Chapter 4 #2
When Penelope, who, with Barnaby and Stokes, had halted beside the newel post, arched her brows in question, Christopher approached and explained, “My man told me about Winslow dying. Of poison, of all things!” The last word ended on a near-hysterical note.
Christopher dragged in a breath and, clasping his hands before him, rushed on, “I was so shocked, I came down and decided I needed a drink to steady my nerves, so I went into the study—the decanter there is always kept full of the better stuff.”
Turning toward the corridor leading to the study, he beckoned. “Come and see. It’ll be easier to show you.”
Mystified, Penelope exchanged a quick glance with Barnaby and Stokes, then they followed in Christopher’s wake.
He led them into the late earl’s study, then stopped just over the threshold and stood aside to allow them to enter the room. The instant they had, dramatically, he pointed at the tantalus that stood against the corridor wall. “I came in and saw that and realized something was wrong.”
Following the direction of his accusing finger, Penelope saw the decanter—the same one they’d seen the previous evening—mostly full of amber fluid with a glass, presumably used, sitting upright beside it. Other glasses were arrayed, upside down, on the tantalus’s lower shelf.
Stokes rumbled, “When we left the room last night, the decanter was full and was standing on the corner of the desk.”
Christopher nodded. “It was there when Frederick and I came in to look at Gordon’s body.
” He glanced at their faces and added, “It was the used glass that struck me as odd. As wrong. Winslow is the last one in here every night, when he locks up, and he would never normally leave a used glass sitting with the decanter.”
“Except,” Penelope said, “last night—or more accurately, early this morning—wasn’t the least bit normal, and Winslow was, no doubt, in something of a state.”
“Exactly.” Christopher went on, “I wondered if he’d felt the need for something to steady his nerves, to help him sleep, and he helped himself to a tot, and then, with Gordon dead, just left the glass, thinking to clear it away later today.”
It was a plausible scenario.
Stokes and Barnaby were frowning.
Barnaby crossed to the tantalus and crouched to examine the glass without touching it. “This has definitely been used. There’s a film of dried whiskey in the base.”
He straightened, and they heard footsteps, several pairs, coming slowly and heavily down the main stairs.
Stokes had raised his head, listening. “That’ll be Findlay and his men, removing the body.”
Stokes looked at the decanter, then pulled a handkerchief from his jacket pocket, shook it out, and using it, picked up the decanter, along with the glass, and carried both out, into the corridor and on to the foyer.
Penelope followed, with Barnaby at her heels and Christopher trailing behind.
They reached the foyer just as Findlay, who’d been following the men from the morgue as they carried Winslow’s sheet-draped body down on a stretcher, joined Stokes on the black-and-white tiles.
“We had to come down this way because the servants’ stairs are too narrow for the stretcher.
” Findlay directed the morgue attendants to the green-baize-covered door.
“On and out through the servants’ hall and the back door.
You won’t want to run into any of those pesky reporters carrying that. ”
The men’s expressions stated they were in total agreement. They maneuvered the stretcher around and continued toward the rear of the house.
Findlay returned his attention to the investigators. Curious, he nodded at the decanter. “What do you have there?”
Stokes proffered the decanter and glass. “You saw these in the study last night. Mr. Fitzhugh went in there this morning and noticed that the decanter had been moved and one glass used, apparently for the whiskey.”
“You think the butler had a tipple?” Findlay set his big black bag on the tiles and bent to open it.
“That seems the most likely explanation,” Barnaby said. “Regardless, you’ll need to test what’s in the decanter.”
Findlay drew out a paper bag, opened it, and held it out. “Drop the glass in here.”
Stokes obliged, and Findlay wrapped up the glass and set it in his black bag. Then he pulled out a bigger piece of paper and wrapped it about the base of the decanter, dislodging Stokes’s handkerchief. “Don’t use that without washing it first.”
Tucking the cloth into an inner pocket, Stokes grimaced. “I won’t.”
“Now, hold this.” Findlay had Stokes support the decanter while Findlay used twine to tie down the stopper.
Eventually satisfied, Findlay finished wrapping the decanter and wedged it upright in his black bag.
Rising, he carefully picked up the bag, then nodded to Christopher. “We’ll return the glassware to you eventually.”
Christopher looked faintly appalled. “If that’s where the poison came from, I’m not sure we’ll want it back.”
Findlay shrugged, nodded to them all, and followed the morgue attendants into the rear of the mansion.
