Penelope shifted her attention to Cecilia. “Do you know of any reason anyone might have wished your father ill?”
Cecilia’s frown held a sullen quality. “No. I can’t think why anyone would have killed Papa.” The impression she gave was that she felt it was a personal affront that anyone had dared. She added, “He was just Papa. He never gave anyone cause to dislike him.”
Penelope glanced at Barnaby.
Correctly interpreting her look, he turned his gaze to Vincent. “Did your father ever confide any difficulties he had to you? Any arguments with other gentlemen in the ton?”
Vincent looked less certain than his sister, but even he said, “Papa wasn’t really one to have arguments.” He paused, then said, “I often wondered if, beyond what he did day to day, much mattered to him at all.” Vincent met Barnaby’s gaze. “And if nothing matters, there’s little reason to bestir oneself over anything, is there?”
That, Penelope thought, was an interesting observation.
She listened as Barnaby drew Vincent out regarding his own aspirations. It quickly became clear that Vincent saw himself as entitled to whatever he wanted of life, and he was obviously spoilt by his mother, but throughout, Penelope caught no hint that Vincent had any issue with nor harbored any animosity toward his father.
Indeed, all three had painted Monty Underhill as an uncomplicated and accepted constant in their lives.
When Barnaby smoothly yielded the investigative stage to her, Penelope refocused on Pamela and, once again hoping that lady’s renowned frankness would come to her aid, said, “I believe you’re the actual owner of Patchcote Grange, the house and estate, and also of the funds with which the property was endowed.”
Pamela curtly nodded. “Indeed. I keep a very tight rein on the total expenses, but Monty—as Vincent alluded to—handled all the day-to-day disbursements.”
“So he acted essentially as your agent?” Penelope asked.
“Yes.” Pamela’s lips tightened. “I suppose one might say that.”
Penelope glanced at Stokes, who had done his best to fade into the background. He met her gaze and fractionally shook his head.
Pamela had followed the interaction and now pounced. “What I would like to know is how long you imagine this investigation will take and what, if any, disruption it will causefor our guests.” She fixed her large eyes on Penelope. “I do not want our guests subjected to any distressing experience. I appeal to your insights, Mrs. Adair, Mr. Adair, to ensure that is the case.”
Barnaby inclined his head. “We will do our utmost to ensure that no guests, or indeed, anyone else, is inconvenienced more than is absolutely necessary. That said, our primary task here is to identify and take up your husband’s murderer.”
Pamela dipped her head. “Of course. Nevertheless, I cannot imagine that Monty would wish any search for his murderer to cause additional harm to our family.” She focused on Penelope. “Mrs. Adair, with your experience of such cases, what is the ton’s reaction to Monty’s death and the manner of it likely to be?”
Will it harm my standing and that of my children and family more broadly?
Penelope heard the unvoiced query clearly. Suppressing her reaction to the implications of the question, she answered factually. “At this point, most of the ton will have yet to hear of the murder. By the time they do, depending on how cooperative people are, we would hope to have already closed the case, and then the matter will largely feature as old news. A happening to be noted, but of little ongoing interest. The ton, as you know, will always move on to the latest titillating news.”
Digesting that, Pamela nodded. “I see.”
Stokes stirred and offered, “Your guests will only be asked to account for their movements and what they know of your late husband’s movements over the hours before he was killed. It’s unlikely we’ll need to know more than that.”
Barnaby added, “Finding the murderer as quickly as possible will be in everyone’s interest, and collating the guests’ recollections of Monty’s movements will be key to that.”
“For instance,” Stokes said, “regarding why he was in the orchard this morning, was Mr. Underhill a birdwatcher? Was he interested in birds?”
All three Underhills looked mystified.
“No,” Vincent said. “He had no interest in birds.”
“He might just have wandered out to the orchard,” Cecilia offered. “No real reason, just to take the air.”
Stokes inclined his head. “Maybe so.”
“On the question of guests,” Penelope said, “do you have a list we might borrow? It will save us from having to ask everyone’s names.”
“Yes, of course.” Pamela sent Cecilia to a writing desk across the room. “In the top right-hand pigeonhole.”
Cecilia returned with a sheet of paper and, at her mother’s nod, handed it to Penelope before returning to the sofa.
Penelope scanned the list. “I see.” There were twenty-three names plus the family, which included Susan and her two daughters. “If I may…” Quickly, she asked, guessed, and ultimately received confirmation of why each guest had been invited. As they’d already learned, the primary purpose of the house party was to facilitate suitable matches by introducing eligible gentlemen to the selected young ladies—all daughters of the family or of close connections or friends.
