Chapter 7 #3
Penelope glanced at Stokes, a question in her eyes. When he fractionally nodded, she returned her gaze to Frederick and said, “I suspect you haven’t yet heard the news, but Winslow, the Moran House butler, was found dead this morning.”
Frederick’s eyes flew wide. “Good Lord!” His expression sobered, and he went on, “That’ll be a huge shock for the household and a major loss. Winslow was the family butler for decades.”
Evenly, Stokes said, “He was poisoned.”
“What?” Frederick stared at Stokes, then blustered, “When you said dead, I thought you meant his heart had given out with the shock...” His voice trailed away, then after a moment, he refocused on Stokes. “Are you sure?”
Imperturbably, Stokes replied, “We believe that, early this morning, after the events of the night and before he went to his bed, Winslow helped himself to a small tot of whiskey from the decanter in the earl’s study. It seems the whiskey had been laced with poison. Strychnine, to be precise.”
Frederick stared, then blinked. Then he frowned. “Wait. Are you saying that Gordon was the real target? That the poisoner intended Gordon to die, but because Gordon had already been killed, old Winslow died instead?”
Faintly, Barnaby raised his brows. “You could put it that way.”
Frederick was transparently flabbergasted. Looking at Stokes, he asked, “What on earth is going on in Park Lane?”
Stokes inclined his head. “That, indeed, is what our investigation is seeking to learn. However, given the most recent events, we have to ask if, at any time yesterday, you went into the earl’s study.”
Frederick shook his head. “No. Well, yes, I did, but only after we were told Gordon was dead. None of us could really believe it, you see. He’d been there, in the drawing room, drinking tea, less than an hour before, so Christopher and I went to check.
We were in the study for perhaps three minutes.
Just long enough to see, gawk, then catch our breaths and leave.
” He met Stokes’s gaze. “That was it. Otherwise, I haven’t been in the study for weeks. ”
Stokes glanced at his notebook, then asked, “Did you visit the house the day before—on Sunday?”
Frederick shook his head. “No.”
Stokes continued, “When did you get to the house on Monday?”
Frederick paused to draw a leveling breath, then stated, “I arrived for the dinner at six o’clock sharp, with the rest of my family.
Mama had called for a family dinner and had asked that the children attend, which she always prefers, so we usually gather at six in the drawing room and are home by about half past ten. ”
“So you arrived in the drawing room,” Penelope said, “and you didn’t leave the company at any time thereafter until the earl was found dead. Is that correct?”
Frederick nodded. “Indeed.”
“And the rest of your family?” Stokes had his notebook on his knee and was making an entry.
Frederick opened his mouth, then paused. Then he paled.
Seeing that, Barnaby asked, “Which of your family left the gathering over that time?”
Frederick looked at Barnaby measuringly, but eventually answered, “George. He went elsewhere for…perhaps ten minutes. I assume he went to use the facilities.”
“When was that?” Stokes’s tone remained matter-of-fact.
“After dinner,” Frederick said, “when the company left the dining room, and we were on our way back to the drawing room. George peeled off then.”
Frederick looked at Barnaby. “William will likely be able to tell you where George went. At the time, they were walking together at the rear of the group.”
Equably, Barnaby nodded. “We’ll ask William, but likely it was simply as you assumed.”
“Incidentally,” Stokes said, his gaze on Frederick’s face, “when Moran House was searched for any likely source of the poison introduced into the earl’s whiskey, an open packet of strychnine was found in a drawer in the room that used to be yours when you lived under that roof.”
“Really?” Frederick’s expression reflected nothing more than surprise and curiosity. “Why on earth would such a thing be kept up there?”
Stokes studied Frederick’s face, then nodded. “Indeed.”
Stokes looked at Barnaby and Penelope, but both shook their heads.
Stokes returned his gaze to Frederick. “At the moment, that’s all the questions we have for you.”
Penelope held up a hand. “One last thing.” When Frederick looked her way, with an understanding smile, she said, “If you would indulge us, it would be helpful if I could see a letter you’ve written but not yet sent or even a draft that you’ve discarded.
Something with your signature and a few lines of text.
I won’t need to take it away or even actually read what’s written.
I just need to look and get some sense of your script.
I’m something of a writing expert, and during our investigations, it’s proved useful to be able to distinguish the writing of the various people involved.
