The answer proved to be Lord Wincombe.
Barnaby had his lordship summoned and escorted him to the relevant chair.
Somewhere in his fifties, Lord Wincombe was a gentleman of average height and decent girth. A solid man tending portly, he was conservatively dressed, and his thinning brown-gray hair was combed over his balding pate. He settled somewhat fussily in the chair and was quick to tell them, “I’m here with m’wife, Georgina, and our niece, Harriet Cranton. Damned if I know why, but I’ve known Monty Underhill for decades and Pamela and Susan as well, so when the invitation arrived and Georgina saw it, she was all for pouncing on the opportunity to show off Harriet to the eligible young bucks, what?”
Barnaby knew his lordship as a hail-fellow-well-met sort who was devoted to foxhunting. On that subject, he was an acknowledged bore, but a harmless one. He was readily tolerated within ton circles but remained largely oblivious of much of what went on around him—not so much intentionally self-centered as blinkered.
In short order, Barnaby established that the Wincombes and Harriet arrived in their carriage in the late afternoon on Sunday.
When asked, Wincombe stated, “On Monday morning, I came down behind the gaggle of ladies at just after eight o’clock. Morland was heading down as well, and I joined him atthe table. Griffith was just leaving, and Percival followed soon after. Can’t remember which others were there. Morland and I had a comfortable meal, then headed here, to the library. The news sheets had been delivered, and Elliot, Morehouse, and Carrington were already settled and poring over them. Morland and I joined them—there were plenty of copies to go around.”
“Did you leave the library between then and the time you heard Miss Hemmings cry for help?” Stokes asked.
“No. And the others—Elliot, Morehouse, Carrington, and Morland—didn’t, either.”
“Did you notice anyone leaving the house or walking outside?” Barnaby asked.
Wincombe started to shake his head but stopped. “Only person I think left the house was Monty himself. He came in—must have been around nine or so—and chatted a bit, as a host does, making sure we were all comfortable. Then, he headed off—I think he said something about strolling out to check on some estate matter—so I assume he left the house, although I didn’t actually see him do so.”
“Thank you,” Stokes said. “That’s very clear.”
When Barnaby asked Wincombe for his view of Monty, they received a paean that, while at base the same as society’s widely held view of Underhill, was delivered in significantly more glowing terms. “An excellent chap all around, don’t you know? Sound fellow and a sad loss.”
With no real hope, Barnaby asked, “Do you have any idea why anyone might have wanted to kill him?”
“No! Not a clue.” Wincombe appeared entirely flummoxed, then he focused on Barnaby. “I say, it couldn’t have been an accident, could it? A case of mistaken identity—that sort of thing? I mean, it’s hard to wrap one’s head around the notion of some beggar who knew it was Monty walking up and cavinghis skull in.” Frowning, he shook his head. “That’s so strange. So very strange.”
Barnaby rose, thanked Wincombe, and showed him out.
Penelope watched until Barnaby turned back and looked at her inquiringly. “Lady Wincombe next.”
While they waited, Penelope expounded, “Her ladyship is in her late forties and is a longtime friend of Susan and also Pamela.”
“And”—Stokes consulted his notes—“she’s the other one who was scheduled to make a payment on Monday.”
Penelope nodded and rose as the door opened, and Lady Wincombe appeared.
Smiling, Penelope welcomed her ladyship and directed her to the interviewee’s chair.
Another established matron, her ladyship wore her light-brown hair drawn back in a neat bun, and her blue eyes and pleasant if unremarkable features signaled both curiosity and uncertainty in equal measure. As Lady Wincombe settled in the armchair, she confided to Penelope, “I’m not sure what to expect, my dear Mrs. Adair, so do, please, bear with me.”
Penelope considered her ladyship’s attitude to be rather revealing. Normally, Lady Wincombe was surer of herself, a trifle arrogant and also ready to ruffle her feathers and take offense at the least little thing. Indeed, normally, she was a touch snooty, just like her good friend Susan.
A reassuring smile on her face, Penelope commenced with their now-standard opening questions.
“Oh, we—Lionel, myself, and Harriet, our niece—arrived in our carriage on Sunday afternoon. And our principal reason for being here is to spend time with our friends, meaning the Goodriches and the Underhills.”
“On Monday morning, when did you come downstairs?” Penelope asked.
“Harriet and I came down with Susan and some others. I know what time Susan is liable to be heading for breakfast, and we time leaving our rooms accordingly.” Helpfully, she added, “Susan usually leaves her room at just after eight.”
“And after breakfast? Did you join the group in the morning room?” Penelope ingenuously inquired.
Lady Wincombe hesitated, then opted for the truth. “No. Truth to tell, I felt a trifle under the weather, so I went upstairs to my room, then I decided a quick stroll about the grounds would be more the thing to clear my head, so I went down again and out onto the terrace and so to the rear lawn.”
Without looking up from his notebook, Stokes asked, “In which direction did you walk?”
Lady Wincombe eyed him, then replied, “I walked out to the croquet green. I wasn’t looking for conversation and didn’t think there would be anyone out that way, and there wasn’t. I had the place to myself.”
