“So what do you know about this gathering?” Stokes asked.
“It’s a regular event—a summer house party hosted by the Underhills at Patchcote Grange, with the primary focus being on introducing marriageable young ladies to suitable, eligible gentlemen.” Her gaze distant, Penelope paused, then refocused on Stokes. “And you might need to be aware that PatchcoteGrange—the house and attached estate, which is considerable—is owned by Lady Pamela.”
Stokes frowned. “Not Mr. Underhill?”
Penelope shook her head. “Lady Pamela is one of two daughters of the previous Marquess of Skeldon. Patchcote Grange was the property her father settled on her for her lifetime, and on her death, it will pass from her to her eldest son, Vincent Underhill.”
“Is that a common arrangement?” Stokes asked.
Again, Penelope shook her head. “However, when it comes to daughters of the nobility, it’s not without precedent. It ensures that the property, which was originally a part of the marquessate, ultimately passes to the marquess’s grandchildren and cannot be diverted via a spouse gaining control.”
“I see.” Stokes continued to frown, clearly working his way through the implications.
Helpfully, Barnaby confirmed, “Because of that, there’s no inheritance involved in Underhill’s murder. Whoever killed him, it wasn’t in order to inherit Patchcote Grange.”
Stokes grunted. “Well, that’s one motive less.” He eyed Barnaby and Penelope. “Regardless, the sooner we get down there the better, so when can you leave?”
Penelope volunteered, “Patchcote Grange is in Surrey, a stone’s throw south of Beddington Corner, so only about an hour away.”
“That close?” Stokes looked hopeful. “With any luck, we’ll be there by the afternoon.”
Barnaby had been exchanging a look with Penelope. He raised his brows. “Can we set off from here in half an hour?”
She beamed. “I can’t see why not.” She turned to Stokes. “So half an hour from now, and don’t be late.”
Stokes huffed and turned for the door.
After returning to the house and escorting Rosalind to the morning room, where her mother and all the other ladies had taken refuge to talk in hushed tones of the horror of the discovery, Richard had diverted to his room and dashed off two notes that he’d dispatched with his groom to be delivered poste-haste to London. Subsequently, he’d remained in his room, staring into space while trying to fix in his mind all he’d noticed in the orchard, before finally stirring and making for the library, where, predictably, the gentlemen had gathered. Most had helped themselves to tots of brandy from the tantalus. All appeared shaken, some more than others.
Sinking into a spare armchair close by the door, Richard noted that most of the men of the company were there. The sole exception was Vincent Underhill, whom Richard had glimpsed supporting his distraught sister upstairs. Vincent’s friends—Patterson and Fentiman—had joined the company at some point. Richard wondered if they’d been abed or somewhere else on the estate.
“Dreadful business,” the Earl of Leith quietly stated.
Lord Morland, standing with Leith a few feet away from the chair Richard occupied, took a healthy swig of brandy. “I gather there’s nothing much we can do until the magistrate gets here.”
Lord Wincombe walked up to the group. “Gearing said the local magistrate, Sir Henry Coutts, lives quite close, so hopefully, he’ll be able to get here soon.”
Richard noted that while it was plain every man there heartily wished Underhill had not had his head bashed in, as yet, none had voiced any opinion as to who had done the deed, much less why.
That, he had to admit, was hardly surprising. While without much thought, Richard could name any number of ton gentlemen that no one would be all that surprised to learn had been violently murdered by persons unknown, Monty Underhill definitely didn’t belong in that category.
Apparently, Morland was thinking along the same lines. His brow deeply furrowed, he ventured, “Can’t for the life of me imagine who would want to do that to Monty. Gentle soul, always helpful. Never a malicious bone in his body.”
Frowning, Wincombe nodded. “It’s certainly perplexing.”
“And potentially worrying,” Leith put in.
When the others, Richard included, looked questioningly at Leith, he shrugged. “It would be worrying indeed if the killing was some random act and Monty being the victim was simply a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Morland tipped his head in acknowledgment. “Possible, I suppose.”
Richard bit back the observation that murder victims were rarely so conveniently unconnected to their killers. Leith and Morland were merely putting words to the thoughts of most in the room. Indeed, possibly most in the house.
Gradually, the quiet conversations drifted to more normal subjects, such as the outcomes of recent race meets and sales at Tattersalls and the latest prize fight.
Time seemed to crawl as all there tried to distract themselves from the image of their host bludgeoned to death in his own orchard on a bright summer day.
Eventually, to everyone’s unvoiced relief, Gearing, the butler, appeared. Glancing around, Gearing spotted Leith and Richard and headed their way. He stopped beside Richard’s chair and bowed. “My lords. Mr. Percival. Lady Pamela has retired to her rooms, but she suggests the company should carry on with normal activities, at least until the authorities arrive. To thatend, I am here to inquire whether the gentlemen wish to partake of luncheon. The ladies have announced they will do so and have gathered in the drawing room. Lady Campbell-Carstairs dispatched me to alert you and invite you to join them.”
