Chapter 11 #3
For an instant, Christopher stared uncomprehendingly at Joseph, then recognition hit, swiftly followed by realization.
His jaw setting, Christopher spun on his heel and took one rapid step toward the doors—only to find himself facing the considerable bulk of Constable Walsh, with Barnaby ambling up to stand at the constable’s side.
Barnaby met and held Christopher’s gaze as fear seeped in and swamped all fury.
Smiling amiably, Walsh gestured toward Stokes. “I think the inspector wants a word, sir.”
From the rear of the foyer, Penelope watched as, warily, Christopher Fitzhugh turned and faced the room. He took in the startled looks on his nephews’ faces, then brought his gaze to Stokes, and slowly, as if he was having to force his legs to cooperate, he walked toward the counter.
Reaching it, Christopher inclined his head. “Inspector.” His gaze moved on to Penelope. “Mrs. Adair.”
As Barnaby strolled up to join them, Christopher cast him a look, then nodded. “Adair.”
His expression bleak, Christopher returned his gaze to Stokes. “I understand you wish to speak with me.”
“Indeed.” In a formal voice, Stokes stated, “Christopher Fitzhugh, I’m arresting you for the murder by poisoning of Winslow, butler of Moran House, and the attempted murder by poison of your late brother, the Earl of Moran.”
Penelope had expected to hear gasps from the assembled young gentlemen. When none came, she shifted and peered around Barnaby and saw that all four of Christopher’s nephews were standing, staring at him with their mouths hanging open. They were literally speechless.
They left Christopher to stew in the interrogation room in the basement while Stokes dispatched O’Donnell, Walsh, and Morgan to Moran House, O’Donnell and Walsh to fetch the countess, and Morgan, with his appealingly youthful appearance and his engaging ways, to work his wiles with the staff and see what he could learn regarding the moving of the box of cigars on the afternoon following Winslow’s death.
By the time Penelope, Barnaby, and Stokes joined Christopher in the interrogation room, he had, it seemed, realized that his spontaneous reaction to Joseph Greer’s accusation had been tantamount to a confession.
While they filed into the room and claimed the three chairs on the opposite side of the bare table behind which Christopher sat, he stared at his hands, clasped on the table, but as soon as they’d settled on the chairs, he raised his gaze and stated, “I put the poison into the whiskey decanter in Gordon’s study.
” His tone was flat. “I emptied the decanter and swirled a solution of the poison inside the bottle and left it stoppered on the tantalus.” He met their gazes, one by one, then went on, “But that’s all I did.
I didn’t refill the decanter with whiskey, and I didn’t force any down Winslow’s throat. ”
When, his lips compressing, Christopher fell silent, Stokes inclined his head. “We accept that you did not intend to poison Winslow. You did, however, intend to poison and kill your brother, Gordon Fitzhugh, the Earl of Moran.”
To that, Christopher gave no answer but simply lowered his gaze once more to his clasped hands.
In an almost conversational tone, Barnaby asked, “Why was that?” When Christopher glanced his way, Barnaby went on, “You’re not in the direct line of succession anymore…
but perhaps you imagined that if the packet of poison was found in Frederick’s old room, even though he hasn’t been in there for years, that would be enough to cast suspicion on him. ”
“You also signed the poison register at Chifley’s as F. Fitzhugh,” Penelope said, “presumably to provide evidence that might have seen Frederick hang.”
“And,” Barnaby continued, “if Frederick was convicted of the crime, the title and estate would not pass to his heirs, as they would be classed as his beneficiaries, but instead, would pass to you.”
When Christopher simply stared stonily at Barnaby, Stokes prodded, “Did you think we would discover that Frederick was strapped for cash and take that as his motive to murder the earl?”
Christopher guffawed, although the sound had a hollow ring.
“Strapped for cash? Frederick isn’t strapped—he’s desperate!
Just think—he has only the same allowance as me, and he has six children, and the first of his four daughters is coming out this year.
Even with Imogen’s money, he’s in dire straits.
He’s literally desperate to make ends meet.
He has to find a goodly amount of money from somewhere, and soon, and his need for funds far exceeds mine. ”
“But you do need funds,” Penelope pressed, “don’t you?”
Christopher shot her an angry look and didn’t reply.
Penelope regarded him for a moment, then went on, “And then there’s Victoria.
