Chapter 11 #3
“Quite a dab hand with the cue, you know?” Griffith observed of Richard. “Not one you’d want to challenge for any meaningful wager.”
Judging by the earnest nods from the younger men, Richard had left a lasting impression.
When the last man, Wincombe, had given his account, which tallied with everyone else’s recollections, Penelope arched a brow at Barnaby.
Returning a slight nod, he swept his gaze over the faces, then spoke to the room at large. “None of you have mentioned Leith. Do any of you recall him being here?”
Morland frowned. “He arrived with us from the drawing room. I’m sure of that. But later…” He shrugged. “I can’t remember seeing him.”
Others were nodding thoughtfully, clearly reviewing their memories and not finding Leith in the billiards room.
Kilpatrick, who was standing at the far end of the room, shifted.
“I don’t remember seeing him in here, but I think he must have been for a time, as I was.
” Kilpatrick had stated, and others had verified, that fifteen minutes or so after they’d settled in the room, he’d left the company and the house to walk across the fields to his home.
Kilpatrick went on, “When I left to go home, I spotted him on the stairs, heading up. He saw me and said he had letters to finish. I waved good night and went on to the side door. I assume he continued up the stairs to his room.”
Barnaby resisted the urge to look at Penelope. “Just remind us, at what time was that?”
Kilpatrick blew out a breath. “Well, if we got here at a little after eight”—he glanced around, and the others nodded—“then I must have left at the latest by eight-twenty.” He paused, plainly calculating, then stated, “It must have been about then, because I reached home at eight-forty-five, and it’s a good twenty-minute walk. ”
“Thank you.” Penelope beamed at Kilpatrick, then swept the company with a smile. “That’s all very clear.”
“Indeed.” Barnaby nodded. “You have our thanks.”
With that, he quickly ushered Penelope from the room while pretending not to hear Lord Wincombe ask whether they’d found the murderer yet.
Penelope fought to contain her exclamations until they were safely behind the library’s doors.
But before she could expostulate, Barnaby held up a staying hand. “We should wait to learn what Stokes discovers.”
She frowned at her spouse. “But on several counts, it’s increasingly clear that the murderer is Leith.” She swung away and started pacing. “What I can’t for the life of me imagine is why. What on earth can he have to hide?”
“Let’s see what the maid who tends Leith’s room says about his letter writing.” Barnaby frowned. “Although he does seem to have been writing quite a sheaf of letters, or else they’re proving difficult to pen. But if he was truly writing letters, then perhaps we’ve missed something.”
“We haven’t,” Penelope all but growled. She started pacing along the bookshelves.
“But I still can’t make sense of it, and given Leith’s rank, unless we find some real proof as to why he would do such a thing…
” She huffed. “Well, it’s not going to be easy to prod the Commissioner into charging Leith with Monty’s murder. ”
Barnaby sighed. “I know, but patience. We’ll get there in the end. We always do.”
Penelope reached the far end of the bookshelves. She swung around and started pacing back, then abruptly halted. She stared—almost ferociously—at a tome on the bottom shelf.
Puzzled, Barnaby asked, “What is it?”
“You know when something is just not right, and no matter how much you try to ignore it, your eyes keep returning to it, and you simply can’t not see it?”
“Yes.”
She pointed at the hefty tome. “While we were interviewing everyone and I was sitting in the armchair, watching our interviewees, this book was just inside my line of vision. I’d noted it more or less as soon as we arrived, and I knew it was…well, wrong.”
Barnaby walked to where he could see the offending volume. It was a tall, inches-wide tome covered in faded red leather. “Wrong in what way?” It looked perfectly normal to him.
“It’s stupidly misshelved! Who puts The Collected Works of Shakespeare with maps and geography?
” Shaking her head, Penelope swung and pointed at a shelf behind her.
“It belongs there, with the other works of poetry and literature. There’s even space for it there.
” She scowled at the irritating book. “I’m going to reshelve it where it belongs. ”
She marched to the tome, bent, and wriggled it free, then hefted it. “Oh!”
“What?” Barnaby closed the distance between them.
Slowly, Penelope replied, “It’s not a book. Or at least, it might once have been a book, but now, it’s one of those book-safes. A box to hold valuables that masquerades as a book.” She tipped her head, fingertips exploring the longer side. “The catch should be somewhere here… Ah, there it is!”
The lid of the book-box released. Balancing the tome on one hand, she flipped back the lid. “What have we here?”
“Sit down and let’s see.” Barnaby steered her to the cluster of chairs they’d used to interview the company.
Her gaze fixed on the contents of the box, Penelope fell into the first chair and set the box on her lap.
Barnaby sat in the chair alongside and leaned across, watching as she lifted a thick folded parchment from the box.
With bated breath, Penelope unfolded the parchment, then her eyes widened, and her breath left her in a rush.
“What is it?” Barnaby angled to see.
She tilted the document so he could read what she had. “It’s the last will and testament of Augustus Frederick Armstrong, the late Earl of Leith. And if memory serves, this was written mere days before he died.”
In stunned amazement, they stared at the document.
After a lengthy pause, Penelope admitted, “I never imagined—never would have imagined—that Leith’s secret might be something like this.”
Barnaby nodded. “Of this magnitude.” After two more seconds, he tipped his head at the document. “We’re going to have to read it and learn what it is that the man currently holding the title is so desperate to conceal.”
“Indeed.” Penelope drew in a deep breath and, holding the document so Barnaby could read it as she did, turned over the front page.
It didn’t take them long to realize what they held.
Penelope met Barnaby’s eyes. “Good Lord!” She looked across the room, staring unseeing at the fateful window through which Leith had watched Monty Underhill retrieve his last payment. “I can only vaguely recall Jonathon. Do you remember him?”
