Chapter 13 #2
“Yes!” Imogen drew in a calming breath. “Or at least, so it seemed to everyone. And given Imelda’s performance at the dinner table, she believed that, too.”
Frowning, Penelope asked, “Would it be accurate to say that the dowager organized the dinner in order to reveal the financial difficulties all of the family are facing in the hope of forcing the earl—shaming him, even—into changing his ways?”
Imogen took a moment to consider, then nodded. “That would be my reading of her intent. She was determined to push him into acting to ease the financial pressure on the rest of the family.”
“What was the state of the dowager’s relationship with the earl—Gordon?” Barnaby asked.
Imogen hesitated, then said, “Years ago, when I married into the family, I would have said the dowager viewed Gordon with no small amount of pride, but as the years rolled on, that pride faded and was replaced by…frustration, exasperation. Emotions of that sort.” She paused, then added, “Over the past few years, her attitude to him soured even more, and over the past months, since he moved her back into Moran House, the exchanges between them that I’ve witnessed have held more than a touch of bitterness. ”
When Imogen said nothing more, Penelope asked, “What happened at the conclusion of…what you’ve termed the dowager’s performance? How did it end?”
Imogen sighed. “After the last of the men—Frederick—had confessed all under her direction, Imelda looked straight down the table at Gordon and said, ‘Well? This is your family. What are you going to do about this sorry state of affairs?’”
“And?” Barnaby prompted.
Imogen’s features hardened. “Gordon’s expression had grown only stonier as the revelations progressed.
He responded to Imelda’s challenge by dismissing it.
Literally waving it aside, along with the dowager and all her efforts, too.
He said it wasn’t his concern what we all got up to.
That he wasn’t our keeper. Then he rose from the table, crossed to the wall, tugged the bellpull, and when Winslow and the footmen came in, ordered them to clear away the plates. ”
Imogen met Barnaby’s gaze. “That was Gordon all over. He cared nothing for the family or what we thought of him.” She paused, then continued, “It was all dreadfully awkward, of course—we’d all been forced to air our financial difficulties before everyone at the table—and there we were, trying to carry on as if the previous half hour hadn’t happened. ”
“The dowager?” Penelope asked.
“She was furious, of course. White with fury and also so very disappointed.” Imogen hesitated, then added, “I also sensed she was cast down in a way. She’d tried her damnedest to get Gordon to save the family—or at least, help us all—and she’d failed.”
Meeting Penelope’s eyes, Imogen said, “Imelda’s not in the best of health, and the effort of her performance that evening had to have cost her dearly.”
Penelope nodded. “Is that how the dinner concluded?”
“More or less. Certainly, the fireworks part of it. Nothing more was said of financial matters. The children saved us, filling the silence by asking silly questions of each other, then the meal was at an end, and we rose, and the company progressed to the drawing room, as we usually did.”
“Did all of the company retire to the drawing room?” Barnaby asked.
“Yes.” Then Imogen amended, “Well, except for George, who I’ve mentioned to you before, but he rejoined the gathering shortly after we’d settled in the drawing room.”
“What happened next?” Penelope asked.
“Gordon told Winslow to bring in the tea trolley. Gordon looked at the dowager and made a snide comment that he was sure no one was keen to prolong the evening.”
“So the tea trolley was brought in almost immediately?”
“Within five minutes. As usual, the dowager poured. Gordon took the first cup, drained it, set it back on the trolley, and announced he was going to his study, as he had business to attend to.” Imogen shrugged.
“He left, and the repressive atmosphere lightened somewhat. The rest of us sipped our tea, then Cleome, Constance, and I realized we might as well make use of being there together to discuss the details of the girls’ come-out ball. ”
Frowning, Penelope asked, “When did the dowager leave?”
Imogen replied, “She chatted to the girls for a time, then she said she was tired and had Hugh call for her footmen. They arrived, and she left us. That was just on nine-thirty, which is the time she usually retires upstairs.”
Penelope glanced at Stokes, who had been taking notes throughout.
Acknowledging Penelope’s look with a small nod, he said to Imogen, “To confirm—no one else left the drawing room until after the earl was found dead and the alarm was raised?”
“That’s correct,” Imogen said. “I can definitely state that none of us left.” She paused, then went on, “Truth to tell, we were still rather shell-shocked. Most had a second cup of tea. We were all still trying to find our feet…and forget that we’d told everyone of our difficulties and been forced to listen to theirs.
