Chapter 2
I t was now past midnight, so it was hardly surprising that the assembled family were growing fractious.
Penelope led the way into the drawing room, with Barnaby and Stokes close behind.
She was immediately aware that hers and Barnaby’s appearances caused, if not consternation, then at least rapid reassessment. In such situations, their reputations very much preceded them.
She paused inside the door, looking down the long room toward the massive ornate fireplace at the far end. Barnaby halted on her right, while Stokes took position to her left, and O’Donnell, having followed them in, quietly shut the door.
Penelope scanned the room, taking rapid note of the faces she’d expected to see.
The dowager sat in a Bath chair angled beside the hearth.
With her gray hair pulled high into a bun, accentuating the fineness of her features but also the lines that were, now, deeply etched in her cheeks, she’d immediately fixed her pale-blue eyes on Penelope, her gaze shrewd and almost challenging, even as her crabbed fingers idly picked at the fringe of the shawl that was draped over her lap.
On either side of the dowager’s chair stood one of her grandsons, much as if the pair were sentinels. Like all the Fitzhugh men, save, curiously, the late earl, who had been heavier and more robust, the duo sported dark hair, tall, athletic frames, and handsome features.
Dismissing the grandsons for the moment, Penelope found Imogen, Frederick’s wife, sitting in the corner of the chaise nearest the dowager.
Imogen was a buxom, comfortable, and comforting sort of person, with brown hair and hazel eyes and a round face that, despite her forty-plus years, still held elements of sweetness.
Penelope had always found Imogen to be straightforward and sensible and very awake to the ins and outs of ton life.
Her husband, Frederick, stood behind the chaise, one hand resting on the chaise’s back behind Imogen’s shoulder.
He cut a tall, upright figure, his straight dark hair shared with his male relatives, along, in large part, with the austere planes of his face and the ineluctable traces of his aristocratic forebears.
Both Frederick and Imogen appeared openly concerned, although in light of the glances they cast the dowager, their worry was for her rather than any indication of a guilty conscience.
In an armchair on the other side of the fireplace sat Victoria, the current Countess of Moran.
Younger than the earl by a good decade, she was an elegant pattern card with a good figure and glossy blond hair artfully arranged about her heart-shaped face.
She had large dark-brown eyes and an excellent complexion.
The slight primming of her lips combined with a faint frown suggested she was still grappling with shocked surprise at finding herself a widow.
Behind Victoria stood Christopher Fitzhugh, the youngest of the dowager’s children, now in his mid-forties. Like Frederick and the dowager’s grandsons, Christopher was tall, lean of build, and sported dark-brown hair and blue eyes. He looked more puzzled and surprised than anything else.
At the nearer end of the chaise sat Lady Cleome, a handsome matron of rather haughty mien whose expression gave little away.
In the chair alongside Cleome sat her husband, Damien, Lord Mitchelmore, an elegant gentleman with black hair and mid-blue eyes.
He looked faintly shocked and, like his wife, appeared to be awaiting further news.
Penelope shifted her gaze to Lady Constance and her husband, Viscount Southerly, who were seated on the second of the twin chaises, then glanced over the rest of those assembled—the numerous children gathered around, the girls on straight-backed chairs and the males standing in small groups behind them.
There was not one tear, not a single sign of sorrow to be found. No hint of anything resembling grief.
Instead, like Mitchelmore and the Southerlys, the wider family looked faintly shocked, rather surprised, and keen to hear more regarding the murder of the head of their house.
Penelope wasn’t sure what to make of that.
The entire company had fixed their gazes on them and were waiting for their next move. She glanced at Barnaby, then at Stokes, on her other side.
Barnaby opened proceedings with “Many of you are acquainted with myself and Mrs. Adair, and no doubt, you will have heard that, in cases involving serious crimes within the ton, we assist Scotland Yard”—he tipped his head toward Stokes—“represented by Inspector Stokes. In this particular case, the involvement of Mrs. Adair and myself has been requested by the Commissioner of Police and the Governors of Scotland Yard in order to ensure the murderer is apprehended in as expeditious a manner as possible and with the least disruption to your lives.”
