“Exactly.”
Supporting her up the low steps to the front porch, equally cynically, Richard replied, “Betting against the ton’s rampant curiosity is a wager I would never take.”
Penelope Adair sat behind the desk in her garden parlor and doggedly slogged her way through the remarkably boring yet difficult translation she’d agreed to complete for the British Museum’s history department.
“For my money,” she muttered to herself, “this is one scroll that could have vanished beneath the sands with no one the poorer.”
But she’d agreed to do it, so she would.
The knowledge that this would be her last project before August and the family’s regular summer excursions to visit her sisters at their homes and then Barnaby’s family at Cothelstone Castle helped to keep her focused on the arduous, not to say mind-numbing, task.
Finally—finally!—she reached the last page, the last line, the last character.
“There!” Triumphantly, she blotted her last line, read it over to make sure she hadn’t made any mistake, then sat straight in her chair and set aside her pen. “Wonderful!”
“And you haven’t even heard the news yet.” Barnaby walked in, a letter in his hand, a smile on his face, and an intrigued expression in his blue eyes.
Penelope opened her eyes wide. “What’s happened?”
Advancing, Barnaby waved the missive. “Monty Underhill’s been killed, and Percival is there, at Patchcote Grange, attending a house party, and he’s written to beg us to come down and help Scotland Yard investigate.”
“Have they been notified?” Penelope held out her hand for the letter, and Barnaby handed it over.
“Richard says he sent for Stokes directly.” Barnaby paused while she read, then asked, “How’s the scroll going? Can you manage a few days away?”
Having perused Richard’s scant and uninformative few lines, Penelope looked up and beamed. “I’ve finished! That’s what I was celebrating when you walked in.”
“Excellent.” Barnaby grinned back.
Penelope glanced again at the letter. “A house party at Patchcote Grange. That’s Pamela’s regular event, which is always devoted, first to last, to matchmaking. Especially now that her daughter has made her come-out and her nieces, Susan’s two, have as well. And Richard’s there?” Dark eyes gleaming, she looked at Barnaby. “Well, well…”
Trying to hide his smile, Barnaby shook his head at her. “I expect it’s his host’s murder that Percival wants our help with, not his love life.”
Penelope pushed back from the desk. “I can’t see why he shouldn’t have the benefit of our expertise on both fronts.”
As she rose from her chair, the doorbell pealed. She met Barnaby’s eyes and arched her brows. “I wonder…”
Barnaby waved her on, and letter still in hand, she led the way along the corridor to the front hall.
Sure enough, Stokes had arrived.
He looked up as she and Barnaby neared. “Have you heard?”
Penelope waved Richard’s letter. “That Monty Underhill’s been murdered? Just now. And yes, we’re free.”
Stokes blew out a breath. “Good. Because I’ve been instructed that in light of the personages involved, your assistance is highly recommended. Indeed, the Commissioner’s tone suggested that he considered your inclusion in the investigative team all but mandatory.”
“In this case,” Barnaby said, “the Commissioner’s instincts are sound. I can guarantee that some there will be only too keen to quash any investigation.”
“And that’s regardless of whether they have anything at all to hide,” Penelope added. “For some, keeping the police at bay is still second nature—an ingrained habit.”
Stokes huffed. “So we’ll have our work cut out for us.”
“At least,” Barnaby said, indicating the letter with a tip of his head, “Percival is there.”
“True,” Stokes said. “That means we’ve at least one pair of reliable eyes and ears among the company.”
“I suspect his aunts will be there, too,” Penelope said. “Lady Campbell-Carstairs and Lady Kelly. Both are old, but they’re observant and will know more than I about many of the guests. The ladies, at least.”
