Seated in the armchair to Barnaby’s left, Stokes grunted. “I think when he followed us from his mother’s parlor, he overheard us discussing interviewing the guests. Regardless, he assumed that’s what we would do next, so he thought the way was clear to look in the study and see if—as he said—there was anything valuable he should remove. I don’t think his actions were more deeply thought out than that.”
Penelope grimaced. “He’s inexperienced and naive enough to think we might ‘take’ or ‘confiscate’ money or valuables.”
Barnaby nodded. “If we hadn’t gone straight to the study, the odds are good that he would have remembered the safe, opened it, and cleared it out.”
“And that would have thrown us for a loop.” Stokes sank deeper into the chair. “Lucky we found him before he had the chance.”
“And,” Penelope pointed out, “his surprise on learning the desk had been searched was, I think, utterly genuine. He wasn’t the searcher.”
“I agree,” Stokes said. “He’s not the searcher, but does that mean he’s not the murderer?”
“No,” Barnaby said. “But I suspect we’ll discover he isn’t the murderer, either. He showed no sign of harboring the sort of intense feelings toward his father that could have prompted a murder of this sort.” He looked at Penelope. “In fact, I would say that’s one of the more peculiar and puzzling aspects of this case. Apparently without exception, Monty Underhill was viewed as a pleasant, genial sort. Why anyone would feel strongly enough to bash in his skull is difficult to see.”
“Equally,” Penelope said, “the notion that Monty did something that incited such a murderous reaction from someone…well, that seems entirely out of character.” She lookedat Barnaby and Stokes. “We’ll have to hope that our interviews tomorrow shed some fresh and unexpected light on our victim.”
“Because”—Barnaby inclined his head—“if this isn’t a case of the archetypal demented passing vagrant striking out of the blue, then presumably, Monty had a falling-out with someone, and that someone murdered him because of it.”
“Before we start speculating about motive,” Stokes said, “returning to already known fact, namely the search, presumably clandestine, of Underhill’s study, when do we think that occurred?”
“I doubt it would have been before the murder,” Barnaby said. “The study was Monty’s private domain. Not only might he have walked in at any moment, but he would have spent time there each day. He would have noticed the place had been searched.”
“He would have taken away the safe’s key, if nothing else,” Penelope stated. “That said, the house party guests were under the Grange’s roof over Sunday night. The searcher could have searched during the night, and Monty might not have gone there before heading out to the orchard.”
“That will need to be one line of inquiry during the interviews,” Stokes said, “to establish Underhill’s movements this morning prior to the murder. But your theory suggests that the searcher—who, at this point, we’re inclined to believe is also the murderer—came to the house party intent on removing something Underhill had in his possession.”
Penelope tipped her head. “Or on learning something—perhaps some information—Monty had written down.”
Silence fell as they considered and weighed what they knew.
Eventually, Stokes stirred and looked at his coinvestigators. “So regarding our interviews, where do we start? What are we looking for or trying to learn?”
“Clearly,” Penelope said, “we need to learn more about Monty Underhill, and given the circumstances, with him just being murdered and in such grisly fashion, I suspect we’ll find people will be only too willing to fill us in on all his foibles, real, imagined, and suspected.”
Barnaby lightly grimaced. “What we, personally, know of him isn’t all that helpful.” He glanced at Penelope. “Monty was one of those who passed through ton life with a gentle smile and an amiable nature, leaving barely a ripple in his wake.”
Penelope inclined her head. “That’s an accurate description. I’ve never heard anyone disparage him in any way at all. As far as I know, he is—was—universally well-regarded.”
“Where does he hail from?” Stokes asked.
“Hertfordshire,” Barnaby replied. “The Underhills have been an established family in that county for centuries.”
“Deep connections, some land, but little cash?” Stokes ventured.
“Exactly.” Barnaby continued, “Monty was a member of White’s and moved in all the best circles of the ton’s upper echelon. He was received everywhere. Of note, however, is that his status derived entirely from his birth, his name, and his personality, not from Pamela’s wealth.”
“So that’s society’s view of him based on contact in social settings,” Penelope stated. “That isn’t to say that he wasn’t quite different in private.”
Barnaby inclined his head. “Or within the family, but with Pamela as his wife, I find the concept of Monty lording it over his roost difficult to believe.”
“Indeed.” Penelope added, “I think we can discount infidelity or even jealousy as a motive. This might have been a crime of passion but not of that sort.” She looked at Stokes. “As you saw, there was no passion in the Underhills’ marriage, and I really can’t see Pamela or Vincent, much less Cecilia, finding awandering eye sufficient reason to upset their social applecart.” She paused, then added, “It bears stressing that, despite Pamela being a marquess’s daughter, her social standing and that of Vincent and Cecilia are significantly underpinned by Monty’s.”
Barnaby elaborated, “With his background and his genial, hail-fellow-well-met personality, his acceptance was always absolute and unquestioned, and in large measure, that bolstered his wife’s and his children’s acceptability.”
“Many assume,” Penelope said, “that acceptance by the ton is guaranteed by birth. That birth alone will open all doors. But certainly, within the upper echelon—the haut ton—that’s not actually the case. Regardless of birth, if someone has an abrasive personality or significant character flaws—and Pamela has both—they are likely to find themselves ostracized. Not overtly so but through simply being ignored.” She looked at Stokes. “Cast your mind back to Prinny. He was a prime example. The haut ton deserted him, eventually despised him, and wanted nothing to do with him even though he was regent and, later, king.”
Stokes frowned. “I see.”
“With Pamela being a marquess’s daughter,” Barnaby said, “by birth, she and her children are unquestionably acceptable, but by character—hers, especially... That’s where Monty’s reputation and wide-ranging social acceptance came into play.”
