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

by Stephanie Laurens

  As she frequently had, she held his gaze in a direct and forthright manner. No blushes, much less any lowering of her gaze, and to his relief, he saw calculation behind the limpid green. After a moment, she tipped her head to one side, still studying him. “I understand your argument, and no—in these circumstances, with a murderer lurking, I don’t consider your suggestion impertinent. However, quite aside from being the investigative team’s eyes and ears among the guests, just in case the murderer does stumble and give himself away, as Rosa Cleary’s death and its aftermath demonstrated, at least one of us needs to be here—with the house party—all the time. If I hadn’t reached Rosa’s room so quickly, I’m perfectly sure she would have been moved, and the signs of violent death might well have been erased.”

  He couldn’t help a cynical snort. “The others would have straightened her limbs and all but laid her out before they thought of informing anyone.”

  “Precisely.” She paused, then added, “While I sincerely hope we have no more deaths, there’s always the chance something might crop up that points to the murderer—something others won’t see for what it is and will helpfully assist in destroying or concealing it.”

  He couldn’t argue, but his anxiety—an emotion he’d rarely felt over anything yet couldn’t deny he felt now—didn’t abate. The notion of Miss Constance Whittaker being in any sort of danger…exercised something inside him he hadn’t known he possessed. “Very well.” The soundness of her reasoning left him with only one option—only one way to blunt the prick of an exceedingly pointed concern. “I’ll have a word with Percy and Carnaby—they’ll find me a room here.” He refocused on Miss Whittaker’s fine eyes. “Until we have the murderer by the heels, I’ll remain under this roof, too.”

  With you.

  Her eyes, locked with his, widened a fraction, then proving that she was more intelligent than the average, she inclined her head. “That might well prove a sensible move.”

  Where the words came from, he didn’t know; he was too well versed in sophistication to make such a blatant move, yet…. “Would you think me presumptuous if I used your first name—Constance?”

  Unblinking, she studied him for a second, then evenly replied, “Only if you refuse to extend the same courtesy to me—and I don’t know your first name.”

  “It’s Alaric.”

  Her brows rose. “That’s very old.”

  “My family’s very old.”

  Her lips twitched. “It suits you—and not because it’s old.”

  Still holding her gaze, he arched one brow. “Just as, I suspect, your name suits you.”

  She stilled for a second, then inclined her head. She rose. “I had better go and change.”

  “As had I.” Now was not the time to push his luck. He got to his feet and followed her from the alcove.

  * * *

  Later that evening, Barnaby pushed back from the table in the private parlor of the Tabard Inn. Comfortably replete, he surveyed their small company. “It’s like old times.” He looked at Stokes. “Just you, me, and Penelope, with your constables to hand.”

  Stokes nodded and leaned back in his chair.

  The door opened. Penelope looked, then smiled and waved the two maids in to clear the remnants of what had proved a very acceptable repast.

  After the door had shut behind the maids and their trays piled with dishes, the three friends sat and stared unseeing at the uninformative table; after a day of traveling, then having so many details of not one but two murders thrust upon them, none of them were feeling loquacious.

  Glancing at the other two, Stokes felt certain that, like him, they were missing the children and Stokes’s wife, Griselda. Normally, with an investigation afoot, they would all have come together before dinner to share the known facts, then after dinner, it was their habit to go over the salient points of the case…

  Stokes shook himself; he surveyed Barnaby, then Penelope, seated beside him. “We need to assess and plan our campaign. Let’s have Philpott and Morgan in and see where we are.”

  Penelope duly roused herself. By the time the two constables arrived and drew up chairs to the table, she’d wrestled her mind from thoughts of her son, Oliver, who was no doubt thoroughly enjoying himself with his paternal grandparents, and refocused her wits on the murders. As the others settled, she said, “Why don’t we recount what we think we know and then see what loose ends present themselves—what facts we might tug on to unravel the case.”

  Stokes grunted an assent and commenced a recitation of the bare facts as they knew them.

  Despite there being two successive murders to describe, the bare facts didn’t take long to state.

