The Murder at Mandeville Hall: The Casebook of Barnaby Adair: Volume 7

by Stephanie Laurens

“Miss Whittaker arrived as we were finishing breakfast,” Monty rushed to say. “When she asked after Glynis, we realized that she—Glynis—hadn’t come down. We’d assumed she was sleeping in—some of the other ladies had—but when we checked, it seemed Glynis had vanished, and Percy organized a search.” His voice higher than usual, Monty waved. “There are groups of us searching all over. I offered to go with Miss Whittaker, and we came this way…”

  Curtly, Alaric nodded. “Tell Carnaby what’s happened and ask him to send footmen with a stretcher—a ladder, door, or a gate will do. We need to carry Miss Johnson inside.”

  “Will do.” Monty backed away, drawing the copiously weeping Mrs. Macomber with him.

  Alaric transferred his gaze to Miss Constance Whittaker. She’d straightened and reassembled her composure, although to his mind, in the circumstances, a momentary weakness was hardly to be wondered at.

  Nevertheless, she watched Monty and the chaperon depart, and when Monty glanced back, Miss Whittaker inclined her head in regally gracious thanks.

  She was distinctly stiff, a managing female with a strong line in condescension, yet Alaric was grateful she wasn’t the swooning, weeping, helpless sort. Monty would be in his element soothing the weeping chaperon, but Alaric had never had that skill; distraught ladies made him want to run—far away.

  After a second’s thought, he crouched by the body and, once again, gently lifted the same arm he’d earlier moved.

  Constance studied him, then she walked to the body and crouched on the opposite side. “What are you doing?”

  He glanced at her. His hazel eyes were sharp, their expression shrewd as he studied her face. On the evidence thus far, he seemed decidedly more intelligent—more direct and straightforward—than any of the others she’d met at Mandeville Hall.

  Eventually, he said, “If her limbs are stiffening, and they are, then she was killed at least four hours ago. Given it was cool overnight—and that delays the stiffening—it seems likely she was killed more like eight hours ago.”

  She frowned. “It’s just after nine o’clock now, so possibly an hour or so after midnight.”

  He nodded and gently set Glynis’s arm down.

  She hesitated, then reached for Glynis’s other arm, the one closer to her. As soon as she raised it, she felt what he had; it was as if the muscles were locking in place. Carefully, she set the arm down. She debated, then looked at him. “You said you were attending the house party. As you knew what Glynis was wearing last evening, I assume you attended the same event. Did you happen to notice if she went outside with any man?”

  Carradale met her eyes—and she knew he was deciding whether to tell her something. Then his lips—lean and mobile and curiously visually magnetic, at least for her—twisted, and he said, “Glynis strolled the terrace with me—that was at her suggestion, which others overheard. But that wasn’t that late, and I returned her to the drawing room. I left her with a group of others—including Mandeville and Monty—then I quit the house and rode home.”

  Constance tried to imagine how and why Glynis was where they’d found her. “She must have gone outside later, with some other man.”

  “Possibly.” Carradale rose, hesitated for a heartbeat, then offered her his hand. She gripped it—feeling the strength in both hand and arm as he closed his fingers around hers and drew her to her feet.

  She almost felt flustered and inwardly scoffed; no man had ever rattled her senses. What she felt had to be a lingering effect of shock. Then his reply registered, and she frowned and looked at him. “Why ‘possibly’?”

  He met her gaze, held it for an instant, then replied, “Did she leave the house before or after the gathering broke up? If after, then it’s possible she ventured out on her own, either to meet someone else—man or woman—or simply to get some air.”

  She looked down at the necklace of bruises marring the white column of Glynis’s throat. “No woman did that.”

  “No—it was a man. But depending on when and why she left the house, it’s possible that the only person who knew she was outside was”—he followed her gaze and rather grimly concluded—“whoever did that to her.”

  Constance continued to look down at Glynis’s body, and the responsibility that habitually weighed on her shoulders seemed to grow heavier. She’d come there to rescue Glynis…only to find her already dead. Anger and more rose within her. “I swear I will not rest until your murderer is caught. And hanged.”

