
“Here’s thirty-three.” Winston tapped the head of a stake as he passed.
A step farther on, he pointed at a tree on the outer rim of the arboretum, closer to the lawn.
“And that’s thirty-four over there.” He looked ahead, then halted and pointed at a large dark-green spiky-leaved tree a few paces on.
“Thought so. That yew is number thirty-five, and you can see the hole that stake should’ve been in. ”
Stokes, Barnaby, and Penelope went cautiously forward, careful of where they were placing their feet.
A yard from the yew’s trunk, they saw the small mound of disturbed dark earth marking the hole from which the stake had been hauled.
Carefully, Stokes and Barnaby studied the ground. Although it had been dry for the past few days, where it wasn’t covered in leaf mold, the ground under the trees was dark and soft.
“When last did it rain here?” Stokes asked Winston.
“We had a good bit of rain Sunday night,” the gardener promptly replied. “Heavy enough to soak in.”
Continuing to scan the ground, Stokes nodded. “We might find something, then.”
Barnaby had drifted out from the yew, past the hole. He stopped, staring down. “Here.” He crouched to study the ground more closely.
Stokes and Penelope came up, and with a pointed finger, Barnaby outlined the print he’d found in a patch of softer earth. “A man’s shoe with a leather sole. Not a work boot.”
“And shallow, suggesting it was left recently, since the last rain,” Stokes said.
Barnaby grimaced and rose. “It’s an average-sized gentleman’s shoe. That won’t help us identify who left the print.”
Stokes looked at where the shoe’s toe pointed, then nodded in that direction. “He made this when he was striding for the orchard, stake in hand.”
Stokes turned to Winston. “Thank you for your help. It’ll make a real difference to the investigation.”
Winston tugged his cap. “Pleased to be able to help.” He paused, then added, “The staff all liked Mr. Underhill. If this helps you catch who did for him, I’ll be right happy.”
With that, Winston bowed to them all and walked off through the trees, making for the side of the house.
“So,” Stokes said, looking between the hole and the shoe print, “our killer was here immediately before the murder. Why was he out here?”