“Only distantly. He was several years behind me at Eton.” Barnaby thought, then added, “He vanished from the ton when he was about twenty, soon after he came on the town.”
Barnaby looked at the parchment, and his features hardened. “You wanted to know what secret Leith could possibly have that would be worth killing for. This document definitely qualifies.”
Holding the will, Penelope lifted the box and sprang to her feet. “We need to show Stokes.” She dropped the book-box onto the chair.
Barnaby joined her, and they strode to the door. He opened it, and Penelope rushed out, and he followed at her heels.
He strode after her as she hurried toward the baize-covered door at the end of the hall.
She was almost there when the door was flung wide, and Stokes, his features grimly set, strode through.
“It’s Leith!”
It took a second for them to realize they’d spoken in unison.
Stokes blinked, then demanded, “What have you found?”
Penelope all but jigged with impatience, yet still insisted, “You first.”
Barnaby added, “Trust us, it’ll make more sense that way.”
Stokes stated, “While Leith’s been here, he hasn’t written any letters of any sort. Not one. Not even a note. And a tweeny saw him leaving his room on Tuesday evening at a little after eight-thirty.”
“That fits with what we learned,” Barnaby said. “On Tuesday evening, Kilpatrick saw Leith head upstairs at about eight-twenty, ostensibly to write letters. Both Cordingley and Percival were in the billiards room throughout the relevant period.”
“And neither Cordingley nor Richard have ever stayed at Wyndham Castle, but Leith has,” Penelope said.
She paused, then whirled to look at Barnaby. “We forgot to ask whether anyone remembered seeing Leith on the lawn after the murder.”
Barnaby nodded at the will. “I don’t think that matters now.”
“What is that?” Stokes reached for the will.
Penelope let him take it. “It’s what Leith killed to hide.”
She opened her mouth to explain but stopped as Alison Waterhouse rushed into the hall from the direction of the rear terrace.
Plainly distraught, Alison skidded to a halt before Penelope. “Do you know where she is?”
“Who?”
“My mother! I was told she’d taken a fall.”
Penelope glanced at Barnaby. “The other ladies said she’d gone upstairs to get a shawl—”
On a gasp, Alison whisked around and set off up the stairs.
Frowning, Penelope called, “But she should have come back down by now.”
Alison didn’t hear and didn’t stop in her headlong rush up the stairs.
Penelope, Barnaby, and Stokes watched her disappear, then a moment later, they heard a wail. “Mama!”
The investigators looked at one another, then hurried after Alison.
Stokes was in the lead as they rushed through the gallery and into a long corridor.
Halfway along, Penelope saw Mrs. Waterhouse stretched out on the runner as if she’d fallen forward, face-first.
Alison was struggling to help her mother up.
“Wait!” Stokes called. “We should check for injuries first.”
Penelope swooped on Alison and raised her and drew her to the corridor’s side to allow Barnaby and Stokes to crouch on either side of the fallen lady.
Barnaby gently inspected the back of Mrs. Waterhouse’s head, then looked at Stokes. “She’s been hit, but I think not too hard. Just enough to knock her out.”
“I’m awake now,” Mrs. Waterhouse weakly protested.
His features set, Stokes nodded to Barnaby, and together, they gently helped Mrs. Waterhouse to her feet.
She swayed, but gradually steadied. Penelope released Alison, who rushed to her mother’s side.
Alison peered into her mother’s face. “What happened?”
“I…I suppose I must have stumbled on a fold in the runner, lost my balance, and fallen.” Mrs. Waterhouse frowned. “My feet seemed to go out from under me, and I fell forward…and my head hurts so!”
Penelope had been studying the runner. “You didn’t stumble. That’s what you and we were supposed to think.” She pointed farther down the corridor to the end of the runner, which lay rumpled. “It’s been jerked quite powerfully. That’s what caused you to fall.”
With her hand gingerly held to the back of her head, Mrs. Waterhouse squinted at Penelope. “Someone did this to me?”
Penelope’s lips set. “I fear so. They made you fall, then hit you on the back of your head to make sure you were incapacitated, at least for a little while.” She looked at Stokes and Barnaby. “I believe we know who, but why…?”
Footsteps climbed the stairs, then turned in their direction, and Richard and Rosalind came into view.
Walking toward them, Richard explained, “We were coming to find you to tell you our news, and we heard your voices and came to see…”
He halted and stared at Alison, who was wholly engaged in comforting her mother, then Richard looked at Rosalind.
Rosalind’s gaze had also fixed on Alison. “Alison, where’s Regina?”
Alison glanced up. “Leith came to tell me that Mama had taken a fall…” Alison frowned and looked at her mother. “I expected to find half the household here.”
Her tone rising, Rosalind prompted, “And Regina?”
“It’s all right,” Alison assured her. “I left her with Leith. We were out near the shrubbery. He said he’d walk back with her.”
Horror washed over Penelope. She met Barnaby’s and Stokes’s gazes, then looked at Richard and Rosalind. “Leith is the murderer.”
“What?” Rosalind stared at Penelope.
“Oh God!” Richard spun and raced for the stairs. “And Regina is with him.”
Stokes and Barnaby were on Richard’s heels as he rushed down the stairs. Penelope and Rosalind followed as fast as they could.
On reaching the hall, Stokes peeled away, pushed open the baize-covered door, and bellowed for his men and Gearing.
Barnaby paused only to confirm that Penelope and Rosalind were behind him, then yelled after Stokes, “We’ll start searching from the shrubbery!”
Poised in the doorway, Stokes waved them on. “Go! I’ll turn out everyone else and follow.”