Chapter 5
A s they knew Christopher was in the house and out of bed and dressed, he seemed the ideal Fitzhugh with whom to commence their interviews.
On leaving Winslow’s erstwhile domain, they headed for the drawing room and, on discovering the lanky footman, who was apparently standing in as butler, hovering in the foyer, after ascertaining that the man’s name was Jeffrey, Penelope dispatched him with a request that Christopher meet with them downstairs.
They went into the drawing room, and Penelope and Barnaby chose to sit on the long sofa, while Stokes claimed the armchair opposite, leaving the other chair facing the sofa for Christopher.
Three minutes later, the door opened, and Christopher walked in. He had to have been awaiting their summons, knowing it would come. He bestowed a vague nod of greeting, and when Penelope waved him to the vacant armchair, he came forward and claimed it.
To her eyes, as Christopher sank into the chair, behind his outward assurance, he appeared wary and a trifle anxious. Doubtless, he’d realized that all of the family residing at Moran House would be suspected of the attempted poisoning.
Stokes opened proceedings with all due deference.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Fitzhugh. As you will have guessed, we are now investigating two murders—that of your brother, the late earl, and that of his butler, Winslow. We have yet to establish whether the killings are connected and would welcome any insights you can offer us.”
Christopher faintly frowned. “I’m not sure there’s much I can tell you, Inspector. I was here, in this drawing room, from the time my brother left for his study until he was found murdered.”
“Nevertheless,” Stokes said, “we wished to ask if you know of anything at all that might be pertinent to the earl’s murder or to the poisoning of Winslow.”
His frown deepening, Christopher replied, “If you mean, did I see anyone around who might have committed either act, then no. I didn’t.”
Barnaby shifted, drawing Christopher’s attention. “Do you know of anyone who had threatened the earl?”
Christopher hesitated, then more carefully replied, “No one I can point to specifically, but given Gordon’s championing of numerous reactionary policies, I wouldn’t be the least surprised if someone in the labor movement had wished him dead.”
Penelope saw the suggestion as an obvious deflection. Hoping to jar Christopher into revealing what was making him so wary, she abruptly stated, “We understand that your brother Frederick will succeed to the title.”
Christopher’s jaw firmed, and with somewhat petulant bitterness, he confirmed, “Yes, Frederick is now the earl and will, no doubt, move his family into this house with all speed. I know Mama will be delighted by that.”
Tilting her head, Penelope regarded him curiously. “Why do you say that?”
“That Mama will be over the moon?” When she nodded, Christopher stated, “Frederick was always her favorite, and she gets on like a house afire with Imogen and, indeed, all their brood.”
Christopher’s lids lowered to half mast, and nonchalantly, he added, “Besides, I’m sure Frederick will seize the chance to reduce his expenses forthwith.”
“Oh?” Innocently, Penelope inquired, “Are Frederick’s finances a trifle strained?”
Christopher plainly toyed with the notion of playing up Frederick’s state of financial need—thus increasing Frederick’s motive to murder Gordon—but ultimately, Christopher metaphorically balked at that fence.
“Well,” he temporized, “I suppose any gentleman with four daughters to marry off, what with all the associated costs of puffing each chit off, would feel a pinch or two.”
Penelope inclined her head. “Indeed. That would hardly be surprising.”
Christopher shifted in the chair, then in a more challenging tone, asked Stokes, “What I want to know is what the police are doing to protect the family from the likes of whoever poisoned Winslow.”
Mildly, Stokes replied, “You’ll find that we have a sizeable number of constables in and around the house, and with the poisoning deemed the more immediate threat to the residents, our first step must be to search the premises for any sign of the source of the poison.”
Christopher’s frown returned.
Imperturbably, Stokes continued, “It’s important to establish how the poison got into the whiskey. We need to determine if there’s any possibility that it happened by accident or, alternatively, if the introduction of the poison into the earl’s whiskey was a deliberate act.”
Puzzled, Christopher asked, “Could it have been an accident?”
“Strange to say,” Stokes replied, “such things have been known to happen, especially with strychnine, which is the poison the medical examiner believes was used.”
Before Christopher could say anything more, in a formal tone, Stokes asked, “As you are the oldest Fitzhugh male currently residing in this house, do we have your permission to search for any remnants of or evidence relating to the source of the poison?”
