Chapter 7 #4
“Imelda doesn’t grumble as such,” Imogen replied, “and of course, while she lived in Regent’s Square and had less to do with Moran House, she wasn’t constantly reminded of Gordon’s ways, but ever since she returned to live in Park Lane, she’s grown increasingly annoyed at Gordon, although over what, I have to admit I’m not entirely sure.
” Imogen faintly frowned, apparently over not being able to pinpoint the reason for the dowager’s reaction.
Penelope hesitated, then, as Imogen was being so forthcoming, ventured to ask, “What about the earl’s sisters?”
“Luckily, both married well, but even they scoff at Gordon’s secretly tightfisted ways.”
Curious, Barnaby inquired, “Secretly?”
Imogen glanced at him and faintly grimaced.
“It’s difficult to explain, but Gordon was miserly only in ways that wouldn’t be obvious to any observer outside the household or family.
” She raised her head. “For instance, the entire family believes he sold the house in Regent’s Square that the dowager used to live in and moved her back to Moran House purely to swell the estate’s coffers, which, of course, are almost certainly already overflowing!
” Imogen raised her hands. “None of us could imagine any reason for doing that other than his never-ending pursuit of funds. And then there’s his insistence on knowing what events the dowager plans to attend each day.
That, I assure you, is not due to any concern for her but so that he knows where her footmen and the coachman are.
” Lips primming, Imogen revealed, “I understand that he ensures the footmen, who are specifically employed to assist the dowager up and down stairs and into and out of the carriage, are fully engaged in running errands and the like for him during the hours they’re not out with her. Likewise with the coachman.”
Shifting her focus to Penelope, faintly incensed, Imogen continued, “And then he dismissed the dowager’s companion for no reason that anyone knows.” She shook her head. “With Gordon, it was all about minimizing expenses, and he’d been doing that for decades.”
Imagining such a scenario, Penelope murmured, “And no one can criticize, at least not openly, because he can simply say he’s managing his resources to best effect.”
Imogen threw up her hands. “Exactly! The whole family, even the children, know he does it.” She paused, then, in a calmer tone, added, “That said, I honestly can’t imagine that, for any of us, the impact of Gordon’s miserliness has ever reached the point of moving anyone to murder.
” She sighed and returned her gaze to Penelope, then glanced at Barnaby and Stokes.
“But what I do wonder is, if he was like that with family, who else did he ‘manage’ in the same way? Others might have been more seriously affected and…”
Barnaby inclined his head. “And maybe there’s a motive for murder there.” He met Imogen’s gaze. “Thank you for being so frank.”
Imogen’s lips twisted, and she shrugged. “Well, he’s dead. And as much as I might have disapproved of his ways, he was family, and the murder of an earl cannot be condoned.”
“No, indeed,” Stokes grimly replied. He consulted his notes, then looked at Imogen. “When you were at Moran House yesterday evening, did you see anyone unexpected—anyone not of the family or the staff?”
“No. No one.”
Barnaby said, “We understand that you and your family arrived at six o’clock, and of course, you were there until after the murder. Do you know if any of the family left the gathering at any point?”
Imogen blinked. “Well, Gordon did—he went to the study at about nine-thirty.”
“Before that?” Penelope prompted.
Imogen frowned as she thought back, then her lips firmed.
“George. He slipped away while the company was progressing from the dining room to the drawing room, and he returned as Winslow wheeled in the tea trolley, so George was apart for only a matter of minutes.” She met Penelope’s gaze openly.
“I assume he went to use the facilities.” She paused, then went on, “The only others who spent time away from the group were Vincent and Theodore, Constance and Southerly’s sons.
They—Constance, Southerly, and Lydia, too—were already in the drawing room when we arrived, but Vincent and Theodore were absent.
They came in about fifteen minutes later. ”
Envisioning the scene, Penelope asked, “When did Gordon join the gathering in the drawing room?”
“He came in a minute or so after we arrived,” Imogen replied.
“So,” Barnaby clarified, “Vincent and Theodore joined the company in the drawing room sometime after Gordon.”
Imogen nodded. “As I said. A good fifteen minutes after Gordon.”
“Thank you,” Stokes said. “That’s very clear.” He looked up as the door opened, and Frederick returned, carrying a somewhat crumpled paper.
He smiled at them all and waved the sheet. As he approached, to Imogen, he explained, “Mrs. Adair requested a sample of my writing so she can tell it from Gordon’s and Christopher’s.”