  She felt Carradale’s sharp gaze touch her face and linger, then he said, quite simply, “Indeed.”

  The single word carried a full measure of lethal promise. In pursuing justice for Glynis, evidently Constance wasn’t—and wouldn’t be—alone.

  Chapter 2

  Along with the stony-faced Miss Whittaker, Alaric paced toward the house in the wake of the footmen carrying the door on which they’d placed Glynis Johnson’s body.

  The Amazon had waited with him until the footmen had arrived, then had overseen the lifting and transferring of her cousin’s lifeless form with a stoic calm Alaric had had to admire.

  Now, however, as they paced side by side across the forecourt and up the porch steps, he sensed grim determination overtake her—visible in the adamantine set of her features and the steely light that infused her eyes.

  He recognized the sentiment because he shared it. Glynis Johnson had been a blameless soul who had not deserved to have her life cut short. The murder might not have occurred on Radleigh land, yet it was close enough—in some strange way, it seemed to fall within his purlieu—and as such, a degree of responsibility to see justice done and Glynis avenged fell on his shoulders.

  Carnaby, looking more rattled than Alaric had ever seen him, met them in the front hall. “Ah…” The normally unflappable butler looked helpless. He stared at the body, decently shrouded in an old curtain.

  Miss Whittaker drew herself up. “Do you have an ice house?” Her delivery was even and commendably assured.

  Carnaby blinked and faced her. “No, ma’am. But we have a cool store beyond the wash house, if you think that would do?”

  She seemed to consider, then nodded. “That will probably be an acceptable alternative. If there’s a table…?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Carnaby had regained some of his composure. “We’ll place the poor young lady there.” He gave brisk directions to the footmen. As they moved off, going deeper into the house, Carnaby faced Alaric and Miss Whittaker. “If you would, my lord, the master and all the other guests have gathered in the drawing room. They’re waiting for you and Miss Whittaker to discuss what next to do.”

  Alaric hid a frown; what needed to be done next should have been obvious.

  A sidelong glance at Miss Whittaker—at the frown in her eyes—suggested she thought the same.

  Alaric gestured to the drawing room. “If you’re ready…?”

  She drew in another fortifying breath, then nodded and, with a determined stride, led the way.

  A footman hurried to open the door, and Alaric followed her—into a scene of mild panic and general chaos. A cacophony of chatter and shrill exclamations engulfed them, and they halted.

  No one noticed their entrance, all too busy hypothesizing and frightening themselves with wild speculation. For several moments, Alaric and Miss Whittaker stood silently just inside the door.

  Eventually, Alaric glanced at Miss Whittaker and confirmed that she was surveying the company just as he had, but in her case, through cold and, he suspected, very clear eyes.

  No doubt she, like he, had leapt to the conclusion that Glynis’s murderer was, most likely, in the room.

  Gradually, the babel of voices grew more distinct, allowing various comments and observations to be distinguished. Several ladies were claiming to have been friends of the deceased, while the gentlemen were unanimous in praising Glynis’s character. Nothing said was untrue, yet…

  Half a minute later, Miss Whittaker put her finger firmly on the anomaly. Her voice low, for Alari
c’s ears alone, she murmured, “I wasn’t aware Glynis was such close friends with all these people.”

  Cynically, he replied, “She wasn’t—at best, they were recent acquaintances. I got the impression she hadn’t met the majority of those here prior to arriving two days ago.”

  “Then why…?”

  “Because they’re not sure how to behave, and most are overdoing things.” When she sniffed disparagingly, he added in a mild tone, “You have to allow for the fact that most if not all of those here have not previously been confronted by the violent death of an acquaintance—a member of a house party they are attending.”

  After a second, she cut a sharp glance his way; sensing it, he met her eyes, then arched a brow. “Have you?” she asked. “Been confronted by the violent death of an acquaintance?”

  He returned his gaze to the assembled company. “Not as such, but I have had to comfort a friend whose mother met a ghastly end, so I have that experience to guide me.”

