“From the first,” Penelope stated, “that’s what he brought to the marriage. An excellent pedigree and a universally liked and respected character and a steady, appealing personality.”
“All right.” Stokes nodded. “I think I understand. So unless we find firm evidence to the contrary, we’re not imagining this to be a murder committed by one of the immediate family.”
“At this point,” Barnaby said, “we know how Monty was killed, where he was killed, and we have a defined window of time for when. What we have no clue about is why.”
Looking at Stokes, Barnaby added, “Monty truly was the most jovial, gregarious, and utterly innocuous sort. There was nothing at all that made him stand out, let alone that might incite the degree of animosity that would goad someone into bashing in his skull with an iron stake.”
“Hmm.” Penelope frowned. “We haven’t yet learned why he was in the orchard and, possibly, looking into that hollow in the tree.”
“True.” Stokes pulled out his notebook. “We also need to follow up with Morgan about the stake. Hopefully, the gardeners can help us with that. If we can learn where it came from, that might give us a clue as to who the murderer might be. Or at least, where the murderer was prior to committing the murder.”
“I can’t see any of the guests walking around carrying an iron stake,” Barnaby said. “Presumably, the murderer picked it up from somewhere nearby.”
“That,” Penelope said, “suggests the murder was not premeditated. That the murderer saw Monty out walking and, for some reason, decided to seize the opportunity and kill him. The killer didn’t plan to use the stake—I doubt anyone planning a murder would. The stake was simply the weapon the killer found to hand.”
Both Barnaby and Stokes frowned as they considered that insight.
Still frowning, Barnaby said, “Seeing an opportunity and grasping it suggests that the underlying reason the murderer killed Monty existed prior to that moment. And as, presumably, everyone was together throughout the previous evening, and as yet, no one has mentioned any altercation or falling out over that time… If, in our interviews, we don’t hear of any recent disagreement that occurred on Sunday or this morning, that will imply that the motive behind the murder existed before the murderer came to Patchcote Grange.”
Also frowning as they followed that logic, neither Penelope nor Stokes disagreed.
After a long moment, Penelope ventured, “That’s confusing. I agree that, barring any evidence of some recent altercation, it seems the motive must have already existed, yet whatever triggered the killer to act in what appears to be an impulsive, opportunistic way, that trigger had to be something unexpected. Something that happened this morning.” She looked at Barnaby and Stokes and firmly stated, “This murder wasn’t—couldn’t have been—premeditated. Ergo, the murderer didn’t expect to kill Monty this morning.”
Neither man argued.
Eventually, Stokes glanced at his notes, then shut the book and tucked it away. “Given we’re keeping the guests at the house, we’ll need to do as they expect and work our way through interviewing them all.” He looked at Penelope. “How many are on that list?”
“There were thirty attendees, all told,” Barnaby said, “including Monty and the three other Underhills.”
“And Pamela’s sister, Susan Goodrich, and her two daughters—Monty’s nieces—are also in that number,” Penelope said.
Stokes sighed. “So twenty-six guests to interview, including the Goodriches and Percival.”
“I think we need to interview Vincent and Cecilia Underhill separately as well,” Penelope put in. “Who knows what insights into their father’s character or activities they might have?”
Barnaby met Stokes’s long-suffering gaze and faintly smiled. “That’s twenty-nine interviews if we include Pamela as well, and for completeness’s sake, that might be wise.”
“No help for it,” Penelope stated bracingly. “We’ll need to interview each and every one, because, for my money, no matter how unlikely it seems at first glance, someone in that group is almost certainly the killer.”
Stokes huffed. “Unless, of course, we find some sighting of a demented vagrant.”
Lips twitching, Penelope shook her head. “In all our cases, we’ve yet to come across one of those.”
“And so, for us,” Barnaby wryly said, “that means tomorrow will be one long day of interviews.”
“And, I warn you,” Penelope added, “some if not several will try our patience.”
The following morning at nine o’clock, Barnaby trailed Penelope and Stokes as the pair strode into Patchcote Grange.
As was customary at country houses hosting summer house parties, the front doors had been propped wide, and Penelope marched through and down the long hall, inclining her head graciously to the footman who, alerted by their footsteps, came hurrying to see if anything was required.
“We’ll be in the study,” Stokes informed the footman and followed Penelope down the corridor leading to that room.
Barnaby brought up the rear, quietly amused at his wife’s determination. She’d won an argument to get them there at that hour, which was too early to commence their interviews.
A hum of muted conversation drifted from where he imagined the dining room would be. Luckily, the study lay in the opposite wing.
Speaking over her shoulder, Penelope reiterated, “I know we think the murderer already searched and, presumably, removed anything incriminating, but that’s an assumption. What if they didn’t find what they were after? He or she must have had limited time, even if they’d searched by lamplight during Sunday night. And regardless, you must admit there’s a decent chancethat, even if they did find something and take it away, there might be something else still there. Something that will shed light on why Monty—of all men—was murdered.”
