Head tilted, Penelope murmured, “What are the chances that, during his lengthy career in the ton, Monty had stumbled upon such a secret?”
“If he was in the habit of seeking to learn others’ secrets,” Barnaby said, “as we now know he was, then given the circles in which he moved, I’d say the chances were high.”
All pondered that insight for a moment, then Stokes shut his notebook and nodded to Richard. “That’s it for you.”
Richard rose, and Penelope rapidly consulted her list, then looked at Richard and smiled. “If you could send in your aunt Agatha, that would be a great help.”
Richard’s smile turned wryly cynical. “I’m sure she’ll be delighted to oblige.”
Penelope was unsurprised when, mere moments after Richard had left, Agatha, Lady Campbell-Carstairs, stumped into the room. She leaned on her cane as she surveyed the space, then she saw them, waved, and came slowly toward them.
Barnaby and Stokes rose, and smiling, Penelope went to help the old lady to the interviewee’s armchair.
Agatha was of the older generation; she wouldn’t see sixty again. She had a soft, round figure and a soft-featured face, but there was a shrewdness in her still-blue eyes that suggested a sharp mind resided behind them. With steel-gray hair drawn back in a loose bun and a paisley shawl draped about her shoulders, she accepted Penelope’s assistance with a grateful nod and sank into the chair with a sigh.
As the others sat, Agatha declared, “I’m happy to tell you whatever I know about this incident, which is blessedly little, and I’m itchingly keen to learn what on earth Monty did to get himself killed.”
She folded her hands over the top of her cane and looked at them expectantly.
Seated opposite and thus directly in the line of fire, Penelope explained, “We’re asking everyone about their whereabouts on Monday morning, but first, could you tell us when you arrived at the Grange?”
Agatha waved. “Didn’t Richard say? We came down with him in his carriage on Sunday. Arrived about three o’clock.”
“And you’re here in order to…?”
“Prod Richard into looking properly at Rosalind Hemmings with a view to offering for her hand. She’ll make him an excellent wife, but steering a gentleman like my nephew is no mean feat.”
“Indeed.” Penelope caught a warning look from Stokes and reluctantly continued with their agreed questions. “On Monday morning, at what time did you come downstairs?”
“We—m’sister Miriam and I—had breakfast together in our room. We came downstairs at about nine and joined the other ladies in the morning room.”
“And from then to ten o’clock?”
“You mean when Rosalind screamed?” When Penelope nodded, Agatha went on, “We were sitting and chatting, as you might expect.”
“Did you notice if anyone left the house that morning, before the scream?”
“Monty—he was going out through the front door as Miriam and I came down the stairs. Oh, and that popinjay, Nevin-Smythe, came out of the dining room, crossed the hall before the stairs, nodded to us, then walked on down the other corridor. Probably to the billiards room. We could hear balls clacking.” Agatha paused, then went on, “And after we’d joined the company in the morning room, Susan went out to take a walk in the garden.”
Penelope was pleased to have gained information they hadn’t previously had. After sharing a quick glance with Barnaby and Stokes, she fixed her gaze on Agatha’s lined face. “Now, if someone who didn’t know him asked, how would you describe Monty?”
Agatha frowned. “I expect in the same way all in society who knew him would. He was always pleasant, even-tempered to afault, quite gregarious and jovial, and in general, an all-around good sort. I’ve never heard anyone say a bad word about him, and despite his and Pamela’s marriage being arranged, he and she have made a good match of it.” Her expression growing troubled, she shook her head. “It’s most unsettling to think that a man as decent as he could meet with such a violent end.”
“So you have no idea why anyone would want to kill him?” Penelope asked.
“None whatsoever, and I’m very puzzled by that.” Leaning on her cane, Agatha met Penelope’s eyes, then glanced at Barnaby. “As you no doubt know, within our circle, when deaths like this happen, there’s almost always a story behind it. One already known. Some hint of bad blood between victim and killer, that sort of thing. But with Monty”—she shrugged—“there’s nothing. Not a glimmer of enmity or hostility, not even the veriest whisper of scandal.” Agatha leveled her shrewd, rather penetrating gaze on Penelope. “At least as far as I’ve heard.”
Ignoring the invitation to share what she knew, Penelope smiled and rose. “I have to agree. Until Monty wound up dead, I had no idea that anyone at all wished him ill.”
She helped Agatha to the door, then dispatched the footman, now on duty outside the room, to fetch Lord Morland.
For Morland, the first of Monty’s victims to be questioned, Barnaby switched places with Penelope so that when Morland arrived and claimed the interviewee’s chair, Barnaby was seated directly opposite.
Morland was in his late forties, a tall, broad-chested, physically imposing man with an unexpectedly nervous disposition that prompted him to do his best to fade into any background. He had a bumbling, blundering way about him, displayed in both manner and movement, and he was patently thrown off balance by the current circumstances, unsure of himself and plainly wondering what he should do and say.
He sat almost tentatively in the armchair and pressed his palms to his thighs.
Barnaby smiled reassuringly. “We’re trying to get a sense of where people were at the time of Underhill’s death, but to start with, can you confirm when you arrived at the Grange?”
