Pamela rose from the chaise on which she’d been sitting, and as the ranking nobleman, Leith went forward to offer her his arm.
While the procession of couples to the dining room vaguely accorded with accepted precedence, allowances were made to foster the chance of the hoped-for understandings. Consequently, Richard was left to escort Rosalind to the table, and they were encouraged by all to claim chairs side by side, not quite halfway down the long board.
As Rosalind sat and Richard pushed in her chair, he saw her gaze track to where Regina, who had come in on Nevin-Smythe’sarm, was being seated farther down the table amongst the other younger guests.
Richard claimed the chair on Rosalind’s right and sat. The soup course promptly arrived and was consumed in relative silence, with only the occasional murmur breaking what was an almost-awkward moment. As plates were cleared and platters brought out and the courses progressed, frankly assessing glances were cast up and down the table. It seemed their interviews with the investigators had focused many of those present on the sequence of events that must have occurred, thereby awakening an understanding that the most logical conclusion was that one of their number was the killer.
The prevailing undercurrent of uncertainty and suspicion testified to that burgeoning presentiment.
The yet-to-be-interviewed younger crew was the only group untouched by the rising tide of foreboding. In chatting amongst themselves, they seemed distinctly more relaxed than their now-wary elders.
Under his breath, to Rosalind, Richard said, “The company seem to be growing increasingly tense.”
“Hardly surprising,” she returned, equally quietly. “I wonder how much longer it will be before your friends identify the killer.”
“Difficult to say,” Richard murmured back. “They won’t make a move until they’re sure. I know enough of them to be certain of that.”
“Hmm.” Rosalind darted a glance up the table. “I hope the murderer, whoever they are, has nerves of steel and will simply wait out this interlude without attempting to deflect or distract the police in some way.”
Richard hadn’t thought of that but admitted she had a point.
As he said so, he noticed that Leith, who was seated on the opposite side of the table, up a few places and flanked by CeciliaUnderhill and Alison Waterhouse, had been watching him and Rosalind. Now, Leith caught his eye and, leaning forward a little, asked, “Did the investigators give you any hint as to the direction of their thoughts?”
Although he hadn’t raised his voice, Leith’s question instantly focused every eye on Richard.
He inwardly sighed, but with outward calm, replied, “No, but to them, this is early days yet. They’ll be gathering every fact they can before deducing what actually happened.” He paused, then, accepting that he was, in fact, speaking to the entire company, he added, “Mrs. Adair once gave me a description of how the investigators’ collective mind works. She said their process is akin to assembling a jigsaw. One by one, you slot the pieces into place, and at some point, even if you haven’t got every last piece, the picture is revealed, and you can clearly see who the murderer is.”
That seemed to satisfy those listening. Many turned to their neighbors, and a livelier discussion developed regarding the facts the investigators had already assembled and what others they might yet be seeking.
Rosalind caught his eye and, sotto voce, murmured, “That was very well done. You’ve given them a novel perspective of the situation to dwell on.”
He faintly smiled. “With any luck, the distraction will last through the rest of the evening.”
She smiled back. “We can but hope.”
In light of their host’s absence, there was no suggestion the men would remain about the table, drinking his brandy, and as the covers were drawn and the company rose and repaired to the drawing room, Rosalind had to admit to having had a significant change of heart.
When she’d arrived at the Grange, she’d had no favorable view of what, through marriage, a gentleman—any gentleman—could offer her that she didn’t already have. In return for her independence, what would she receive? Quite aside from the understanding that was being slowly borne in on her that the benefits accruing from marriage couldn’t be measured solely in transactional terms, courtesy of the murder and the ensuing situation, she was coming to appreciate the comfort and reassurance that having an intelligent, sensible, and fundamentally powerful man at her side conferred.
As she accepted Richard’s proffered arm and, together, they joined the exodus from the dining room, she was acutely aware of her mother’s and his aunts’ interested—indeed, hopeful—expressions.
Previously, she would have been irritated, but now…she inwardly shrugged.
Glancing from beneath her lashes at Richard’s profile, she acknowledged that, throughout their time at the Grange, their interactions had invariably suggested he regarded her as an intellectual equal; unlike all other gentlemen she’d previously met, he treated her as a partner and not merely a pretty face with no real intelligence behind the façade.
Looking ahead, she smiled and inwardly admitted that she wholeheartedly approved.
Barnaby slumped onto the settle before the fire in their private parlor at the Red Lion Inn. As Penelope joined him and Stokes claimed the armchair to Barnaby’s left, Barnaby observed, “This case is proving quite a slog. A different slog to having to rely on countless boots on the ground—as in the Sedbury case—but a slog nonetheless.”
Stokes folded his hands over his stomach, plainly content after their excellent meal. “I have to admit that I’m finding so many interviews, one after another and all treading over the same ground, difficult to keep track of.”
Sagely, Penelope nodded. “Too much information all at once.”
“I can’t recall any case like this,” Barnaby went on, “where we know so little about the murderer. We know quite a bit about the murder itself and how it was carried out, and we now know enough about the victim, but when it comes to his killer, we have no sighting, nothing to point us his way, and only a presumed, not-yet-proven motive.”
Stokes grunted. “All that confirms is that we need to keep on with our interviews. We have to trawl through all the dross to find nuggets of useful facts that, hopefully, will steer us in the right direction.”
Penelope sighed. “And we can’t risk skipping anyone, just in case they’re the person who knows the vital clue.”