  “I think we have to conclude that Mrs. Cleary’s murder was secondary to Miss Johnson’s murder, not just in time but in intent,” Barnaby said. “It seems unlikely Rosa Cleary was killed for any reason other than that the murderer believed she’d realized who he was.”

  “Or if she hadn’t already guessed his identity, that she soon would, and the threat of that wasn’t something the murderer would accept.” Penelope met her husband’s gaze. “Whether Rosa Cleary knew who he was or whether she ever would have known is neither here nor there. All that mattered was that the murderer wasn’t willing to let her live and risk her exposing him.”

  Barnaby tipped his head in agreement.

  “Nevertheless”—Stokes glanced at Philpott and Morgan—“it would be preferable to establish an unequivocal link between Mrs. Cleary’s murder and her putative knowledge of Miss Johnson’s murderer.”

  Morgan was jotting in his notebook. “It’s possible the staff noticed something. Most of the nobs don’t even see the footmen and maids and reveal more than they realize.”

  Stokes grunted; Morgan often turned up evidence via some obscure staff member who’d seen something they hadn’t thought was relevant. “See what you can ferret out. Meanwhile…” He looked at Barnaby.

  “Meanwhile,” Barnaby responded, “given the time constraint, I suspect we need to focus on why Glynis Johnson was murdered. In the general way of things, it’s not a murder one might have expected. Jealousy, money, revenge, or rage—on the face of it, none of those motives seem to fit. She was twenty years old, and according to Miss Whittaker, this year’s Season was Glynis’s first—it seems unlikely she would have gained enemies in such a short time.”

  “And what enemies she might have garnered would most likely be female, not anyone capable of strangling her to death,” Penelope dryly remarked. After a second, she went on, “But I agree that learning why Glynis was murdered should be at the top of our list. Given that Miss Whittaker was sent to fetch her away, how was it that Glynis even came to be at such a house party?”

  “And,” Stokes said, “there’s the mystery of what she was wearing on that chain around her neck.”

  Penelope nodded. “She kept it hidden—why?”

  “More,” Barnaby said, “as the murderer took whatever the bauble was, was it the reason he killed her?”

  He, Stokes, and Penelope looked at each other, then all three nodded.

  “Right, then.” Stokes straightened and stretched his back. “That’s enough questions to be going on with. Let’s get some sleep, and we’ll start pressing as hard as we can for our answers immediately after breakfast.”

  * * *

  Percy had instructed Carnaby to give Alaric the room in the family wing he’d used on past occasions when he’d stayed overnight at the Hall.

  The evening had proved remarkably short. After a quiet dinner at which all conversation was, understandably, subdued, the company had thought to entertain themselves with music, but after Miss Weldon had played three gloomy airs, the consensus had been that muted conversation was more appropriate.

  As soon as the tea trolley had been wheeled in and cups of tea consumed, the guests had made excuses and drifted off to their beds.

  Or to whichever bed they were currently sharing.

  Alaric had kept Percy company; his c
hildhood friend had still seemed stricken and not recovering from the shock as fast as Alaric had expected. Sufficiently so for Alaric to flirt with the notion that Percy might have been smitten with Miss Johnson, although of that Alaric had seen no sign—not while Glynis Johnson had been alive and still smiling.

  Finally closing the door of his room, still pondering Glynis’s bright smiles, Alaric cast his mind back over the days before she’d been killed; was there any clue there as to any specific gentleman being the particular recipient of those smiles?

  His memories were reasonably clear, yet still he couldn’t see it—couldn’t pinpoint any man as Glynis Johnson’s particular interest.

  He halted by the bed, shrugged out of his coat, tossed it on a chair, and muttered, “And I could be reading far too much into what I sensed in her.”

  While he undressed, he dispassionately reappraised all the gentlemen present. Logically, each and every one had to be considered a suspect, yet…

  Alaric couldn’t see either Percy or Monty as the murderer. Not because he thought them incapable of killing—very likely all men were capable of murder given sufficient motive—but because he was confident neither Percy nor Monty would be able to behave with any degree of savoir faire afterward. Neither had the stomach nor the strength of personality to be able to conceal their inner turmoil—and they would, most definitely, be in turmoil had they committed murder.