  Just then, Edward, standing to one side of the fireplace, beside the chair in which Percy had slumped, noticed Alaric and Miss Whittaker. Edward dropped a hand on Percy’s shoulder, gripped, and lightly shook his cousin. When Percy blinked and looked up, Edward tipped his head, directing Percy’s gaze to Alaric and Miss Whittaker, and said something—presumably pointing out to Percy that it was time to address the immediate issue.

  Alaric had noted that Percy had been staring blankly—blindly—across the room. He hadn’t been contributing to the dramatic exchanges; indeed, he’d seemed deaf to the clamor around him.

  Now, instead of rising and taking charge, Percy spoke to Edward and waved—clearly inviting his cousin to do what needed to be done.

  Edward straightened, then patently ready to assume command, moved to stand squarely in front of the fireplace. Facing the room, he raised his voice. “If I could have everyone’s attention?”

  Gradually, the conversations quieted until, finally, absolute silence held sway. Everyone had turned to look at Edward.

  He cleared his throat, glanced at Alaric and Miss Whittaker, then said, “I believe the correct procedure is that we should summon the local magistrate.”

  A wave of comments ensued. Edward listened and waited, but ultimately, no one disagreed.

  As the voices faded, Alaric spoke. “I’m sure Sir Godfrey Stonewall will do his best, but I believe that under the new system, any suspicious death is supposed to be reported to Scotland Yard.”

  Horror filled the faces turned his way, then the protests began.

  “What a horrible suggestion, Carradale.” Prue Collard shuddered.

  “You can’t possibly be serious!” William Coke sounded close to choking.

  “I say, no call for such extremes,” Fletcher said.

  “I’ve heard the inspectors are overzealous individuals who treat everyone—absolutely everyone—as if they’re the basest criminal,” Henry Wynne reported.

  “Stuff and nonsense!” punctuated by a cane hitting the floor came from Mrs. Fitzherbert. “I’m surprised at you, Carradale.”

  As the refusals to countenance calling in Scotland Yard continued, Alaric inwardly sighed. One would have been forgiven for imagining he’d suggested bringing in the newshounds; indeed, judging by the tenor of some of the protests, the newshounds would have been preferable to the clodhopping, flat-footed, bumbling denizens of the fabled Scotland Yard—the descendants of Peel’s Bow Street runners.

  Miss Whittaker frowned at him. “You’re not arguing.”

  He arched a brow. “I’m resigned. I never thought they’d agree, but I felt the point needed to be made.” After a second, he remarked, “At least this way, no one will balk at sending for Stonewall.”

  Sure enough, as the protests faded into grumblings, with some opining that Alaric had only made the suggestion to throw the proverbial cat among the pigeons, Edward conferred with Percy, then once more raised his voice. “I’ll send for Stonewall—he’s the local man here.”

  When many looked his way, Alaric inclined his head in acceptance; it wasn’t, after all, his house.

  Miss Whittaker was still studying him as if he was some strange specimen. As Edward strode from the room, presumably to consult with Carnaby, and the other guests returned to their speculation, she inquired, “Why not Stonewall?”

  Alaric shifted his gaze to meet hers. “You’ll see. Then again, who knows?” He shrugged. “He might have changed.” He doubted it, but anything, he supposed, was possible.

  Miss Whittaker bent her frown—the one he’d already realized meant she was trying to puzzle something out—on him. “Stonewall is—presumably—closer. And perhaps he’ll take one look and summon Scotland Yard himself. He can do that, can’t he? That might be more effective.”

  Alaric’s reply was a dry “We can but hope.”

  The door opened, and Edward came in. He walked to his previous position before the hearth, turned, and informed everyone that the magistrate, Sir Godfrey Stonewall, had been summoned.

  Everyone waited, patently expecting some direction. Edward looked at Percy—many others did as well, Alaric and Miss Whittaker among them—but as before, Percy seemed disinclined to take the lead. He still looked ashen, as if the shock of the murder had knocked him for six and he hadn’t yet got his mental legs under him.

