Chapter 6
T hey didn’t reach the stairs. Instead, they were intercepted by a nervous Jeffrey, who was waiting in the gallery to inform them that the Dowager Countess of Moran requested their attendance in her private sitting room.
Amused by the dowager’s summons—as distinct from her acceding to a request of theirs—Penelope readily followed Jeffrey down yet another corridor. The house was truly a warren, with wing begetting wing until it was difficult to be sure which way one was heading.
The room to which Jeffrey led them exuded a very different ambiance to Victoria’s cold chamber.
This room looked out over a pretty rear garden and, with its pale-colored curtains fully open, felt airy and light.
The well-padded older-style armchairs, upholstered in chintz, held the promise of comfort, and there were framed prints on the mantelpiece, while from its prime position above the fireplace, a large portrait, possibly of the previous earl, the dowager’s husband, looked down in benign complacency.
All in all, this was a room that held numerous clues as to the personality of its owner, and inwardly, Penelope approved.
The dowager, already garbed in full mourning, sat waiting to greet them in her Bath chair, angled before the largest window.
Her steel-gray hair, partially covered by a fine black-lace veil, was, again, pulled ruthlessly into a bun high on her head—a fashion of decades past—and her lips and chin were firmly set as she watched Penelope, Barnaby, and Stokes approach.
In contrast to Victoria, the dowager didn’t shy from facing the situation head-on, and the light from the window, falling across her features, did not dim the shrewdness in her faded-blue eyes or soften the determination that kept her sitting rigidly upright in her chair.
As they neared, with much the same graciousness as a queen granting an audience, the dowager regally inclined her head. “Mr. and Mrs. Adair. Inspector Stokes.” She waved at the three armchairs that had been arranged in a semicircle, facing her. “Please sit.”
They dutifully returned her nod and settled.
Now they were closer, Barnaby briefly studied the old lady. Since they’d last seen her in the small hours, she appeared to have aged even more. Doubtless, the impact of her eldest son’s murder was weighing on her, compounded, it seemed, by Winslow’s unexpected demise.
Despite that and the present circumstances, Barnaby wasn’t entirely surprised when the first words the dowager uttered were “Mary is clearly innocent, not only of murdering my son, but obviously, she can have had no hand in poisoning Winslow.”
Uncertain how to react, Stokes shot an imploring look at Penelope.
She responded to the unvoiced plea by capturing the dowager’s gaze and calmly stating, “Indeed. Like you, we do not believe Mrs. Alder is complicit in any way in either death. However, we also believe that, with the House of Moran so highly respected and well-regarded, the most certain path to ensure that Mrs. Alder is cleared of all blame, both legally and socially, is to identify the person or persons who actually committed the crimes.”
Taking in the dowager’s arrested expression, Barnaby sternly suppressed a grin. Trust Penelope to light on the approach most likely to get the old lady on their side. She was plainly very concerned over Mary being blamed.
After a moment of studied blankness, slowly, the dowager inclined her head.
“You’re right, I suppose…” She stared into space for several heartbeats, then her lips and chin firmed, and refocusing on them, the dowager dipped her head more decisively.
“I agree. Identifying those responsible is the sensible way forward.”
With that, she fixed her gaze on Penelope. “I have heard that you are intelligent and clever.” Shifting her attention to Stokes, she demanded, “So what do you need to know?”
Stokes, who, to Barnaby, was being careful and feeling his way, said, “In terms of Winslow’s death, we believe he ingested poison dissolved in the earl’s whiskey.”
The dowager blinked. “ Gordon’s whiskey?”
Stokes nodded. “We’re currently seeking to determine how the poison came to be in the decanter, which Winslow apparently refilled from a bottle in the cellar. Can you confirm who has keys to the cellar?”
“Only Winslow,” the dowager replied. “We never saw the need for anyone else to have access.” She met Stokes’s gaze.
“All three of my sons grew up in this house, Inspector. It seemed wisest to limit the number of keys to the cellar to the one in Winslow’s possession.
Although my sons are long grown, that arrangement never changed. ”
“So only Winslow could have filled the decanter,” Stokes concluded.
“Indeed,” the dowager confirmed. “He’s the only one who had access to the bottles in the cellar.”
Rather more confidently, Stokes continued, “Moving on to the death of the earl, do you have any idea of anyone who might have wanted him dead?”
