Chapter 8 #4
“Yes, of course.” Constance sat straighter. “Ask away.”
Penelope realized that the moment was propitious; because of her distraction with her sick son, Constance’s normally astute social screens were well and truly scattered. “To begin with, can you outline what you saw when you first walked into the Moran House drawing room yesterday evening?”
Constance readily replied, and when Penelope led her through the subsequent events to the time of the earl’s murder, Constance’s answers matched those of all the other adults.
On reaching the end of her recitation, without further prompting, Constance raised her chin and declared, “I have never approved of Gordon’s ways and am thoroughly grateful not to have to live beneath his roof.
” She paused, then amended, “Or what used to be his roof. He was always a parsimonious soul, but with the years, he’s grown decidedly worse.
I know Mama had words with him on the subject, but he was never one to listen to anyone else, let alone a female, even his own mother. ”
Penelope felt her brows rise.
Has anyone else mentioned that?
After glancing at Barnaby, she returned her gaze to Constance. “Do you have any notion of who might have killed your brother, either in the way it was actually done or via the attempt we assume was directed toward him by poisoning his whiskey?”
Baldly, Constance replied, “I have absolutely no idea who wished him dead. And I certainly have no inkling about how the poison got into his whiskey.” She sighed, and her face fell.
“I’m really quite broken up over old Winslow dying, especially if it was by accident and the intended victim was Gordon.
That seems doubly cruel, coming on top of Gordon’s death.
Poor Mama will feel Winslow’s loss keenly—beneath the starch and his prissy exterior, he was a kindly soul. ”
For a moment, Constance remained sunk in gloom, then appeared to shake off her megrim. “But returning to Gordon’s death, while I might have no idea who killed him, I can’t say I’m surprised that someone did—that Gordon incited someone to the point of murder.”
Penelope noticed that Southerly was nodding.
Constance continued, “He was stubborn and could be quite aggressive and stone-cold hard when he felt like it.” She paused, then, eying Barnaby and Penelope, went on, “Gordon maintained a polished exterior, one commensurate with being the Earl of Moran, and he was always careful to keep up appearances, as they say. But inside, he cared for nothing and no one but himself, or so it seemed.”
Constance cocked her head as if reviewing her last statement, then amended, “Himself or whatever it was he was always working on.” Frowning, she said, “There seemed to be some sort of private project he was intent on pursuing, but I’ve no idea what it was.”
“Private project?” Barnaby said. “You’re the first to mention that. What led you to think he was working on some project?”
Constance lightly shrugged. “That’s just my interpretation of a few remarks I overheard him making to Victoria and Mama.
Gordon seemed to have some purpose to which he was devoting himself—all of himself—but I never heard him or anyone else mention exactly what that was.
I don’t believe it was political in nature—it seemed more personal than that. ”
All in the group paused to ponder the point.
Eventually, Penelope said, “In the interests of all our schedules, can you tell us where your daughters were during the visit to Moran House?”
Blithely, Constance replied, “Diana, Geraldine, and Tilly had their heads together the whole time, and Ella and Lydia—they’re the same age—also spent the hours talking nonstop to each other, as they usually do.
Josephine and Martha, Imogen’s other two, were talking mostly to themselves and also to Vincent and Theo, who are much of an age.
As far as we know”—Constance glanced at Southerly—“the children remained with the company throughout.”
Southerly nodded. “After Vincent and Theo joined the company in the drawing room, as I mentioned earlier.”
Constance’s lips tightened. “If Theo was poisoned by strychnine, perhaps the same poison that, sadly, did for old Winslow, I can’t imagine how Theo came into contact with it.”
A tap on the door frame had them all turning to see Vincent, looking distinctly green about the gills, gingerly holding something wrapped in a sheet of rough paper.
Southerly beckoned his elder son and heir to join them. “Vincent—come in. I daresay”—Southerly threw a questioning glance at Stokes—“that the investigators would like to speak with you as well.”
Stokes nodded. “We would.”
Her gaze fixed on the package Vincent was holding so cautiously, Penelope asked, “What do you have there?”
Reluctance all but poured from Vincent; he came forward as if having to force himself to take each step. On reaching the grouping of chairs, he looked around the faces, then focused on his mother and said, “I—we—think this is how Theo was poisoned.”
Vincent held out the package and released the top of the paper. It unfolded, revealing two fat cigars, one pristine, the other slightly burnt at one end.
The adults all stared.
Vincent swallowed and stated, “We took them from the box in Uncle Gordon’s study yesterday. Before we joined everyone else in the drawing room.”