Imogen looked surprised but merely nodded as Frederick halted before Penelope and offered her his find.
“Best I could do. A letter I wrote to a friend who I thought was in the country still, but I ran into him two days ago, here in town, so this is now redundant, and I’d intended to throw it away.
” Apologetically, he added, “It’s mostly about dogs—that’s an interest we share. ”
Smiling, Penelope accepted the sheet and swiftly studied it. “This is perfect. Thank you for showing it to me.” Still smiling, she looked up and handed the letter back. “That’s really all I needed to see—enough to distinguish your writing from others.”
And to get a firm idea of your usual signature.
“Good-oh.” Frederick took back the letter.
Stokes glanced at Penelope and said, “If you would, sir, please keep that letter. Just in case we need it later.”
Folding the letter, Frederick shrugged. “As you wish.”
Stokes shifted his gaze to Imogen and inclined his head. “You’ve been most helpful, Mrs. Fitzhugh. Now, if we could have a word with your eldest son?”
Imogen rose and laid a hand on Frederick’s arm. “We’ll send William in.”
Frederick offered, “He’s waiting in the hall so that he and George can go out once you’ve finished with them.”
Stokes, Barnaby, and Penelope rose, and with polite nods all around, the new earl and countess left the room.
Immediately—verifying Frederick’s information—William Fitzhugh entered, giving Penelope no chance to convey the conclusion she’d reached after viewing Frederick’s letter. Instead, she turned her attention to William.
In his early twenties, tall, lean, with the sable-brown hair, aristocratic features, and mid-blue eyes he’d inherited from his father, the young man was passably handsome and otherwise unremarkable.
William’s sole concession to mourning was a black armband fastened over his sleeve.
While his neat dark suit, white shirt, oyster-silk stock, and subdued waistcoat were much the current fashion for his age, he carried himself well, and his attitude as he crossed the room and politely returned their greetings exuded quiet confidence.
Penelope could see William, in time, as a perfectly acceptable Earl of Moran. Her appreciation of Imogen’s mothering skills rose several notches.
Barnaby waved William to the chair his mother had vacated, and Barnaby, Stokes, and Penelope resumed their seats.
After settling comfortably, William, his expression turning serious and somber, said, “I say, this is rough news about old Winslow.” William met Barnaby’s gaze with clear-eyed directness.
“He was a good egg. A bit stiff if you didn’t know him, but he was a decent sort.
” William’s features firmed. “And now he’s dead because of Uncle Gordon.
” William shook his head in what appeared to be mild disgust.
From his manner and tone, Penelope felt it was safe to deduce that William felt more genuine grief over the loss of his uncle’s butler than his uncle.
Stokes took William through the same questions they’d asked of his parents, and although William answered freely, with an easy, accommodating air, he offered much the same answers and no further insights.
Then, without warning, Stokes asked, “When the company was moving from the dining room to the drawing room, and your brother, George, parted from the group, where did George go?”
William blinked. He stared at Stokes blankly, then replied, “I assume he went to use the facilities.”
“Did George say so?” Barnaby asked.
His expression much less relaxed, William admitted, “No. But…” He shrugged. “Where else would he go?”
“So George went off.” Penelope caught William’s gaze. “In which direction?”
William hesitated—plainly thinking furiously—then said, “We were in the foyer, and he went toward the corridor at the rear of the hall.”
“The one that leads to the study?” Barnaby asked.
William’s until-then-loosely-clasped hands tightened. “Yes.”
Penelope arched her brows. “A strange place for a water closet. Is there one along there?”
William sat back and looked at her, then at Barnaby and Stokes. “I…don’t know.”
Not only was it plain that William was fabricating in an attempt to protect his brother, but also, he could see that he wasn’t convincing them.
“Look,” he said, adopting a conciliatory tone, “I don’t know where George went, but he wasn’t away for long. I don’t know why you think it’s important, but…there it is.” He sat back, the set of his lips turning mulish. “That’s all I can tell you.”
After studying him for a moment, Stokes inclined his head. “In that case, thank you for your time.”
“Right, then.” Barnaby stood and waved an uncertain yet relieved William to his feet. “We’ll speak with George next. You can take me to him.”
Somewhat stiffly, William nodded in polite farewell to Penelope and Stokes, then made for the door, with Barnaby close behind him.