“So,” Penelope prompted, “between nine and ten o’clock, you were…?”
“First in my room and then on the croquet green, or at least, going to it and returning. I felt much improved after walking around the green, and when I returned to the house, Harriet was waiting on the terrace. She and I then heard the scream and the ensuing brouhaha, and together, we walked into the house and spotted the other ladies making for the front door and joined them.”
“I see.” Penelope continued, “During your walk, did you notice anyone else—any other member of the company—also outside?”
“Well, from the croquet green, I spied Kilpatrick marching over the fields from next door. He was still some distance away when I turned back to the house. And of course, I met Harriet onthe terrace. Apparently, she’d seen me go off, and the dear girl had waited on the terrace to make sure I returned safely.”
Penelope made a mental note to check why Harriet had been so concerned for her aunt. “If you were asked to describe Monty Underhill, what would you say?”
Lady Wincombe’s expression cleared. “He was always such a pleasant, jovial sort. Anicegentleman, one might say. He seemed an undemanding sort of person, very easygoing and likeable.”
Bluntly, Penelope asked, “Do you know of any reason why anyone would want to kill him?”
The answer came immediately. “No. None at all.” Her ladyship’s gaze swept all three investigators. “I own to being quite bamboozled over why anyone would want to kill Monty, of all men, and indeed, in sympathy with Susan and Pamela, I’m really rather upset.”
Penelope exchanged a quick glance with Barnaby and Stokes, then returned her gaze to Lady Wincombe and, while watching her closely, stated, “In searching Monty’s study, we discovered a small book, hidden away, in which Monty had kept a record, one dating back several years, of what we’ve confirmed with others are payments made to him by people he was blackmailing.” Lady Wincombe’s eyes slowly widened as the meaning of those words sank in. Penelope continued, “All of his victims are members of the ton and include a large number of those who called him ‘friend.’ Including you.”
Lady Wincombe’s hands had drifted to the chair’s padded arms, and now, she gripped them tightly, as if she was trying to stop herself from leaping up. She stared in patent horror and disbelief at Penelope, then she moistened her lips and, faintly, said, “What?”
Then, every last vestige of color fled from her face, her eyes rolled up, and she slumped in the chair.
“Good Lord!” Stokes struggled to his feet.
Penelope had already leapt to hers, simultaneously ferreting in her reticule. She hauled out a small vial, tossed the reticule on her chair, and after uncapping the vial, waved the open end beneath Lady Wincombe’s nose.
Lady Wincombe frowned and snuffled, then weakly batted at Penelope’s hand.
Penelope retreated a step and, smelling salts still at the ready, watched her ladyship gradually revive.
Finally, Lady Wincombe’s blue eyes fluttered open, and she looked at Penelope and weakly smiled. “Oh, thank you, Mrs. Adair. Silly me!” She waved ineffectually as she struggled to sit upright again. “I thought you saidMontywas…” Her words faded, then abruptly, she refocused on Penelope’s face, and what little color she’d regained drained away. Eyes wide, her ladyship gasped, “Oh God! You did say that—that he was the blackmailer!”
Solemnly, Penelope nodded. “He was the person who was blackmailing you. Your name is in his book, along with the sums you paid him, as well as a notation that you were to pay him another thirty pounds on Monday.”
But Lady Wincombe was shaking her head. “Oh no, dear. It just can’t be. Surely not. NotMonty!”
Despite Penelope reiterating the evidence, Lady Wincombe continued to go around and around, apparently unable to accept that her friend’s husband—hernicegentleman—had been the one steadily milking cash from her.
In the end, Penelope showed her the page in Monty’s black book that related to her and her payments. Only then, as her gaze scanned the list of payments, did the ineradicable truth sink in and, finally, take hold.
“Dear God,” her ladyship whispered and slumped in the armchair again.
Penelope studied her for a moment longer, then, deciding the threat of fainting was past, subsided into her chair. Catching Stokes’s impatient look, she refocused on Lady Wincombe and stated, “You were due to make a payment on Monday.”
Her ladyship was recovering her composure, and as sometimes happened, having had her acumen and judgment regarding Monty’s character proved to be wildly wrong, she was growing angry. “Yes.” Her tone was now rather clipped. “As usual, I received a note delivered to the kitchen door of our London house last Thursday. The note stated that I was to place thirty pounds in an envelope and leave it in the cupboard beside the croquet green—the one holding the mallets and balls and hoops. I was to leave the payment by half past nine on Monday morning.”
Her features set, she looked at Penelope, then at Barnaby and Stokes. “It was always like that—a place that virtually anyone could get to—and from experience, I knew there was no point lying in wait and trying to see who picked it up. That never worked.”
Gently, Penelope said, “I fear we must ask—the notation beside your name indicates that an indiscretion was the basis for the blackmail. But I confess, I can’t quite see why, with your standing within the ton being so well-established, that the mere rumor of an affair would be so damaging that you felt compelled to pay to keep the matter concealed.”
Lady Wincombe grimaced, then said, “It’s because of Harriet.” She sighed. “I had a silly little fling several years ago, and just after that, Harriet’s parents—my dear sister and her husband—were killed in a dreadful carriage accident. I’d always promised my sister that if anything happened to them, I would look after Harriet and ensure she made a good match. So Harriet came to live with us, and I took it as my solemnly sworn duty tosteer dear Harriet—and she really is a dear, dear girl—through the shoals of society and ensure she makes an excellent match.”
Still puzzled, Penelope frowned. “And the threat of some illicit affair being made public would impact your ability to do that?”
Lady Wincombe sighed even more deeply. “The gentleman involved is much younger than I am, and at the time, he was recently wed himself, and on top of that, he’s viewed as …well, rather risqué. At least according to his reputation. Suffice it to say that the news wouldn’t have sat well with those into whose circles I needed to promote Harriet.” She paused, then added, “And the sums demanded were never so great I would balk at paying them. All in all, to me, paying was the easier option by far.”
Frowning, she went on, “My bigger concern was how the blackmailer learned of the incident. And it was just one incident. I could never understand it, and as you might imagine, that preyed on my mind.”
“Allow me to guess,” Penelope said. “Your fling occurred at Wyndham Castle.”
