Chapter 1 #5
Winslow hesitated, then offered, “Well, ma’am, it’s common knowledge among the staff that the master had dismissed Mrs. Alder and given her and her son, Julian, who also lives here although he’s not a member of the staff, their marching orders.
They were to leave the house tomorrow morning.
And then there was the timing. The master had called me in and ordered the whiskey decanter refilled. ”
Winslow pointed at the decanter that, now full, sat somewhat incongruously on the corner of the desk closest to the door rather than on the tantalus with the other decanters and glasses.
“So, you see,” Winslow continued, “I knew the master was alive and well when I took the decanter and left the study. By the time I went down to the cellar and refilled the decanter and returned here, only about fifteen or twenty minutes had passed. Then I walked in and found the master sprawled on the ground dead and Mrs. Alder standing there, looking down at him.”
From his expression, Winslow was vividly recalling the scene, then he winced. “Mrs. Alder looked so horrified. In that moment, I thought she was horrified by what she’d done, but now I realize she might simply have been horrified by what she saw.” Winslow swallowed and confessed, “I know I was.”
“I see,” Stokes said, very clearly nonjudgmentally. “So you’re no longer convinced that Mrs. Alder struck down the earl.”
Winslow straightened and raised his head.
“Yes, Inspector. That’s correct.” He paused, then added, “Mrs. Alder has been a part of the dowager’s household for over ten years.
We, the staff here, all know her as a decent, hardworking lady, come down in the world, perhaps, but she’s never been one to give herself airs or complain.
Her being let go was a shock—to everyone.
But she didn’t rail or carry on. Very dignified about it, she was.
To think she did this…” He tipped his head toward the earl’s body.
“That doesn’t fit at all with what we know of her.
I was very wrong to even suggest it, regardless of how shocked I was. ”
Stokes inclined his head. “Thank you. That’s very clear. Where is Mrs. Alder now?”
“She’s with Mrs. Pratchett, the housekeeper, in the housekeeper’s room.”
Penelope asked, “Where was this bust—which appears to be the murder weapon—kept?”
Winslow pointed to the first shelf above the sideboard behind the desk. “Just there. You can see the spot—that bust has stood in the same place for years.”
Penelope, Stokes, and Barnaby all turned and looked, and sure enough, a lighter area on the polished surface seemed to match the base of the bust.
Penelope swung back and considered the position of the body, then asked Winslow, “When you left to fill the decanter, was the earl busy with his correspondence?” She shifted her gaze to the papers strewn over the desk. “Was he sitting in his chair, reading those papers?”
“Yes, ma’am. If he was at home, he usually worked through the evening. He was a night owl, as they say. He rarely went upstairs before one o’clock.”
Barnaby asked, “Was there a reason Mrs. Alder came to the study? Did the earl send for her?”
Winslow conceded, “It was more by way of a regular appointment. The master insisted on being kept informed of the dowager’s planned outings for the next day, and as the dowager’s companion, it was Mrs. Alder’s duty to deliver a list of the dowager’s plans to the study at ten o’clock every evening.”
Puzzled, Penelope asked, “Why did the earl need to know of his mother’s plans?”
“It was to do with the carriage and the two extra footmen, ma’am.
The dowager isn’t strong, and as she uses a Bath chair, she needs two footmen to get about, and she has to have the larger carriage.
The earl liked to know when he would need to use the smaller town carriage and also to avoid any clash with the countess, as well. ”
“Ah. I see.” Penelope assumed that her tone would convey to Barnaby and Stokes that, in truth, she didn’t see at all.
The distant sound of the front doorbell reached them.
Instantly, Winslow turned to go. “If you’ll excuse me?”
Stokes nodded. “That’ll likely be Findlay, the medical examiner. Please show him straight here.”
Winslow bowed and left.
Barnaby looked questioningly at Penelope. “The family?”
Rapidly organizing her thoughts, she supplied, “The dowager, a widow of many years, is Lady Imelda Fitzhugh. As you heard, she’s elderly and frail, but still manages to go about socially, although most likely keeping to a narrow circle of acquaintances.
The earl”—she tipped her head toward the body—“is her eldest child, Gordon. He’s presently married to Victoria, who was a Carrington.
She’s his second wife—the first died of a fever decades ago—so Victoria is some years younger than Gordon, although nothing too unusual in ton terms.”
Stokes had pulled out his notebook and was jotting. “How old was he?”
Barnaby replied, “About fifty-five, I think. Mid-fifties, at any rate.”
Penelope continued, “The dowager’s second child is Frederick—the Honorable Frederick Fitzhugh.
He married Imogen Farrer. They have six children and live in a house in Hertford Street.
Next comes Cleome—Lady Cleome, who married Damien, Lord Mitchelmore.
They have four children—two boys, two girls.
The older girl, Lizbet, married Lord Brompton last Season.
The Mitchelmores spend most of the year in Somerset, but during the Season, they live in Mitchelmore House on Charles Street. ”
The door opened, and Winslow stood back to allow a rumpled-looking Findlay to enter.
Findlay grunted a greeting at Barnaby, Stokes, and Penelope, then irascibly waved them aside. “Let me get at our body, and we’ll see what I can see.”
Barnaby, Penelope, and Stokes quickly filed out from behind the desk, and Findlay dove in to crouch beside the body.
Stokes looked at Winslow, who was hovering by the open door. “You may go. We’ll ring if we need you.”
Winslow bowed, backed out of the room, and shut the door.
Stokes settled on his feet, raised his notebook and pencil, and returned his gaze to Penelope. “Go on. Who else?”