“None whatsoever,” the dowager stated. “Gordon wasn’t the easiest man with whom to get along, and as I understand matters, he certainly had his political opponents. However, I am not aware of anyone in whom he inspired a murderous rage.”
Somewhat gently, Barnaby pointed out, “Given the poison appears to have been in the earl’s decanter, from which Winslow imbibed a small amount, suggesting his death was entirely inadvertent, then in addition to whoever actually killed the earl, it appears he was also the target of a plot to poison him.
” He held the old lady’s gaze. “Your son definitely had enemies, enemies sufficiently motivated to act.”
The dowager looked distinctly peeved. “That may be so—indeed, must logically be so, as you say. However, I can assure you that neither I nor any of the family are acquainted with any such person. We cannot point a finger in any direction whatsoever.”
“Are you acquainted with any of the earl’s close associates?” Penelope inquired.
“No,” the dowager replied. “Not at all.” She paused, then went on, “In fact, now I think of it, I really have very little idea as to whom Gordon consorted with when out of this house. I know of several social acquaintances, but they are the obvious ones anyone would expect—his varsity friends and some from his days at Eton.” She looked at Penelope.
“I’m sure you could name them all. However”—she transferred her imperious gaze to Stokes—“as to those elsewhere with whom Gordon interacted while pursuing his political and business interests, they are entirely beyond my ken.”
Glancing again at Penelope, the dowager added, “Over the past decade and more, ever since Gordon married Victoria and I moved out of this house, I’ve kept to my own circle, and because of that, I know very little of my late son’s affairs.”
Barnaby glanced at Penelope, and when she met his gaze, her brows faintly raised, he deduced she couldn’t think of anything more to ask at that point. Neither could he. He looked at Stokes.
Stokes duly focused on the dowager. “Thank you, ma’am, for bearing with our questions.”
He rose, and Barnaby and Penelope did the same.
To the dowager, Stokes continued, “I assure you, ma’am, that we will diligently pursue our investigations into your son’s and Winslow’s deaths. As part of those investigations, we need to interview the staff. We mentioned the matter to Lady Victoria, and she advised us to seek your approval.”
The dowager raised her brows, but after a moment, she nodded.
“Very well, Inspector. You and your consultants”—she glanced at Barnaby and Penelope—“may put your questions to the staff.” She pointed to the door.
“If you would summon Jeffrey—and I’m quite sure the nervy boy is waiting in the corridor—I will inform him that the staff should answer your questions freely. ”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Stokes half bowed and made for the door.
Barnaby and Penelope exchanged formal farewells with the dowager, then followed in Stokes’s wake.
On quitting the dowager’s sitting room, they waited in the corridor while Jeffrey received the dowager’s instructions, then followed him toward the main stairs.
In the gallery, they came upon a group of constables, searching rooms under O’Donnell’s watchful eye.
O’Donnell nodded respectfully, and when Jeffrey had passed by and, expectantly, Penelope, Barnaby, and Stokes slowed, O’Donnell murmured, “Lots of unused rooms up here. Bit of a warren, too.”
“Nothing yet?” Stokes asked without much hope.
“Nothing,” O’Donnell confirmed. “But we’ve only just started up here.”
Stokes nodded. “Carry on. We’re off to speak with the staff.”
Penelope and Barnaby lengthened their strides to catch up with Jeffrey, who’d noticed them dallying and obligingly paused.
With them once more in tow, Jeffrey walked on.
When they reached the head of the stairs and started down, Stokes informed the footman-cum-butler, “We’ve permission to speak with the staff.”
“The dowager said.” A trifle wide-eyed, Jeffrey glanced over his shoulder. “The servants’ hall, then? Or the drawing room?”
“The servants’ hall,” Penelope firmly declared. They all knew how awkward staff became when interviewed in rooms in which they considered it was not their place to be.
“Oh. All right.” More confidently, Jeffrey faced forward and, after gaining the foyer, led them into the staff’s quarters.
They reached the servants’ hall to find most of the staff rather desultorily going about their customary tasks—the cook and her assistants preparing luncheon, the maids wiping plates and glassware ready to serve the meal, the footmen and coachman waiting to answer any call—all under the eagle eye of Mrs. Pratchett, who stood on the far side of the deal table that ran down the middle of the long room, much like a general marshaling her troops.