Penelope halted and swept her gaze over the assembled company. Her expression solemn, she inclined her head, including the entire group with the gesture. “Good afternoon. Many of you will know or recognize my husband and me. For those yet to meet us, I am Mrs. Penelope Adair, and”—with a wave, she indicated Barnaby, who had halted to her left—“this is my husband, Barnaby Adair. The Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police has requested that we assist Inspector Stokes”—she gestured to Stokes, standing behind and to her right—“in apprehending the murderer of Mr. Montague Underhill.”
A murmur rose from the company, carrying hints of approval and, especially from the younger members, burgeoning curiosity.
The doors opened, and Gearing ushered in the staff, who hurried self-consciously to take up positions along the inner wall.
When the sound of shuffling shoes subsided, Stokes caught Penelope’s eye, and as she stepped back, he stepped forward. To the company at large, he stated, “For those not yet aware, I am Inspector Stokes of Scotland Yard, and I’ve been sent to lead this investigation. In that endeavor, I will be assisted by Mr. and Mrs. Adair. I can formally confirm that this morning, Mr. Montague Underhill was found murdered in the orchard of Patchcote Grange. His body has been examined by Scotland Yard’s medical examiner, and the body has been removed to the morgue in London. With our arrival, the investigation into Mr. Underhill’smurder has officially commenced. I must advise you that, until such time as the investigation at the Grange is deemed complete, you will need to remain on the estate.” He turned to address the staff. “The prohibition on leaving the estate also extends to all staff normally resident in the house or in other buildings on the estate.”
Rather stiffly, Gearing nodded.
Turning back to the guests, Stokes continued, “Lady Pamela has granted Scotland Yard a free hand in conducting our investigation. We will seek to identify the culprit with all speed, but until we do, no one may leave. Any attempt to do so will be interpreted as an indication of, at the very least, having something to hide and, at the worst, as a confession to the crime.”
Barnaby struggled to keep his features impassive as he watched the guests’ incipient protests die upon their lips.
To make matters even clearer, Penelope added, “We understand all here were planning to remain at the Grange until next Sunday, and we hope to conclude the investigation well before then.”
Stokes turned to Gearing and the staff. “Thank you for attending. You may go.”
As the staff filed out, Stokes exchanged glances with Barnaby and Penelope. When the door shut behind Gearing, Stokes informed the guests, “Given the hour, we, too, will take our leave, but we’ll return tomorrow to commence interviews with each of you separately. At this time, you’re free to move about the estate as you wish.”
“But…” One of the older matrons looked confused. “Why do you need to speak with us? What can we possibly tell you?”
“As to that,” Penelope replied, “we won’t know until we ask our questions. We will want to learn what each of you saw ornoticed around the time of the murder, and the sooner we learn that, the sooner we’ll be able to clarify who killed Mr. Underhill.”
“Rest assured,” Barnaby said, “our sole purpose here is to identify Underhill’s killer.”
Stokes waited, but when no one responded, he inclined his head. “Until tomorrow.” With Barnaby and Penelope following, he turned and led the way to the door. Stokes opened the door and held it for Penelope to sail through. After Barnaby followed her into the hall, Stokes walked out and quietly shut the door behind him.
As he joined Barnaby and Penelope by the foot of the stairs, he arched his brows. “That went better than I’d anticipated.”
Penelope murmured, “It helped that Pamela had already declared her support.”
“Indeed.” Barnaby swung to face Gearing as the butler walked quickly toward them. “I believe we need to speak with her ladyship, Gearing. Will you show us up?”
As Penelope followed Gearing up the stairs and along a corridor, she rapidly reviewed all she knew of Lady Pamela Underhill. She and Barnaby and Pamela—and by extension, the late Monty, too—moved in similar, sometimes intersecting circles. Pamela had been born a Hurstbridge, and that family was as old as Barnaby’s and Penelope’s.
Given that, Penelope knew she would need to be on her mettle during the coming interview. She would need to guard against Pamela taking charge.
Gearing led them to a door toward the end of the central wing. He tapped on the panel, then, hearing a command to enter, opened the door and announced Barnaby, Penelope, and Stokes.
Penelope swept past, into a chamber wreathed in shadows. The curtains had been drawn against the westering sun, and the three occupants—Pamela, her daughter, Cecilia, and son,Vincent—were seated in the gloom on a sofa and in an armchair with their backs to what little light there was.
As Penelope approached, she saw that Pamela, who was sitting ramrod straight with her fingers tightly clenched in her lap in one corner of the sofa, flanked by Cecilia on the sofa and Vincent in the armchair, was already garbed in deepest mourning. Cecilia and Vincent, too, were in somber attire. However, the clothes were not in the latest fashion, suggesting the outfits had originally been acquired to honor an earlier death in the family.
Possibly the late marquess.
Pamela had never been even passably pretty. Of above-average height and gaunt, spare figure, she was hatchet-faced, with a mannishly square jaw and large, staring eyes. She wore her dark hair drawn back into a severe bun, an unflattering style that only rendered her unfortunate features even more starkly obvious.
Cecilia appeared to be a slightly softer version of Pamela, while Vincent, dark-haired and with features similar to his mother’s—although on him, those features weren’t such a negative—slouched in the armchair, exuding the studied ennui of an idle young gentleman about town.
Understandably, all three Underhills were staring in surprise at Penelope and Barnaby. Stokes, they’d expected, but not his assistants.
“Mrs. Adair?” Pamela blinked, then her slightly protuberant eyes shifted to Barnaby. “Mr. Adair.”
Recalling the need to remain in control, Penelope stated, “Barnaby and I are here at the request, indeed, the insistence of the Commissioner of Police. You will, no doubt, have heard that we occasionally assist Scotland Yard with cases involving members of the ton. As I’m sure you will appreciate, our backgrounds give us insights that, in general, policemen lack.”She softened her tone. “In the case of Mr. Underhill’s murder, the Commissioner wished to ensure the investigative team included the very best minds possible.”
As Penelope had expected, Pamela saw that as her and her family’s due and also drew some degree of reassurance from Penelope and Barnaby’s involvement. “I see.” Unbending from her rather rigid stance, Pamela gestured to the second sofa facing the one she occupied. As Barnaby and Penelope moved to sink onto the cushions, Pamela fixed her challenging gaze on Stokes.
Before she could haughtily inquire, Stokes half bowed and stated, “I’m Inspector Stokes, my lady. Mr. and Mrs. Adair and I have successfully worked on many cases involving the deaths of members of the ton.”
