When Stokes simply stared back, waiting, Nevin-Smythe moistened his lips, then he blinked and shook his head. “No. It can’t be…” His gaze went to Barnaby, then Penelope. When they looked steadily back and volunteered nothing, he returned his gaze to Stokes. “Monty? It was him?”
Stokes nodded. “It seems he believed you cheated in some fashion, and as you’ve been meeting his demands in order to buy his silence for rather more than a year, it seems you believe you cheated, too.”
Still staring at Stokes, slowly, Nevin-Smythe nodded. “I did, God help me.” His jaw set, then he blurted, “I only did it once! It was a card game, and I thought I had the winning hand and got in too deep, and I knew I couldn’t afford to just up and walk away. I couldn’t pay, so I had to recoup, and I cheated on one hand. Just one!”
From his expression, Nevin-Smythe had regretted that transgression for the past year and more.
Deflating, he shook his head. “Just once—and I paid for it. Again and again.”
“Where was this card game?” Penelope inquired.
Nevin-Smythe looked at her blankly, then he refocused and uttered a harsh laugh. “At Wyndham Castle. At a major ball. And yes, Monty was there, in the card room, moving around the tables. He must have seen…”
Stokes arched a brow at Penelope and Barnaby, but both shook their heads.
Nevin-Smythe looked like he’d bitten into a sour lime. Stokes considered him for a moment, then said, “Please keep the news of Underhill’s illicit activities under your hat. Not least because if you do, no one else will ever know of your own slip from grace.”
“As matters stand,” Barnaby said, “you won’t be hearing from your blackmailer ever again.”
Nevin-Smythe stared back for a moment, then nodded. “I won’t breathe a word.”
After the door closed behind him, Penelope sent the footman to summon Cecilia Underhill.
Penelope had wondered if the girl would be sufficiently recovered for them to question, but when Cecilia took her seat before them, Penelope was relieved to see that determination was etched in every line of Cecilia’s rather plain face.
In her early twenties, Cecilia appeared less sulky than when they’d first spoken with her. Less arrogant, perhaps,now the reality of her father’s murder had sunk in. Although she remained subdued, and her light-brown hair appeared lackluster and brittle and her features were drawn, there was enough awareness in her blue eyes to suggest that, normally, she was rather livelier.
Once Cecilia had settled, Penelope commenced by confirming that Cecilia had arrived at the Grange with her parents some weeks before, then gently inquired what hopes Cecilia had had of the house party.
From her expression, it was plain that Cecilia debated whether or not to answer truthfully, then she lightly shrugged and said, “I was hoping to forge an understanding with Lord Griffith or Mr. Elliot. Mama and Papa favored Mr. Elliot, but Lord Griffith is much more entertaining.” She paused and tipped her head. “On the other hand, after a time, ‘entertaining’ might wear thin.”
Penelope was quietly impressed by that unexpected sign of deeper thought and continued with her next question.
“I came downstairs with Mama,” Cecilia said, “at a bit before eight o’clock. Mama makes a point of being early on the first morning of a house party so she can make sure all is running smoothly and all the guests—well, the female ones—have rested well. After breakfast, I went with Alison, Enid, and Samantha to the conservatory. We wanted to chat without our mamas being able to hear, but when we reached the conservatory, we saw Lady Carville was already there, so we went to the music room.”
“Did you see anyone leave the house or notice anyone walking outside?” Penelope asked.
Cecilia shook her head. “I didn’t see anyone venture outside.”
Penelope paused, wondering at the wisdom of voicing their next question, but in the end, she asked, “How did you view your father?”
Cecilia straightened. “Papa was always a good sort—about everything. He balanced Mama, if you know what I mean. It wasn’t that he wasn’t strict, but he wasn’t unreasonable about it.”
“Do you know of any reason anyone would want to kill him?”
“No. None.” Cecilia’s features crumpled, and her lips quivered. “Truly, I can’t believe he’s gone.”
Her last word was a faint wail. Before she could dissolve into tears, Penelope stood and rather bracingly said, “Thank you.” She drew the now-wilting girl to her feet and helped her from the room.
Penelope was relieved to find Alison Waterhouse waiting in the hall and gratefully handed Cecilia into her friend’s care.
Returning to Barnaby and Stokes, Penelope blew out a breath. “Phew! That was close.”
“I thought she did well to remain so composed,” Stokes said.
“She wants us to find who killed her father,” Penelope said.
Barnaby sighed. “We all want to solve that mystery, but frankly, my head is spinning with all the details we’ve heard.”