Stokes turned to Christopher. “If you could instruct the staff to leave the study undisturbed for the moment?”
Christopher blinked. “Yes, of course.” He hesitated, then said, “If you’ll excuse me, I…er, need to return upstairs.”
With the barest of inclinations of his head to Barnaby and Penelope, Christopher moved past them and started up the stairs.
With Barnaby and Penelope, Stokes watched Christopher go, then murmured, “We need to find somewhere private to talk.”
Penelope thought, then suggested, “Winslow’s office—his butler’s pantry—might be the perfect place.”
They followed the same route Findlay had taken into the bowels of the house. On reaching the servants’ hall, they found Mrs. Pratchett endeavoring to do as Penelope had suggested and keep the rest of the staff focused on their daily chores.
Shock and sorrow showed on many faces, and most were working with gazes downcast, occasionally pausing to wipe their eyes.
Stokes, who’d led the way, caught Mrs. Pratchett’s eye and quietly said, “We were hoping to find somewhere private to discuss our findings and thought Winslow’s office might suit.”
Penelope put in, “There, we would be out of your way.” She glanced at the staff at various stations around the room. “And out of sight, as well.”
Holding herself staunchly upright, her expression fixed, sternly suppressing all emotion, Mrs. Pratchett stiffly inclined her head. “Yes, of course. I’ll show you where it is.”
She led them into the short corridor that gave access to her housekeeper’s room but turned in the other direction.
Winslow’s pantry was two doors along. As Penelope had supposed, while the room hosted three large sideboards accommodating the Moran silverware and plate, the space was set up as a working office with a good-sized desk and three chairs, one behind the desk and two set in front.
“Thank you,” Barnaby said. “This will do admirably.”
Her gaze on the floor, Mrs. Pratchett bobbed and left them.
Stokes closed the door, then made for the chair behind the desk.
Barnaby held one of the chairs before the desk for Penelope, then subsided onto its mate.
Stokes had opened his notebook on the desktop. “First, given the poison seems likely to have been in the whiskey in the earl’s study, does that mean the earl was the intended victim?”
Stokes looked up, and meeting his gaze, Barnaby admitted, “It certainly seems that way. Given that, by his own testimony, it was Winslow himself who filled the decanter, it clearly wasn’t he who introduced the poison.”
“Yes, but”—Penelope was frowning—“why bludgeon the earl to death as well as try to poison him?” She met Barnaby’s gaze, then Stokes’s.
“Are we dealing with a single murderer who set out to poison the earl, but before the poison plot could work, something changed, and the murderer felt they had to act immediately, and so they bashed the earl on the head?”
“That’s one possibility,” Stokes allowed. “Or we could be dealing with two completely separate attempts on the earl’s life.”
“Either is possible,” Barnaby conceded. “One killer pushed into immediate action, or two separate attempts, with the caveat that if we have two independent attempts, then those behind each attempt did not know the other attempt was going forward.”
Penelope inclined her head. “And if we are dealing with the latter scenario, then ipso facto, more than one person or group of people wanted the earl dead.”
Stokes flicked back through the pages in his notebook, then paused on one, his eyes scanning.
“Considering the poison, is Mrs. Alder’s motive—that of resentment at being dismissed without cause from a position she’d held to everyone’s satisfaction for more than ten years—sufficient to move a woman of her ilk to murder? ”
Penelope considered the point, then shook her head. “I can’t see it.”
“Nor I,” Barnaby stated. “Especially as, at least by her accounting, the move wouldn’t have cast her and Julian penniless onto the streets.”
With one finger, Stokes tapped the page.
“In light of the open terrace door, we have to allow for the possibility that someone came in from outside—perhaps an enemy the earl had made in public life—and hid behind the curtains and killed the earl at his desk. However, it’s difficult to imagine that same unknown outsider sneaking in and slipping poison into the decanter. ”
Barnaby tipped his head in agreement. “It’s theoretically possible but seems highly unlikely. An outsider couldn’t have been sure the earl would drink a glass of whiskey before someone else did.”
“As, indeed, happened.” Penelope sighed. “Poor Winslow. He didn’t deserve to die like that.”
“No, he didn’t.” Barnaby looked at Stokes. “While the earl’s actual murderer might well have come from outside the house, the attempted poisoning, which has now ended in unintended murder, is most likely the work of someone much closer to the Moran household.”