“What?” Southerly looked shocked and pained.
Eyes round, Constance confirmed, “This was when we first arrived and you two vanished?” Her color rising, Constance accused, “You said you went to look for Julian.”
Vincent hung his head and mumbled, “Yes. Then.” He tilted his head.
“Or close to then.” Tentatively, he raised his gaze and, avoiding looking at his parents, focused on Barnaby.
“We thought Uncle Gordon would either come out of his study or come down the stairs and go to join everyone in the drawing room, and he did. He came down the stairs and went straight to the drawing room. He didn’t see us watching from the other corridor. ”
Sternly, his expression severe, Southerly said, “So you slipped into the study and stole those?”
Vincent swallowed again and admitted, “We knew it was wrong, but…well, they’re just two cigars out of a whole box. The chances were that Uncle Gordon wouldn’t even notice they’d been taken.”
“From talking to your male cousins,” Barnaby said, “we’ve learned that all six of you have been filching small things—a bit of cash left lying about, this and that—from your uncle for years.”
Vigorously, Vincent nodded. “Yes. Exactly.” He glanced sideways at his father. “It wasn’t just me and Theo. It was all of us.”
Plainly mystified, Southerly asked, “Why?”
Vincent met his father’s gaze, then shrugged.
“It was because he was always so stiff with us—so stingy. And I don’t mean just with money.
He barely acknowledged we were alive. And in the same fashion, he never seemed to notice the little things we took.
Or if he did, he didn’t really care. He just liked being mean and tight and nasty to all of us. At least, that’s how we all saw it.”
Vincent glanced down at the two cigars resting on the paper supported by his palms. “So anyway, yesterday evening, there wasn’t anything else about to take, so Theo and I each took a cigar and hid them in our pockets.”
Gently, Penelope asked, “When you were in the study, did you notice if the whiskey decanter was empty?”
Vincent frowned and nodded. “Yes. It was.” He looked even more uncomfortable, but bravely admitted, “We sometimes took a sip, but last evening, it was empty. Completely empty. I remember thinking that Winslow had fallen down on the job, and Uncle Gordon wouldn’t like that.”
Breaking the ensuing silence, Stokes asked, “Why do you think those cigars are the source of the poison affecting your brother?”
Vincent straightened. “Because this morning, Theo decided to light his, but he took one puff and choked. I took it off him and stubbed it out, and he said it tasted horrible—ghastly. And then he said he was feeling woozy, and I could see he was struggling to breathe, and then he just collapsed!”
It was obvious that witnessing that moment and the subsequent trauma had deeply frightened and shaken Vincent.
Barnaby rose and crossed to carefully take the cigars from Vincent.
After wrapping them safely within the sheet of paper, Barnaby caught Vincent’s eyes.
“Thank you for having the courage to come down, tell us the whole, and hand these over. We’ll have them tested, but I suspect you’re right. These have been poisoned as well.”
“You implied that there were more cigars than just those two,” Stokes said.
Vincent nodded. “The box was more than half full.”
Stokes looked at Barnaby. “We need to send word to Moran House immediately.”
Penelope added, “We don’t want any more inadvertent deaths.”
To Southerly and Constance, Stokes explained, “My men are still there. They’ll secure the rest of the cigars so no one else can be accidentally poisoned.”
“You can use one of our footmen.” Southerly rose and made for the bellpull.
Within minutes, a footman was dispatched to Moran House, carrying a message from Stokes directing O’Donnell to seize the box of cigars from the earl’s study—carefully—and take the box and its contents to Findlay for testing.
Penelope, Barnaby, and Stokes took their leave of Constance and Southerly.
On the way to the door, Penelope paused beside Vincent, who was standing back, head bowed, hands clasped before him, trying to make himself as inconspicuous as possible.
She laid a hand on his sleeve, and when his head came up, she met his eyes.
“Trust me. In such situations, no matter how difficult, telling the truth is always the course of wisdom.”
Vincent held her gaze for an instant, then nodded and looked down.
Penelope joined Barnaby and Stokes, and they quit the drawing room and the house.
On the pavement, Stokes halted and took the packet containing the cigars from Barnaby. “I’ll get these to Findlay and ensure he tests them immediately.”
Penelope said, “After that, I suggest you join us in Albemarle Street.”
Barnaby met her eyes, then looked at Stokes. “It’s too late in the day to do much else, and we could use an hour to review what we know and decide what questions remain most urgent for us to address.”
Stokes nodded his agreement and strode off to hail a hackney, while Penelope linked her arm with Barnaby’s, and they headed for their carriage.