Chapter 12 #2
When, after taking stock of the rope, the others looked at her, patently waiting for her to expound, she obliged.
“I believe he intended to partially strangle Regina, enough to render her unconscious, then he was going to hang her from this tree.” With her gaze, she measured the distance between the thicker branches overhead and the ground.
“There’s just enough clearance to imagine that she might have done it herself, and the bruising from the rope would have obscured the marks of strangulation.
” After pausing to allow that to sink in, she added, “I suspect he would have then ‘found’ her, no doubt claiming that he’d seen her safely back to the house, but that when he’d left her inside, she’d appeared ‘troubled.’ Something along those lines. ”
His voice low so only they would hear, Barnaby filled in, “He’d read Monty’s black book and knew Regina was one of Monty’s victims. He meant us to see the evidence of Monty’s own record of Regina making a payment that morning—and somehow, Leith had guessed that she was the one who was supposed to have left a payment in the tree’s hollow, and that was what Monty was looking for when Leith struck him. ”
“Leith saw how unsettled Regina was when the conversation turned to everyone’s whereabouts at the time Monty was killed.” Richard looked at Rosalind and lightly hugged her. “Remember?”
Rosalind nodded. “During the picnic yesterday, especially.” She looked at the others. “Regina was obviously uncomfortable when the discussion touched on that subject.”
“Right.” Stokes kept his voice down. “So he was going to string her up as if she’d taken her own life because she was guilty of murdering Underhill.” He looked at Penelope. “That’s diabolical.”
She nodded. “He intended to use her as his scapegoat. The one thing he failed to realize was that Regina’s too short to have landed the blow he had.” She glanced at Leith, drooping between O’Donnell and Morgan. “That simply wouldn’t have occurred to him.”
Stokes huffed. “It wouldn’t have occurred to many at all.” He, too, directed a steely look at Leith. “Few would have doubted his word.”
“At least at first,” Penelope said. “And really, that’s probably all he would have needed to walk free, unsuspected of any crime. Monty’s evidence of his misdeeds, which we’ve discovered but have yet to share, would likely have remained hidden, possibly for decades.”
Leaning heavily on her mother’s arm, Regina took careful steps toward them. “Inspector?”
Stokes turned and, instantly solicitous, walked to her side. “Yes?”
Regina drew in a deeper breath and managed to rasp, “He said something. When he started to…” She weakly waved at her throat, where the white skin was mottled by deepening bruises. “He said, ‘You, my dear, are the perfect scapegoat.’”
Eyes still reflecting the shock of her ordeal, Regina looked at Stokes. “I thought you should know.”
“Thank you.” Gravely, Stokes inclined his head. He hesitated, then, no doubt judging that it might help Regina to hear it stated, he added, “We believe he intended to use your death as his ticket to freedom.”
Regina’s lips quivered, but then her chin firmed, and she nodded. “I thought it must have been that.”
Vincent approached. His expression severe, he stared hard at Leith, then turned to Stokes. “Inspector. Do you and your men need any assistance?”
Grateful for the offer, Stokes arranged to have Leith temporarily held in a cellar storeroom.
At Stokes’s nod, grim-faced, O’Donnell and Morgan marched Leith out of the orchard.
The entire company and many of the staff had gathered in one large crowd on the lawn.
They parted, creating an avenue to the forecourt, and the policemen steered Leith, with his hands now bound, his head hanging, and his gaze on the ground, to the house as comprehension, disbelief, and scandalized horror appeared on every face as the reality sank in that the Earl of Leith was Monty Underhill’s murderer.
“Hold still!” Rosalind glared at Richard as, shirtless, he leaned back against one of the raised benches in the conservatory.
Pots of greenery had been moved aside to provide space for the bowls and balms and bandages Rosalind and Lady Pamela had deemed necessary to tend Richard’s wound.
Using a damp cloth to firmly dab at the inches-long cut, Rosalind flicked a glance at Richard’s face. “You’re distracting enough without moving.”
Richard grinned. “I’m relieved you’ve noticed.”
Rosalind colored faintly but, her eyes on the wound, murmured, “I’m not blind.”
Richard decided to let that comment pass unchallenged.
Several minutes later, after she’d dabbed ointment on the wound and bandaged it neatly, Rosalind stepped back and raised one hand to her temple to push aside a dangling glossy brown curl.
