“Well!” Penelope grinned at Barnaby as he returned to his armchair. “He was a bit of light relief.”
Barnaby replied, “You would have encouraged him to tell us all about Egypt. But regardless, who’s next?”
Penelope consulted her list. “It was supposed to be Rosalind, but we’ve already spoken with her, so we may as well move on to Nevin-Smythe.”
Stokes got up and went to the door to send the footman to fetch Nevin-Smythe.
On returning to the chairs, Stokes asked, “What do I need to know about this one?”
Penelope grimaced and looked at Barnaby. “Other than him being another of Monty’s victims, albeit not one scheduled to make a payment while here, I know very little about him.”
“He’s another thirtyish eligible bachelor,” Barnaby said. “He belongs to the right clubs, moves in the right circles, and styles himself as a bit of a dandy. Good family. Nothing adverse known about him.”
“Except for the cheating Monty was blackmailing him over.” Stokes sank into his chair. “Let me take the lead on this one—I’m feeling left out.”
Barnaby and Penelope grinned, and when the door opened and Nevin-Smythe was shown in, Stokes rose, greeted him, and waved him to the armchair set before them.
Nevin-Smythe clearly fancied himself quite the dandy. His hair was coiffed and pomaded, his coat, in a solid shade of purple, bore large mother-of-pearl buttons, and his spotted-silk cravat ballooned about his chin before disappearing into the top of his silver-and-gray-striped waistcoat. He was quite an eye-catching sight as he glided forward, bowed with a flourish to Penelope, then with studied grace, inclined his head to Barnaby and Stokes before subsiding—elegantly—into the designated armchair.
Stokes began by stating, “We’re asking the same questions of all the guests. To begin with, please tell us when you arrived at the Grange.”
“I drove myself down on Sunday and arrived a bit latish—a little after five, I should think.”
“And you’re here because…?”
Nevin-Smythe hesitated, then admitted, “I believe I have to settle down soon, or so my sisters tell me. They’re older than I am and arranged the invitation through parental connections with the Hurstbridges, so I’m here to cast my eye over the young ladies paraded before me and the other eligible bachelors present.” He lightly shrugged. “That’s what house parties like this are for, after all.”
Stokes nodded in acceptance, then asked, “On Monday morning, at what time did you come downstairs?”
“Late. At events such as this, one must be either hideously early or inconsiderately late to have any chance of eating one’s breakfast in peace, and I’m not an early riser. I came down just before nine o’clock. The others had all left by then, and I grabbed a cup of coffee and a piece of toast and left the staff to clear the board. When I left the dining room, I heard balls clinking from the billiards room—the sound called to me, and I headed that way. Griffith was there, and we amused ourselves by playing a few games.”
“So,” Stokes clarified, “between nine and ten o’clock, you were in the dining room briefly, then in the billiards room with Griffith.”
“Yes.”
“From the time you came downstairs to the time you heard Miss Hemmings scream, did you see anyone else leave the house or notice anyone walking outside?”
“As I left the dining room, I saw Underhill on his way out through the open front door.” Nevin-Smythe paused, then evenly continued, “I suppose that might make me the last of the company to have seen him alive—except for his murderer, of course. Oh, and I saw the two old ladies—Lady Campbell-Carstairs and Lady Kelly—coming down the stairs as I crossed the front hall. I bowed to them, and I know they saw me.”
“They did,” Stokes confirmed. “And I gather neither you nor Griffith left the billiards room until after you heard the scream.”
“That’s correct. We heard someone rush down the last stairs and race outside—apparently, that was Percival—so we put up our cues and went to see what was happening.”
Smoothly, Stokes continued, “How did you view Monty Underhill?”
Nevin-Smythe blinked, then rather carefully said, “I didn’t know him all that well. As I said, the family connection is with the Hurstbridges—Pamela and Susan’s family. I’ve only visited here once before, but I’ve often stayed at the marquess’s principal seat at Wyndham Castle.” He paused, then more airily added, “Truth be told, I hadn’t really thought about Monty that much. He was of an older generation, and what little I saw of him painted him as a genial character, helpful and, overall, rather harmless.”
Stokes arched a black brow. “So you have no idea who might have wanted to end his life?”
“Not a clue. I really have no notion of why anyone would want to bop him over the head.”
Stokes paused, regarding Nevin-Smythe steadily. To his credit, the man didn’t squirm, although a wary look entered his eyes. After a lengthy moment, Stokes said, “We now know that Monty Underhill was a blackmailer.”
Nevin-Smythe’s already pale faced blanched further. “What?” he whispered.
Inexorably, Stokes went on, “His victims were members of the ton, and according to the record he kept of those victims and the payments he demanded and that they paid, you were one of those victims.”
Patently utterly dumbfounded, Nevin-Smythe just stared.
