Barnaby rose and headed for the door.
Five minutes later, he greeted Kilpatrick and steered him to the central armchair facing the investigators’ chairs.
Kilpatrick presented as an affable gentleman in his mid-thirties, eligible by all accounts, and apparently, he owned the property beyond the eastern boundary of the Grange estate.
As Barnaby reclaimed his chair, he reassured Kilpatrick, “We’re posing the same questions to all the guests, purely to gain some sense of who was where and what was seen. In that vein, when did you arrive at the Grange?”
“I’m staying at home”—Kilpatrick nodded eastward—“at Kilpatrick Lodge next door. The easiest and fastest way here is across the fields, and generally, I walk over to join the company every morning, but on Sunday, I came across and arrived around four o’clock, in time for afternoon tea.”
Penelope smiled at Kilpatrick. “Is there any particular reason you chose to attend?”
Kilpatrick almost squirmed. “Well, for a start, Lady Pamela invited me, and I wanted to remain on good terms with her.” He colored faintly. “I suspect she needed me to make up her numbers, but”—lightly, he shrugged—“I’ll have to look for a wife one day, and these events of Lady Pamela’s aren’t a bad place to start.”
“Very true,” Barnaby acknowledged. “So, shifting to Monday morning, did you join the company here for breakfast?”
“No. I breakfasted at home. I spoke briefly with my steward, then sometime after nine-thirty, I started across the fields.”
Stokes looked up from his notebook. “You weren’t in the house at the time of the murder?”
“Between nine and ten o’clock,” Barnaby clarified.
Kilpatrick shook his head. “I must have been walking across the fields when it happened. When I arrived in the forecourt, the ladies were all clustered at the edge, looking toward the orchard. That’s when I realized something…dramatic had occurred.”
“While you were walking in, before you reached the forecourt, did you notice any other guests outside?” Stokes asked.
“No. No one.” Kilpatrick faintly grimaced. “But I wasn’t really looking, of course.”
Penelope leaned forward, claiming his attention. “You must have known Monty Underhill reasonably well. How would you describe him?”
Kilpatrick hesitated. When he eventually spoke, his reluctance was plain. “I admit I wasn’t his greatest supporter.”
“Oh?” Penelope opened her eyes wide. “Why was that?”
Kilpatrick pulled a face. “We—the two estates—had an ongoing dispute involving water rights. Underhill insisted on taking the matter to court, and he—or rather the Grange estate—had the wherewithal to hire a QC, and I didn’t, so that was that. They won the case.” Kilpatrick’s glum expression eloquentlyconveyed his feelings. “So now, if I want my orchards to survive the summer, I have to pay the Grange for water from the stream that runs between the properties.” After several seconds of pondering that outcome, he shrugged fatalistically. “Nothing I can do about that now, but obviously, Underhill wasn’t my favorite person.”
Despite his apparent acceptance, anger rippled beneath his words and shimmered behind his eyes.
Barnaby let a moment slide by, then asked, “Are you aware of any dispute Underhill had with any other neighbors?”
Kilpatrick thought, then shook his head.
“Do you know of any reason anyone would want to kill Underhill?” Barnaby asked.
Kilpatrick’s brows rose. “Clearly, someone felt they had sufficient reason, but it wasn’t me.” He paused, then went on, “Now Monty’s gone, I can hope, in time, that Vincent will see sense and agree to reinstate the old arrangement of equal water rights that our estates used to have.” Kilpatrick glanced at Barnaby. “Vincent and I have always got on. We share several pursuits, and we’re both members of the local hunt.”
Barnaby glanced at Stokes, then at Penelope, but both shook their heads. He looked at Kilpatrick. “Thank you.” Barnaby rose, and Kilpatrick did, too, and Barnaby accompanied him to the door.
After shutting the door, Barnaby returned to the armchairs.
Penelope met his eyes. “Kilpatrick remains a definite suspect, given he was supposedly walking outside at the time of the murder, and despite what he said, his disagreement with Monty might have been much more heated.”
“We’ve no idea how critical the water situation is to Kilpatrick’s holdings,” Stokes said. “However, while I agree he might have had means and opportunity as well as motive, isthat motive sufficient to have moved him to murder—specifically murder in the grip of a sudden eruption of rage?”
“I think, at present, that’s an open question,” Barnaby said. “Let’s leave Kilpatrick on our list for now and move on.” He looked at Penelope. “Who’s next?”
Penelope took point with Mrs. Hemmings, Rosalind and Regina’s mother. A neat matron—neatly gowned and neat of figure—in her late forties, she was of average height and build, very much average in appearance with brown hair and eyes and with a practical air that stated she was very clear as to her role in life, namely, to guide her two daughters into sound marriages.
“That, of course, my dear Mrs. Adair, is why we are here.” Mrs. Hemmings fixed Penelope with a direct look. “Mr. Percival’s aunt, Lady Kelly, is a dear friend of mine, and she and Lady Campbell-Carstairs felt that Rosalind would make Richard a perfect wife, and as we all knew the Hurstbridges, Lady Pamela was entirely amenable to helping us make the necessary introduction in the supportive setting of her house party.”