Penelope duly continued, “In order of age, after Cleome comes Constance, who married Viscount Southerly. They have three children and live in Southerly House in Mount Street. The youngest of the dowager’s brood is Christopher.
He’s mid-forties, now, and a dyed-in-the-wool bachelor and general man-about-town.
” Penelope glanced at Barnaby. “I believe Christopher still lives under this roof.”
Barnaby confirmed, “He does.”
Stokes frowned at his jottings. “How old are the children? Meaning the dowager’s grandchildren?”
“All but two,” Penelope replied, “the younger girls Winslow mentioned, would, I judge, be capable of committing this crime.” She paused, plainly consulting her capacious memory, then added, “Frederick’s two sons and Cleome’s pair are out on the town, while Constance’s two sons would still be at Eton, but the Lent term ended a week ago, so they’re probably here, in the drawing room, as well. ”
Stokes raised his gaze from his notes and regarded Penelope and Barnaby. “How well do you know these people?”
Penelope wrinkled her nose. “Not that well. We cross paths at balls and parties, so we know them well enough to chat to, and of course, I know all that’s generally known of them, but we’re not what one would term ‘friends.’” She sighed and admitted, “I don’t know the family’s secrets. That said, I know who to ask.”
Barnaby smiled and added, “I know the men well enough to pass the time with, but no more than that. However, with the earl’s standing in politics, the Fitzhughs are a family of note.”
Stokes grunted and returned his attention to his notebook. “So I gathered. I’ve never seen the Commissioner in such a flap.”
From behind the desk, Findlay’s voice drifted up. “Well, I’d say that’s conclusive enough.”
With Penelope and Stokes, Barnaby shifted to peer over the desk.
“What’s conclusive?” Stokes asked.
“That he was struck on the head, hard, with this bust.” Without looking up, Findlay angled the bust so they could see that its shape mirrored the damage to the earl’s skull.
“One decisive blow by someone who’s right-handed, which doesn’t help all that much.
” He held up the bust. “But this is your murder weapon, and judging by the extent of the damage, he would have died more or less instantly.”
“Time?” Stokes asked.
Findlay pulled a face. “Between one and three hours ago. I can’t say more than that.”
Stokes offered, “He was seen alive and well at about nine-forty and found dead at ten o’clock.”
Findlay happily nodded. “That fits, then.”
Barnaby had been studying the body’s position. “The chair’s a swiveling one. Was he working at his papers when he was struck?”
Findlay raised his head to look at the papers strewn across the desk, then returned his gaze to the body.
“Looks like he was. He was struck, all unsuspecting, and then slid sideways as the chair rotated a little due to the force of the blow. Then, with him insensible and slumping, his weight dragged him out of the chair and onto the floor.”
Stokes glanced at Barnaby and Penelope. “That means…”
Barnaby obligingly completed the thought, “That whoever murdered him was someone he viewed as absolutely no threat.”
Stokes looked at the nearby window and the thick curtains that screened it. “Or he had no idea they were there, creeping up behind him.”
“Regardless,” Penelope stated, “that means that the murderer was definitely not Mrs. Alder. She came in through the door. If she’d tried to circle around behind the earl, he would have turned and watched her.”
Stokes looked at Findlay. “Could a woman have struck the blow?”
“In this case,” Findlay replied, looking back at the body, “definitely. Even a delicate young lady might have managed that.” He hefted the bust in one hand.
“This has lots of weight in a small package, and this marble is very hard. It was an excellent choice as a weapon with which to accomplish the deed.”
Stokes sighed. “So everyone’s a suspect.”
Findlay grunted and clambered to his feet. “One thing. There’s a draft down there. Is there a window open?”
Stokes, Barnaby, and Penelope regarded the long curtains, then Stokes went to check the window closer to the desk, while Penelope walked to the other window, with Barnaby close behind.
Nearing the window, Penelope said, “These curtains aren’t sitting quite straight.” She pushed the two long curtains apart and looked out. “And yes, the window—well, it’s actually a French door—is ajar.”
She spread the curtains wider and gently pushed open the glassed door. “There’s a courtyard out here.”
She stepped through the doorway, and Barnaby followed.
They found themselves on a gravel pathway that ran around a pretty courtyard. There was a plinth in the center supporting a fountain, and beds of flowers bordered the rectangular space.
Stokes joined them and looked around.
“Those are different wings of the house.” Barnaby pointed to the left and right, where the walls of the courtyard were punctuated by windows and two more French doors. “But that wall”—he nodded at the high stone wall directly opposite the study—“might well have a lane on the other side.”
Penelope added, “One of those narrow little alleys that lead to the mews behind these old houses.”
Stokes surveyed the wall. “Even from here, I can tell that’s a very old wall. Lots of little pockets between the stones. Easy enough to climb over.”
Staring at the wall, Barnaby observed, “Moran was widely known for his politics, which weren’t appreciated by all.”
“Perhaps,” Penelope said, “someone slipped in from this courtyard, hid behind the curtains closer to the desk, then after Moran had sat and grown absorbed with his papers, stepped out and took him by surprise.”
Barnaby arched his brows. “That’s possible, I suppose.”
Stokes grunted and turned back to the study. “We’ll need to check if anyone was seen in the vicinity around ten o’clock.”
He led the way inside, and Barnaby and Penelope followed.
Findlay was standing beside the desk, repacking his black bag. “I’ve finished here. I’ll have my men remove the body to the morgue.”
Stokes nodded in agreement, then the study door opened, and O’Donnell looked in.
Focusing on Stokes, O’Donnell reported, “The natives are growing restless.”
Stokes sighed, then looked at Barnaby and Penelope. “Looks like it’s time to face the family and see what they can tell us.”