You might imagine that we’d all scuttle apart as fast as we could, but in reality, we all seemed to feel…
a sort of kinship, now we all knew each other’s darkest financial secrets, as it were. ”
Penelope nodded in understanding, then looked at Barnaby and Stokes. When neither indicated they had further questions, she returned her gaze to Imogen. “Thank you for being frank with us. We appreciate your honesty.”
Imogen colored but looked relieved. She glanced at Stokes.
He inclined his head to her. “I believe we have all the information we require. I doubt we’ll need to take up any more of your time.”
They rose, and Imogen showed them out of the room and accompanied them to the front door.
On the pavement, Penelope halted, and Barnaby and Stokes joined her. After the door had closed behind them, she sighed. “I believe I’m starting to see the light motive-wise, but I still have no idea who, exactly, killed the earl.”
His hands in his greatcoat pockets, Barnaby said, “We need to return to Moran House and question the staff more closely regarding the period immediately preceding the earl’s death.”
“The answer to all our questions has to lie in that house.” Stokes looked at Barnaby, then at Penelope. “There are pieces of this puzzle we’re still missing.”
They made their way directly to Moran House.
Stokes tugged the bell chain, and the door was opened by Jeffrey, the lanky footman-cum-acting-butler.
Round-eyed, Jeffrey stared at them, then stammered, “Er…only the dowager’s at home…” He blinked and, focusing on Stokes, hopefully asked, “Will the countess and Mr. Christopher be returning soon?” Then Jeffrey blushed and hurried to explain, “We’re all wondering, you see.”
Stokes took pity on the fellow. “No, son. They won’t be coming back.”
Shock infused Jeffrey’s expression, and he froze.
Penelope stepped past Stokes and took charge. “You don’t need to bother the dowager. We’re here to ask the staff a few last questions.”
Responding to her tone, Jeffrey straightened. “Yes, ma’am.” He stepped back and allowed them to enter, then closed the door and led them to the servants’ hall.
With Stokes on his heels, Barnaby followed Penelope into the large chamber. Despite being abustle with numerous staff busy with their chores, everyone seemed subdued, and a sense of waiting for some axe to fall blanketed the room.
Seated at one end of the long deal table, Mrs. Pratchett looked up, saw them, and quickly rose to her feet. She looked at Penelope. “Lady Victoria and Mr. Christopher?”
Penelope glanced at Stokes, who replied, “Both the countess and Mr. Christopher Fitzhugh are in Newgate, awaiting trial.”
Mrs. Pratchett paled. “Lord have mercy!”
The rest of the staff, all also shocked and stunned, drifted toward the housekeeper as if seeking reassurance from her and each other.
Stoically, Stokes stated, “One of the prison wardens will, no doubt, arrive shortly to fetch some clothes and personal items.” Reading the question in many faces, Stokes added, “We seriously doubt you will see either again.”
For a moment, Mrs. Pratchett looked lost, then her features hardened, and she focused on Stokes. “Were they the ones who did for Winslow?”
Penelope replied, “Christopher Fitzhugh confessed to placing the poison in the earl’s whiskey decanter.
His intention was to poison the earl. At the same time, Lady Victoria laced the earl’s cigars with the same poison, again hoping to kill the earl but, instead, nearly killing Theodore Fitzhugh.
She’s confessed to her actions as well.”
Mrs. Pratchett and the staff exchanged speaking glances, then Mrs. Pratchett, lips set, faced Barnaby, Penelope, and Stokes and nodded. “Good, then. They’re where they deserve to be and will receive their just deserts.”
Penelope said, “We have a few last questions we would like to put to the staff as a whole.” She glanced at the group gathered about the housekeeper. “Are all the members of the staff here?”
Mrs. Pratchett turned and surveyed those assembled, then dispatched the maid, Gwen, upstairs to fetch the dowager’s maid. Mrs. Pratchett turned back to Penelope and declared, “Other than Hilda, we’re all here.”
“If you don’t mind, we’ll wait for Hilda and Gwen to join us.” Penelope waved Mrs. Pratchett back to her chair. “There’s no need to stand.”
Penelope sat, and Barnaby and Stokes settled on the bench beside her.
Mrs. Pratchett consented to return to her chair, and the older cook and another maid claimed places opposite the investigators, but most of the younger staff, including Jeffrey, remained standing in a loose group behind Mrs. Pratchett and the seated women.
A clatter of footsteps on the servants’ stairs heralded Gwen and Hilda’s arrival.
Mrs. Pratchett waved both women to seats along the board. “The inspector and his friends have a few more questions for us.”