She wants more funds, too, doesn’t she?” She tipped her head, her gaze on Christopher’s face.
“I can see you placing poison in the decanter, but I have difficulty imagining you having the patience to doctor the cigars. So many cigars. All so very carefully done.”
Christopher lowered his gaze to his hands and remained silent, but his fingers tensed.
Gently, Penelope went on, “Was it a joint effort on your parts? You and she egging each other on? You both wanted Gordon dead, more or less for the same reason—to free yourselves from the financial constraints he had imposed on you both. Was it a wager of sorts? Which one would be responsible for his death? Other than you buying the poison, which, as it’s turned out, instead of implicating Frederick has put your neck firmly in a noose—or at the very least, your feet on the deck of a transport bound for Botany Bay—your scheme was, indeed, ingenious in its way.
Moran’s death could have occurred at any time after you placed the twin sources of poison in his study.
Each of you would almost certainly have had a sound alibi for the time of death. ”
Barnaby put in, “If you hadn’t been so ham-fisted in your attempts to incriminate Frederick, you might even have got away with the poisoning, undetected.”
“In that regard,” Penelope said, “having two sources of the same poison would have muddied the investigative waters considerably. However, in this case…”
Stokes stated, “We’ve already sent for the countess, and we’re questioning the staff at Moran House regarding the movement of the box of cigars from the study to Frederick’s old room.”
“From experience,” Penelope told Christopher, “given that the box was moved during the day and during a period when, of the family, only you, Victoria, and the dowager were there, our chances of finding one or more of the staff who can confirm who carried the box upstairs are reasonably good.” She faintly smiled. “We’ll soon see.”
Stokes studied Christopher’s half-hidden face, then said, “You may not yet have heard, but the poisoned cigars very nearly caused another death.”
That brought Christopher’s head up. He stared at Stokes. “Who?”
Sternly, Barnaby replied, “Before the dinner, your youngest nephew, Theodore, stole a cigar from the box in the study. The next day, he attempted to smoke it, but the taste repelled him, and he immediately stopped. His inexperience in cutting the entire end paper from the cigar before lighting it was the only thing that saved his life. He’ll live but, truly, only through pure luck. ”
“Vincent also took one of the cigars,” Penelope informed Christopher, “but he hadn’t attempted to smoke it.”
Stokes went on, “We’ve since confirmed that all of the cigars in the box were poisoned, very carefully and craftily.
Not even a connoisseur would have easily spotted the tampering.
Consequently, several people might have died, not just your brother.
Just as another person was, indeed, killed by the poisoned whiskey.
As attempts to specifically murder the earl, both poisonings displayed complete disregard for the lives of others.
” He caught Christopher’s gaze. “That will assuredly weigh with the judge at your trial.”
Christopher’s expression had turned faintly ashen.
When he remained silent, Stokes asked, “Do you have anything to say?”
Christopher refocused on Stokes, then looked at Penelope and, lastly, at Barnaby. “I poisoned the whiskey. Sadly, the plot came to naught.” He shook his head. “There’s nothing more I wish to say.”
After leaving the attending sergeant and constable to show Christopher to his cell, with Barnaby and Stokes, Penelope emerged from the basement to learn that Lady Victoria had been brought in and awaited their pleasure in the nicer interview room on the ground floor.
Even more encouraging was the sight of Constable Morgan, waiting to one side of the foyer with one of the Moran House maids.
The girl was obviously nervous. Plastering on a reassuring smile, Penelope glided across the foyer to greet the pair, with Barnaby and Stokes on her heels.
Dredging her memory, still smiling, Penelope halted before the young woman. “Gwen, isn’t it?”
The maid dropped into a curtsy. “Yes, ma’am.” As she straightened, Gwen shot a look at Morgan, beside her. “I’m the upstairs maid at Moran House, and the constable here said as you’d like to know what I saw on the afternoon after poor Winslow died.”
Penelope nodded. “Indeed, we would. So what did you see?”
“I was gathering the dowager’s linens for washing.
We were late doing that, what with all the bother of the morning, and I wouldn’t normally be upstairs at that time, so I was being quiet and quick, and as I was crossing the gallery where it meets the west wing corridor, I saw the countess carrying that box that holds the earl’s cigars.
She was carrying it down that corridor. I thought that was odd, because the box was always kept in the earl’s study, and I wondered what the countess would want with the cigars, but of course, I just hurried on. ”