Chapter 8
P enelope stood before the glossy black door of Mitchelmore House, a fashionable town house in Charles Street that was the London home of Damien, Lord Mitchelmore, and his wife, Lady Cleome.
Beside her, Stokes tugged the bell chain, and mere seconds later, a youngish yet starchy butler opened the door, attempted to look down his nose at Stokes—rather difficult as Stokes was several inches taller—then the butler noticed Penelope, and at her back, Barnaby, and his expression underwent an almost comical change.
Stokes calmly stated, “Inspector Stokes of Scotland Yard and Mr. and Mrs. Adair.”
“Oh. Yes, sir.” The butler, looking faintly startled, bowed and stood back. “I was told to expect you.”
Clearly, he hadn’t quite believed his ears, which were now a trifle flushed.
After closing the door behind them, the butler hurried around to indicate the open door to their left. “If you would wait in the drawing room, I’ll fetch her ladyship.”
With polite nods, they consented to amble into the drawing room, and the butler went quickly up the stairs.
Penelope looked about her with some interest, then commented, “In contrast to the austerity of Moran House and the relaxed ambiance in Hertford Street, here we have a degree of style executed with a nod to comfort.” She indicated the fashionable damask-covered sofa and chairs and the handsome gate-legged Pembroke table set between the long windows.
As she sank onto one end of the sofa, she mused, “Now I think of it, most of Moran House was rather lacking in modern comforts.”
Barnaby and Stokes looked at her. Neither ventured any opinion.
Footsteps on the tiles presaged the appearance of Lady Cleome. She swept in, a polite smile on her face, then paused as, at her commanding over-the-shoulder wave, the butler closed the door behind her.
Penelope rose. Like most of the Fitzhughs, Lady Cleome had dark-brown hair, which she wore gathered in a bun in the latest style, and blue eyes, in her case fringed by long lashes.
She possessed a matronly figure, and having an excellent upright posture, she carried it well.
Penelope knew that, normally, Lady Cleome favored gowns in shades of blue, but today, she was garbed in somber black.
However, beyond that adherence to society’s expectations of mourning, there seemed little evidence of deep grief. Indeed, of any grief at all.
As she came forward to greet them, Lady Cleome’s blue eyes were clear, as was her complexion, and her expression held no hint of sorrow.
“Good afternoon, Inspector. Mr. and Mrs. Adair.” Lady Cleome exchanged nods with each of them, then waved to the chairs.
“Please sit.” She sank into an armchair facing the sofa, leaving its mate for Stokes.
“We heard about Winslow dying.” She shook her head.
“Such a shocking thing.” Fixing her rather sharp gaze on Barnaby, she asked, “Was Winslow’s death in any way connected with Gordon’s? ”
Calmly, Barnaby replied, “It’s possible there’s a link.”
“Exactly in what way,” Penelope stated, “we cannot yet be certain, but we’re here to ask if you are aware of anyone who wished your brother ill.”
Lady Cleome took a moment to think, then widened her eyes.
“I have to confess that I was not close to Gordon—not at all—and I have really no idea if he had any enemies or any cause for alarm.” Cleome met Penelope’s gaze squarely.
“Gordon wasn’t one to encourage others to take an interest in his affairs. ”
Penelope inclined her head. “We’ve heard as much from several people.”
Responding to a subtle encouraging nod from Stokes, she proceeded to lead Lady Cleome through the events of the previous evening, from the time she arrived with her family at a touch after six o’clock and found everyone else already there to the moment when, seated in the drawing room with the rest of the family, she heard of her brother’s murder.
Nothing Cleome said altered the picture they’d built from the testimonies they’d already heard, and disappointingly, she added little by way of extra corroborating detail. Her account suggested her attention had remained very much centered on her own family.
Finally, hoping for something—anything—more, Penelope bluntly asked, “Were you surprised that your brother was murdered?”
Cleome blinked once, twice, then admitted, “No.” She looked faintly aghast and shot a nervous look at Penelope.
“Isn’t that a simply dreadful thing to say?
” When Penelope looked interested rather than condemnatory, Cleome went on, “Gordon was always self-centered and hard with it, and over the years, he’d grown increasingly focused on his own consequence.
That in pursuing his self-aggrandizing schemes, he might have crossed someone in a way that prompted them to murder him?
