Morland blinked. “On Sunday. Came down in my carriage. Must have got here about four.”
“Other than socializing,” Barnaby asked, “was there any purpose you hoped to achieve during your stay?”
Morland frowned. “Purpose? No.” He grew slightly agitated and shot a glance at Penelope. “Well, I was invited, and I’ve been here before. Know the family quite well. And it’s the sort of thing one does during summer, isn’t it?”
There’s something there. He did have some purpose in coming down here.Barnaby inclined his head. “Turning to Monday morning, when did you come downstairs?”
Morland looked relieved at being asked a simple question. “I came down about eight o’clock and breakfasted with the other gentlemen I found at the table.”
“And after that?”
“I came in here to read the news sheets.”
“When did you leave?” Barnaby asked.
“After we heard the scream.” Clearly remembering, Morland paled. “There was a group of us here by then. Sitting about, reading, and making the occasional comment. We heard the scream, and an instant later, Percival thundered past the doorway toward the front door. We shook off our shock and followed him.”
“I see. At any time that morning up to the moment you heard the scream, did you happen to notice anyone leaving the house?”
Morland hesitated, then said, “I assume Monty left, although I didn’t actually see him step outside. He wandered in, didthe rounds like the good host he was, seeing that we were all comfortable.”
“When was that?” Stokes murmured.
Morland frowned. “Not sure. Sometime around nine?” He paused, then went on, “He chatted with us about the latest in the news sheets, then he said he was off for a ramble to check on something—he didn’t say what.” Morland sighed. “And off he went. He went out of the door and turned toward the front of the house…and that’s the last I saw of him until the orchard…” Morland broke off and swallowed.
Barnaby let a second pass before asking, “How would you describe Underhill? How did he strike you?”
Morland instantly replied, “He was a good sort. You might say ‘chummy.’ We’ve known each other for decades, moved in similar circles all our lives…” He paused, then went on, “I would say he was a friend, but really, we weren’t that close. Not personally. More like long-term social acquaintances. We were comfortable in each other’s company, and he was an easy man to like and get along with.”
When Morland returned Barnaby’s gaze steadily and offered nothing more, Barnaby moved on. “Do you know of any reason someone would want to kill him?”
“No.” Morland’s perplexed expression testified to that being the truth. “Indeed, that he has been killed in such a vicious way is quite shocking. What is the world coming to?”
Barnaby glanced at Penelope. Accepting the cue, she gently said, “As it happens, we have reason to believe that Monty had something of a history as a blackmailer.”
“What?” The incredulity reflected in Morland’s face could not have been manufactured. He stared at Penelope. “No. No…youmustbe mistaken.” The color slowly drained from his face as he grasped the personal implication. “Surely not.” The last words were a whisper.
Penelope drew out the little black book. “We found this hidden in Monty’s study.” She opened the book, flicked through several pages, then read, “Under your name are listed several dates, starting just over three years ago. The most recent is May fifteenth this year. Against that date, Monty—this is all written in his hand—has noted the sum of fifty pounds.”
Morland was white as a sheet. “Dear God.”
From his expression, he was reviewing the past, starting to piece together some sequence of events. As he only grew more aghast, it seemed that nothing he saw in his mental landscape contradicted the notion of Monty as his blackmailer.
Her voice low, Penelope said, “We apologize, but we do need to inquire further. The notation Monty has placed beside your name isI, which we believe denotes ‘infidelity.’”
As if in a daze, Morland choked out, “My wife, Cynthia, died five—no, six years ago, but she was ill for years before.” Morland swallowed and went on, his own voice lowering, “During that time, I…commenced a liaison with another lady. She’s married, too, so we were very discreet.” He grimaced. “Or so we thought. But somehow, the blackmailer—he found out.” Morland’s features started to firm, along with his voice. “He threatened to reveal the affair to my children as well as the lady’s husband and family. But worse”—Morland refocused quite fiercely on Penelope—“he said he would make it sound as if the affair led me to do away with Cynthia. But I loved Cynthia—she was the love of my life—yet she was fading before my eyes and I…sought comfort in the arms of someone who understood, but he made it sound so tawdry. He swore that if I didn’t pay, what he would reveal would make it certain that I was accused of murdering Cynthia!” He stared at Penelope. “And it wasMonty?”
Abruptly clutching his head with both hands, he leaned forward. “I can’t believe it!” He shook his head, but then stilled and, a moment later, more quietly said, “And yet…”
When he didn’t continue, Penelope suggested, “Monty being the blackmailer fits?”
Head still between his hands, Morland nodded. “Looking back…yes, that fits.”
Penelope glanced at the book, still open in her hands. “According to his record, you paid Monty ten times over the past three years.”
Morland nodded. Releasing his head, he straightened. His expression suggested the revelation of his blackmailer’s identity had rocked him to the core. “The alternative was simply too horrible to contemplate, and the amounts were never too much to manage.” His lip curled. “Monty would have known how much I could withstand without being too hard-pressed.”
Evenly, Stokes said, “Can you tell us how you made those payments? Perhaps the last few?”