Penelope saw faint frowns and thinned lips among many of the older Fitzhughs, eloquent signs of resigned acceptance. In contrast, the expressions of the grandchildren—all of them—displayed interest and, indeed, burgeoning curiosity.
And still, she could not detect the slightest hint of grief.
“We understand,” Stokes said, his tone grave, “that you’ve been informed that the earl was killed—murdered—this evening in his study.”
The dowager raised her chin. “Indeed. And it’s utterly preposterous to imagine Mrs. Alder is guilty of the crime.
” The dowager’s tone rang with defiance.
“Just because Winslow found her in the study, hovering over the body. And now I’ve discovered that Mary was ordered to deliver an accounting of my prospective social engagements to the study every night at ten o’clock, so it’s hardly any wonder that she was there at that time, and her finding Gordon’s body was sheer bad luck. ”
Penelope was struck by the trenchant belligerence in the old lady’s gaze.
Calmly, Stokes inclined his head. “Given the hour, we’ll keep this as brief as we can. Do you”—he met the dowager’s challenging stare, then swept the company—“or anyone else have any idea who might have killed the earl?”
“I’ve no idea,” the dowager stated with marked finality. “Gordon had his fingers in many pies, and not everyone agreed with his opinions. I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if he was killed by someone linked to his political enemies, and of those, he had more than his fair share.”
Frederick shifted, drawing the investigators’ gazes.
“It does seem that might be it.” He hurried to add, “Although, clearly, we’re not pointing our fingers at any group in particular.
” He shrugged. “Well, we can’t, because we don’t know which of those groups might have thought to put an end to him, do we? ”
The rest of the family stared at Frederick for half a minute, then all gazes returned to the investigators as if to see what they would make of that.
Penelope decided it was time to get to the facts. “If we could confirm—you were all here tonight for a family dinner?”
In unison, the dowager and Lady Cleome replied, “That’s correct.”
“When did you last see the earl?” Penelope asked.
The dowager looked peeved. “After dinner, in here. He took himself off the instant he’d downed his tea, leaving the rest of us to our own devices.”
As if in exculpation, Frederick offered, as much to the dowager as Penelope, “Well, he did usually work in the evenings. Really, after any event. And I daresay he had official matters to see to.”
The dowager haughtily turned her head away, clearly dismissing the excuse.
“You say you all remained here, in this room,” Barnaby said. “Did anyone leave before the body was found?”
The family’s gazes swung back to the dowager, and she grudgingly stated, “I always retire at nine-thirty. At my age, I need my rest.” She gestured to her chair, with its big wheels and handles at the back.
“I summoned my footmen, bid the company good night, and had the footmen carry me upstairs to my chamber.”
Barnaby glanced at the rest of the company. “And no one else left this room prior to the body being found?”
Imogen spoke up. “No. We”—she included Cleome and Constance with a wave—“Cleome, Constance, and I, were discussing various arrangements to do with our daughters’ come-outs.
The rest were chatting, waiting for us. We’d just reached agreement and were about to get ready to leave when Winslow came in and told us the shocking news. ”
Frederick added, “Christopher and I went to the study—really, we couldn’t quite believe what we’d heard.
Not without seeing…” He blanched at the memory of what he’d seen, swallowed, and concluded, “But we didn’t touch anything and came back in here straightaway.
” He glanced around. “Other than that, none of us have left this room since Gordon went to the study.”
There were nods all around, and Christopher, a touch defiantly, affirmed, “We went to the study and returned all but immediately, and other than that, no one left.”
Victoria put in, “We were all simply too stunned. That a murderer could actually come into this house and kill Gordon in the study, while all of us were sitting here talking, only yards away.” Artfully, she shuddered. “It’s truly too shocking to contemplate.”
Barnaby looked at Stokes, then at Penelope.
They needed to speak with this group individually, but the clocks had struck midnight long ago.
Seeing the realization that time was not on their side in Penelope’s and Stokes’s eyes, Barnaby turned to the group and stated, “We realize that this has been an immense shock, and at this hour, you’ll all wish to return to your homes and your beds.
However, we do need to speak with each of you individually—purely routine, but a necessary and expected step in the investigative process.
Those interviews can be put off until later today.
If you would confirm your addresses, specifically where you can be found this afternoon, you may then leave. ”