  And that was just one murder. Two… For such as they, that would be impossible.

  “If they’d killed just once, they would be panicking—all but incapable of functioning.” They would be falling apart; of that, he was absolutely certain. And despite Percy’s…whatever it was, he wasn’t falling apart.

  “So—not them.” Who else could he strike from the suspect list?

  By the time he slid between the cool sheets, he’d realized he couldn’t discount any of the other men. More, he knew several potentially pertinent facts about Wynne, Fletcher, Walker, and Colonel Humphries—facts that could have given rise to a motive for murdering Glynis Johnson.

  Alaric settled on his back, his head cushioned in the pillows, and stared at the ceiling as he debated keeping what he knew to himself.

  In the end, he concluded that—as Adair had stated—in matters of murder, the usual unstated ton prohibitions did not apply. He would have to tell Adair, at least, and let those more experienced than he decide how relevant those gentlemen’s proclivities were.

  With that settled, he closed his eyes and willed his mind from all thoughts of men and murder.

  A minute later, he realized he’d succeeded admirably, because images of Constance Whittaker now filled his mind.

  His eyes firmly closed, he allowed himself to dwell on those far more fascinating visions.

  At some point, he smiled, and his thoughts segued into dreams.

  * * *

  At nine-thirty the following morning, Stokes arrived at Mandeville Hall with Barnaby, Penelope, Philpott, and Morgan. His first act was to request that Percy Mandeville and his guests gather in the drawing room. Once the company was assembled, Stokes, alone, addressed them, stating only that interviews would commence shortly, that each guest would be seen individually, and that all were requested to remain in that room until all interviews were complete.

  The last request caused some consternation, but after Stokes assured them the interviews would be conducted as quickly as possible, the grumbles faded.

  He scanned the room, then nodded to Carradale. “My lord, if you would join us.” Constance Whittaker was seated beside Carradale. “And Miss Whittaker, too. We would like to go over your statements.”

  The other guests seemed relieved not to have been called first.

  Stokes ushered Carradale and Miss Whittaker into the front hall, where Barnaby and Penelope were waiting, along with Philpott; Morgan had already retreated to his usual station in the servants’ hall. Stokes nodded toward the front door. “Let’s go.”

  He’d wanted Barnaby and Penelope to see the spot in the shrubbery where Miss Johnson had died. More importantly, however, being out in the shrubbery would give him a chance to ask Carradale and Miss Whittaker if they’d learned anything more during the previous evening.

  “Nothing,” Miss Whittaker stated. “As might be expected, everyone was subdued and, overall, not saying much.” She paused, then added, “Interesting, now I think of it—one would imagine the other ladies would have comments to make to me regarding Glynis and her interactions with the gentlemen present, but no.”

  Penelope turned from surveying the hedges. “It might well be that Rosa Cleary’s death is acting as a deterrent to any who might have pertinent information.”

  Stokes looked grim. “Sadly, that’s all too likely.”

  Carradale had been pointing out to Barnaby the route from the stables; he turned and added, “There was nothing of note I observed among the gentlemen. However, I did remember a few snippets of information about four of the company that might be relevant regarding a motive for murder.”

  Stokes’s brows rose. “Indeed?” He glanced at Barnaby and Penelope. “If you two have seen all you want here, I suggest we repair to our interview room.”

  The butler, Carnaby, had informed Stokes that, as per his request, a small parlor toward the rear of the house had been set aside for Scotland Yard’s use.

  The parlor proved to be well chosen, out of the way of any guests but of a suitable size and with a desk and sufficient chairs for their purpose.

  Stokes, Barnaby, and Penelope drew up chairs behind the wide desk, while Carradale set two chairs before it. After seating Miss Whittaker with his customary elegant grace, he sat beside her.