No.” She shook her head. “I can’t say that surprises me. ”
After glancing at Barnaby and Stokes and receiving signs that they had no further questions for Lady Cleome, Penelope rose, bringing Cleome and the men to their feet. “Thank you for speaking with us. We would like to speak with his lordship as well.”
With her customary brisk efficiency, Cleome said, “I’ll send him in.” With gracious nods to them all, she departed and closed the door behind her.
They resumed their seats, and Stokes observed, “That added little to our knowledge.”
“Perhaps,” Penelope returned. “But I find it telling that a lady so blinkered—so ruthlessly focused on her own family’s affairs—had actually noticed that her brother had ‘self-aggrandizing schemes.’ That suggests that his pursuit of them impacted the entire family.”
Barnaby arched his brows. “Because if that wasn’t so, Cleome wouldn’t have noticed?”
“Precisely.”
The door opened, and Damien, Lord Mitchelmore, walked in. His gaze found Barnaby, Penelope, and Stokes as they rose to their feet, and he nodded amiably, then closed the door and walked to where they waited.
“Good afternoon.” Mitchelmore was a dapper gentleman in his mid-fifties. With still-black hair and steely-blue eyes, he had pleasant features and a firm jaw, and his tall, upright figure belied his age, while his movements displayed more youthful vigor than customary among his peers.
All in all, he was a personable gentleman, and his manners were excellent. He half bowed over Penelope’s fingers and shook hands with Barnaby and Stokes, then gestured that they should resume their seats while he claimed the armchair his wife had vacated.
As soon as they’d settled, Barnaby opened proceedings by asking, “Do you know of anyone who might have wished your brother-in-law ill?”
Mitchelmore frowned slightly. “Gordon and I weren’t in any way close, and indeed, I spend much of the year on my estate in Somerset.”
His gaze on Mitchelmore’s face, Barnaby tilted his head. “Many would have thought that, as a fellow large landholder, you and the earl might have had interests in common.”
Readily, Mitchelmore replied, “So one might think, but in this case, that wasn’t the reality.
” He paused, then went on, “The truth was that Gordon and I barely crossed paths other than during family gatherings and, very occasionally, at our clubs. Quite frankly, I was and remain rather surprised by how little we had in common. As you say, that’s contrary to what anyone would suppose. ”
Watching Mitchelmore closely, Barnaby asked, “What was your opinion of the earl?”
His gaze steady on Barnaby’s face, Mitchelmore hesitated, plainly considering his reply, then offered, “He was very one-eyed about how things should be, and that was especially so with money.” Mitchelmore frowned.
“You could almost say he was obsessed with…” Faintly, he grimaced.
“I can’t say ‘hoarding it,’ but there was a sense of that, nonetheless. ”
“Tightfisted?” Barnaby suggested.
“Oh yes.” Mitchelmore nodded. “But he was that way with everyone. It seemed to be his nature rather than an adopted policy.”
Penelope ventured, “Would it surprise you to learn that your sons—both of them—along with all their male cousins have been pilfering small amounts of cash from the earl’s study for months if not longer?”
“Have they?” His brows rising, Mitchelmore’s lips twitched.
“How very enterprising of them.” He met Penelope’s gaze.
“But as for surprising me, no, I can’t say it does.
Gordon was just as tightfisted toward them as to everyone else, even toward William, who, as matters stand, will eventually accede to the title.
William might not be the heir apparent at this time, but he will be, and yet Gordon showed no interest in him or his education.
Not at any time. As for the others, as far as Gordon was concerned, they might as well not have existed. ”
An instant’s silence fell, which Barnaby broke.
“Thank you for your frankness. You won’t be surprised to hear that your view of the late earl tallies with the opinions of others, but every fresh perspective adds to our image of the man and increases our understanding of him and, thus, informs our view of those he might have inspired to murder him. ”
Pushing to his feet, Mitchelmore snorted.
“You won’t find any shortage of potential suspects.
The little I’ve heard of Gordon’s political activities—not from him but from others—suggests he was not much liked, even by those of the same political persuasion, and he was positively detested by those in the organizations at which he took particular aim. ”
“Like the workers’ associations?” Along with Barnaby and Penelope, Stokes had risen to his feet.
Michelmore nodded. “Yes.” He paused, thought, then conceded, “While it’s comforting to imagine some rough character was responsible for killing Gordon, the fact that Winslow was poisoned by accident, which, I assume, means the true target was Gordon, suggests a very different murderer.”