In this case, knowing your writing style will be helpful should we need to tell your writing apart from the earl’s or even Christopher’s. ”
Frederick blinked. “Oh. Yes, I see.” He glanced at Stokes and Barnaby. “If you have, indeed, finished with me, I’ll take a look in my study and see what I can find.”
Penelope smiled. “Thank you. We would appreciate that.”
Barnaby and Stokes rose with Frederick.
Stokes stated, “We would like to speak with your wife next, and after that, we will need to speak, albeit briefly, with each of your children in turn.”
Barnaby added, “We will be interviewing every person who attended the dinner at Moran House.”
Anticipating resistance regarding the younger children, Penelope added, “In the past, we’ve found that children, not being so involved in the conversations, are often more observant than their elders.”
Frederick appeared to have no issue with them questioning his offspring; he readily inclined his head. “Imogen will summon the children for you. I’ll send her in, then look for a letter for you.”
After thanking Frederick for his assistance, Barnaby walked him to the door.
He and Frederick found Imogen loitering in the front hall.
Frederick smiled at her. “You’re next.”
“Of course.” After pressing her husband’s arm, Imogen came to the drawing room doorway, and when Barnaby stepped back, she exchanged a polite nod with him, then walked determinedly past and on toward the chairs.
On reaching the chair Frederick had occupied, Imogen nodded confidently to Penelope. “Mrs. Adair.”
Having risen to greet her, Penelope nodded back. “Thank you for speaking with us, Mrs. Fitzhugh.”
Imogen inclined her head to Stokes, who had also come to his feet, then, after Barnaby had returned to the sofa, Imogen and Penelope sat, allowing the men to do the same.
Penelope had always found Imogen refreshing in that she frequently displayed greater practicality than was customary among ton matrons.
Today, Imogen was gowned in a midnight-blue day gown, perfectly presentable but not in the latest style, combined with a black fichu to denote her mourning state.
With her rounder face and comfortable figure, she exuded a no-nonsense, direct, and unrufflable air that was reassuring, and it was clear she wore her motherhood as a badge of honor.
Penelope reflected that, as Imogen was the mother of six grown children, few would argue her right to the status.
Predictably, Imogen took the bull by the horns. “I was waiting in the hall. You said you would wish to speak with me.”
Penelope said, “As we explained to Frederick, we need to interview all those present at last night’s dinner.”
Imogen nodded. “Indeed. While Frederick was with you, a footman from Moran House arrived with the news of Winslow’s death. Apparently by poison!” She looked at Stokes. “What is the world coming to?”
Stokes made no reply, and Imogen turned her attention to Barnaby. “Is it thought that the poison was intended for Gordon?”
Cautiously, Barnaby inclined his head. “It does seem that way.”
Imogen shook her head in sorrowful disparagement.
“To have multiple people willing to murder you. I always thought Gordon would one day push someone too hard. Everything always had to be done his way.” Imogen brought her hazel eyes to meet Penelope’s gaze.
“He was an abrasive character and could be quite aggressive, especially toward those he considered his inferiors. I saw that trait displayed often enough, but he was always one to show a smooth exterior to those whose goodwill he courted.”
“I see.” Penelope asked, “Do you know of anyone who wished Gordon ill?”
Frowning, Imogen admitted, “No, I don’t. Not specifically. But I have to say that I’m not surprised that someone did.”
“We understand,” Barnaby said, “that financially speaking, Gordon didn’t make life easy for Frederick and your family.”
“He didn’t.” Imogen patently had no qualms about admitting that.
“However, courtesy of my portion and my family, we manage well enough.” She gestured about them, then went on, “Very soon after we married, I saw how things would be with Gordon, and since that time, I’ve been at pains to make clear to Frederick and, more recently, the children that we are not dependent on the Moran estate and Gordon’s goodwill.
In the wider scheme of things, we want for nothing that matters and have everything we actually need to go forward as we should. ”
That firmly independent attitude resonated with what Penelope knew of and had previously sensed in Imogen. Penelope arched her brows. “You weren’t surprised when Gordon refused to help support William, even though he will eventually be earl?”
“Well,” Imogen conceded, “I was surprised at the time, but truly, it’s all of a piece with Gordon’s attitude to money. Even Victoria grumbles about it. His direction to her has always been that she must keep up appearances, yet still, he was difficult over her expenses.”
“And the dowager?” Penelope asked.