  Or more likely, in Alaric’s estimation, a realization of the consequences of it becoming known, as it inevitably would, that such an unsavory murder had occurred at his house, during a house party he was hosting, had started to impinge on Percy’s awareness and had—perhaps unsurprisingly—scuppered all confidence.

  Alaric could attest that Percy was definitely not the strong and decisive sort, that he’d always lacked confidence in unexpected situations. His patent inability to step up and lead the company now was entirely consistent with his known character.

  Edward cleared his throat and, when everyone looked his way, said, “I gather Stonewall is unlikely to arrive before the afternoon. Perhaps, in the circumstances, it might be best to go over what information we have of Miss Johnson’s movements during the evening just past. Who knows? By sharing what we observed and assembling all the facts, we might unearth a clue, which we can then lay before Stonewall and perhaps get through his visit with less fuss.”

  Constance bit her tongue against the urge to inform the company that she didn’t care how much fuss it took to identify the man who’d killed Glynis—and that they shouldn’t care, either. But she was a realist, and people of this ilk always seemed to measure the cost of things in terms of how much they, personally, would be put out. But even more pertinently, learning all the company knew of Glynis’s movements the previous night ranked high on Constance’s list of immediate objectives.

  She felt Carradale’s gaze touch her face, as if he could read her thoughts—feel her impulses. A second later, he murmured, “Just wait. They’ll perk up at the thought of sharing what they know—it’s an occupation very close to gossiping.”

  Despite the weight that had settled about her heart, she almost smiled.

  He touched her arm, then gestured to an unoccupied armchair. “This,” he murmured, “is likely to take some time.”

  She walked to the chair and sank down; the position—nearer to the door than the other settings—gave her a decent view of all the company as they gathered their thoughts. Carradale fetched a straight-backed chair from against the wall and placed it alongside the armchair. He sat as the gentleman who had summoned the magistrate stated, “Perhaps we should start from a moment when we can all agree Glynis was present in the drawing room.”

  Constance glanced at Carradale and quietly asked, “Who is that gentleman—the one who just spoke?”

  “Edward Mandeville. He’s Percy’s older cousin.”

  She nodded as a lady with brassy-blond ringlets raised a hand.

  “Glynis and I were together, chatting with Monty and Robert for a time. Then we four joined Carradale, and after some time, Glynis asked him to escort
her out onto the terrace.”

  Constance wasn’t surprised at the salacious glances cast at the gentleman beside her.

  For his part, he didn’t seem to notice. Instead, his expression entirely serious, he nodded. “Miss Johnson declared she needed some air. She and I walked the terrace for about ten minutes. She didn’t say anything to suggest she was in any way frightened, much less that she feared for her life or even held reservations over any man present.”

  The realization that Glynis apparently had had reason to fear one of the men present registered in most minds and eradicated all inclination to levity. Every face grew somber.

  “Subsequent to our stroll in the moonlight,” Carradale continued, “I returned with Miss Johnson to the drawing room, and we joined the group that included Percy, Monty, Cyril and Caroline Hammond, and Colonel Humphries.”

  An older gentleman with a military mustache humphed. “Remember that quite clearly. You left soon after.”

  Carradale inclined his head. “Indeed. The last I saw of Miss Johnson, she was chatting with Cyril and Caroline.”

  The Hammond pair, apparently brother and sister-in-law, took up the tale. Consequently, others chimed in, various members of the company growing animated as they either related their interaction with Glynis or confirmed seeing her talking with someone else.

  Minute by minute, interaction by interaction, the assembled guests traced Glynis’s movements as she’d circulated among the groups in the drawing room. As she listened, Constance realized that although Glynis had to have been somewhat out of her depth in this company, she’d managed to hold her own among them quite creditably; no one spoke of her with anything less than respect and, at minimum, mild liking. From no quarter—not even the other unmarried young lady—did Constance sense any animosity.

  Why, then, had Glynis been killed?

  The question triggered some other avenue of thought, but before she could follow it, the brassy-haired lady—Carradale had murmured that the lady’s name was Mrs. Prudence Collard—looked around the circle of faces and stated, “I believe that brings us to the end of the evening. We retired then, didn’t we?”