  Stokes leaned his forearms on the desk and focused on Carradale. “So what have you remembered?”

  Carradale looked at Barnaby. “Have you heard the tales about Wynne?”

  Barnaby’s expression blanked for a second, then his blue eyes hardened. “That he’s…shall we say aggressive over getting what he wants, including with the ladies?”

  Carradale nodded. “That said, I believe he’d taken up with Rosa Cleary. I can’t imagine Miss Johnson as being at all to his taste.”

  Penelope wrinkled her nose. “We don’t need another motive for Rosa’s death. Let’s leave Wynne and his aggressiveness to one side—at least for the moment.”

  “My thoughts exactly.” After a second, Carradale continued, “Fletcher and Walker share a particular trait—they don’t take rejection well. While I can’t imagine either pursuing any revenge to the point of murder, I can imagine them bailing up Miss Johnson over a suspected liaison with some other man, and given her inexperience, she might have said or done something that caused them to lose control.”

  “Like scream?” Penelope suggested.

  Carradale’s eyes widened. “I hadn’t thought of that, but that would almost certainly push either of them to silence her—not intending anything permanent, but…”

  Grimly, Barnaby nodded. “Sadly, I can see it. From what I know of both men, they are quick to take offense, and both have mercurial tempers.”

  “Both are also tall enough to have been the murderer,” Miss Whittaker observed.

  Stokes nodded to Philpott, who was sitting unobtrusively by the door. “Move Fletcher and Walker higher on our list.” He looked at Carradale. “Who was the fourth man?”

  “Colonel Humphries.” Carradale glanced sidelong at Miss Whittaker. “Without wishing to impugn Miss Johnson’s character in any way, the colonel is known to have a wandering eye. If he’d taken up with Miss Johnson in London and continued to pursue her here…” Carradale blinked. “I suppose, really, that the motive applies more to Mrs. Humphries than the colonel, and my mind boggles at the thought of meek and slight Mrs. Humphries strangling anyone.”

  “Unless Glynis was foolish enough to threaten to make a public brouhaha.” Penelope looked at Miss Whittaker. “Is that likely, do you think?”

  Miss Whittaker frowned. After a moment, she
said, “Sadly, I didn’t know Glynis well enough to be able to give you a definitive answer. She and I weren’t close. However, once Mrs. Macomber wakes, we can ask her if Glynis had met the colonel in London.”

  “Is Mrs. Macomber likely to wake soon?” Stokes asked. “We have several key questions to put to her.”

  “We expect her to wake properly sometime today,” Miss Whittaker replied. “My maid is sitting with her and will send word the instant Mrs. Macomber is compos mentis.”

  “Good.” Stokes jotted a note in his notebook. He flipped back through the pages, then looked at Carradale and Miss Whittaker. “I think we’ve extracted all we can from the pair of you to this point. However, I’d like to ask if you’re willing to sit in the next room”—he tipped his head to where a door to the adjoining room stood ajar—“out of sight, and listen to our interviews with the rest of the guests. Normally, I wouldn’t ask such a thing, but we’re up against it time-wise, and if someone lies, we won’t have time to backtrack and check with others to catch them out.”

  Stokes closed his lips on further persuasion and waited, his gaze on Carradale and Miss Whittaker.

  The pair exchanged a long glance, then Carradale looked at Stokes. “If that’s the fastest way to identifying the murderer…then yes. I’ll do it.”

  Miss Whittaker nodded, but added nothing more.

  Together with Stokes, the pair rose. He saw them settled in the next room, then returned to the desk. Reclaiming his chair, he glanced at Barnaby and Penelope, seated to either side. “As we’re all agreed that Miss Johnson’s murder is the precipitating event, and Mrs. Cleary was murdered as an outcome of that, I propose we focus on the first murder. If we can identify Glynis Johnson’s murderer, we’ll have our man.”

  Barnaby and Penelope both nodded in agreement.

  Stokes looked at Philpott. “Let’s start with the host. Ask the footman outside to fetch Mr. Percy Mandeville.”