She met Richard’s eyes, studied his subtly amused, dark-blue gaze, then rather waspishly insisted, “This is not funny! I don’t find seeing you hurt amusing in the slightest!
” Unbidden, the shock of realizing he’d been injured and was bleeding rolled through her again, and she swatted at his shoulder. “You didn’t need to let him cut you.”
His amusement deepening, although he did his best to hide it, Richard replied, “It was that or have him stab me in the chest. I chose the less damaging option.”
“You could have let him run. He would have been caught.”
Richard sobered. “I couldn’t let him get away, not after what he did to Regina.” He paused, then added, “What he was planning was beyond despicable.”
Rosalind met his gaze, then sighed. “I don’t even know why I’m arguing with you.” She looked at the bandage. “You’re as healthy as a horse, and I expect that will heal with no lasting damage.”
Smiling gently, Richard reached for her. “I expect so, too.” He drew her into his arms and looked into her lavender-blue eyes. “But truth be told, it’s rather nice to have you fussing.”
She primmed her lips, then, still holding his gaze, ventured, “I’ve heard that reacting as I did to you being wounded…says something. About how I feel.”
Richard readily nodded. “I’ve heard the same.” As she leaned against him, and something inside him purred with pleasure, he said, “I suspect that means we really should get married.”
Smiling up at him, she arched a brow. “And not just dance around the subject?”
“Exactly. I feel we’ve discussed the possibilities sufficiently. We’ve already agreed we suit.” Looking into her eyes, he arched his brows back. “So, when do you think we should tie the knot?”
“After today?” Rosalind’s lips firmed. “As soon as possible.”
Richard laughed. “I agree.” Smoothly, he tightened his arms about her and bent his head, and she stretched upward, and he found her lips with his.
The kiss commenced innocently enough but quickly evolved into a deeper, hungrier pleasure.
Both knew what they wanted and could now have, and together, they set out to explore their new landscape.
Much later, when they emerged from the conservatory and joined the rest of the company for luncheon, Rosalind’s lips were rosy red, and her eyes were sparkling, and Richard’s cat-who-had-found-the-cream-jug smile spoke volumes.
The necessary denouement occurred later that day.
Immediately on returning to the house, the investigators repaired to the cellar storeroom, hoping to inveigle Leith into filling in the gaps in his story.
Initially, Leith—more correctly, plain Frederick Armstrong—resisted all Stokes’s and Barnaby’s invitations to provide further details of what had occurred.
Even when confronted with his late uncle’s will, he simply set his lips and refused to say a word.
Then, Penelope lit on the strategy of filling in those details herself in increasingly outlandish fashion, and ultimately recognizing the unvoiced threat—that her inventions would henceforth shape the world’s view of him—and accepting the utter futility of maintaining his silence, Frederick gritted his teeth and started to correct her.
Fact by fact, Penelope teased and extracted the complete story from him.
Eventually, armed with what they believed was a solid understanding of all that had occurred and knowing that attempting to leave the Grange without sharing the relevant parts of that understanding with all those present would cause an uproar, they decided on what they would reveal and what they wouldn’t, then requested that everyone gather in the drawing room.
Penelope asked Gearing to serve the company afternoon tea, if for no other reason than to give people something to do with their hands during what was likely to prove a lengthy dissertation.
Barnaby suggested that Gearing and Grimshaw attend as well so that later, they would be able to report to the staff.
Finally, the three investigators stood in the hall outside the closed drawing room doors.
From inside the room, they could hear the hum of polite conversation spiced with excitement mixed with relief.
The oppressive uncertainty that had afflicted the company since Monday had lifted, and all tension had dissipated, leaving everyone, for the moment, relaxed and rather eager to hear what had actually gone on.
Barnaby looked at Penelope. “Ready?”
She met his gaze. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Right, then.” Stokes opened the door and waved her in.
With a firm and deliberate tread, Penelope walked into the room and proceeded at the same steady pace all the way down the long chamber, and Barnaby and Stokes followed.
Gearing closed the door behind them, and Penelope went straight to the large fireplace, halted, and turned to face the assembled company.
Barnaby took up a position on her right, and Stokes flanked her on her left. They were there to assist with the later details, but Penelope was the arch-storyteller, and she would lead them in telling the tale.
Agog, the company had set their cups on their saucers and shifted to get an unobstructed view.