Christopher blinked, then after a few seconds, slowly inclined his head. He moistened his lips and stated, “Yes, of course. If there’s any lying about somewhere, it needs to be found and taken away.”
“Indeed.” Stokes inclined his head. “Thank you.”
He glanced at Barnaby and Penelope, and both shook their heads.
Returning his gaze to Christopher, Stokes stated, “That’s all the questions we have for you at this juncture.”
Stokes rose, and Barnaby and Penelope followed suit, bringing Christopher to his feet. His expression suggested he was surprised that there weren’t more questions—more harrowing and difficult questions—but then, many thought a police interview would be more like an inquisition.
Stokes nodded deferentially to Christopher.
“We’ll be commencing the search momentarily.
We will, of course, avoid any private rooms currently in use by family members—the dowager, the countess, and yourself.
Beyond that, however, our search will be comprehensive.
If you could convey that to the staff, along with the fact that we have your permission to go forward? ”
“Er, yes, of course. I’ll tell…” Christopher caught his breath and, for an instant, looked stricken, then he amended, “I’ll tell Jeffrey.” With that, he turned and strode for the door.
After Christopher opened the drawing room door and walked into the foyer, the investigators heard him give Jeffrey the gist of Stokes’s statements, then Christopher continued up the stairs, and a second later, Jeffrey peered rather warily around the drawing room door.
Penelope smiled reassuringly. “We would like to speak with Lady Victoria next. Would you please ask her if she’s willing to indulge us for a few moments, to address some questions regarding her husband’s death?”
Frowning slightly, Jeffrey repeated Penelope’s words beneath his breath, then bowed and departed, and through the open doorway, they heard him hurry up the stairs.
Penelope shook her head and sank onto the sofa. “Frederick will need to hire a new butler. Poor Jeffrey won’t make the grade, not for an establishment of Moran House’s social status.”
Stokes seized the moment to speak with O’Donnell, who was waiting in the foyer. After confirming that the search could commence, Stokes returned, and they waited.
Two minutes later, the lanky footman-cum-butler was back to inform them that Lady Victoria would see them in her private sitting room. Jeffrey bowed and gestured to the foyer. “If you’ll come this way, I’ll show you up.”
They rose and followed him up the stairs, through the rather gloomy gallery, and on along a corridor leading deeper into the mansion’s central wing.
Jeffrey stopped outside a door, tapped on the panel, and on hearing a command to enter, he opened the door and announced, “Mr. and Mrs. Adair and Inspector Stokes to speak with you, my lady.”
From the depths of the shadowy room came “Thank you, Jeffrey. Please show them in.”
Jeffrey stepped aside and bowed them over the threshold.
Penelope led the way into a largish chamber that immediately struck her as cold in the sense of being impersonal. That seemed strange for a private sitting room. As Barnaby and Stokes entered behind her, she glanced around curiously.
A fireplace with a mantel graced only by an ormolu clock filled one side wall, while the wall opposite hosted a delicate-legged escritoire with a matching chair, placed beneath a painting of a rather drab landscape in a heavy, ornate frame.
Covering two long windows, heavy damask curtains were drawn almost shut, leaving twin beams of daylight to penetrate the resulting gloom, providing just enough light to navigate the space.
Not that there was all that much furniture to avoid, but as she walked forward to where Lady Victoria was seated in an armchair in a grouping comprising a chaise and two chairs set between the long windows, Penelope found herself wondering if the deliberate lack of illumination was intended to conceal the extent of the occupant’s grief or the dearth of personalized comfort in the room.
Victoria was garbed in a fashionable day gown of pale-gray cambric, beautifully tailored to her figure, with the collar and sleeves trimmed with a narrow band of fine white lace. As a temporary substitute for the mourning attire she would need to have made, the gray gown was an inspired choice.
Glancing past Penelope, Victoria, her lips tight, nodded to the footman. “Thank you, Jeffrey. That will be all.”
Jeffrey, who’d dithered uncertainly in the doorway, bowed, backed out of the room, and closed the door.
With a polite nod for Victoria, who returned the greeting with an inclination of her head, Penelope sat on the chaise facing the long windows. After exchanging nods with Victoria, Barnaby came to sit beside her, while Stokes claimed the chair to Penelope’s right.