“And,” Penelope stated, “that, despite the risk, the killer seized that very moment to search the study also suggests that he believes Monty has some physical evidence of his secret. Also, the killer’s secret, whatever it is, isn’t anything so mild as aliaison or cheating at cards, and he’s quite desperate to keep it hidden.”
Stokes arched a brow at her. “You don’t think that in searching the study, the killer was after Monty’s black book, intending to erase any mention of him in it, thus covering his tracks for the murder?”
Penelope thought for a moment, then shook her head. “No. The book was hidden. How would the killer know of its existence in order to search for it? He couldn’t have known he wasn’t Monty’s sole victim and that there were others Monty had to keep track of as well, hence the black book.” She paused, then shook her head again. “No. I believe the killer was searching for the evidence of his secret that he believes Monty has.”
Barnaby had been following her logic. He nodded. “I agree. That’s the only explanation that’s a good, solid fit. In theory, other explanations for the search might be possible, but none are anywhere near as probable.”
“But physical evidence is a difference between the killer and Monty’s other victims,” Penelope pointed out. “With all the victims we’ve spoken with, his ‘evidence’ was purely knowledge of their secret, not anything tangible.”
“Those are all excellent points,” Stokes said, “and I don’t disagree with any of them. But we need to move expeditiously tomorrow and get our final interviews over with as soon as we can. With that as our aim, I believe we need some sort of map showing where everyone was or says they were over the critical hour.”
Penelope rose. “Let me fetch pencil and paper, and we can put together all we’ve thus far learned.”
Ten minutes later, as she sat at the parlor table and commenced her latest list, she murmured, “As sure as eggs are eggs, someone is lying, and in this case, there are simply toomany people moving around that house for the murderer, albeit by his absence, not to stand out.”
CHAPTER 9
The following morning, Penelope led the way up the steps to the Grange’s front door with a clear plan for the day fixed in her mind: Interview the remaining nine guests, combine their information with the facts she, Barnaby, and Stokes had already learned, and see who was still unaccounted for. Reinterview as required, then study the final picture that emerged.
She was entirely happy with that plan and confident that, by the end of the day, they would have a very firm idea of who the killer was.
With a determined and enthusiastic smile on her face, flanked by Barnaby and Stokes, she swept into the front hall.
And immediately came to a halt as Gearing, transparently agitated, came hurrying toward them.
“Thank God you’re here, Inspector!” Gearing all but gasped. “Grimshaw, Mr. Underhill’s valet, has been attacked!”
Stokes stepped forward. “When did this happen?”
“Last evening!” Gearing visibly drew in a deep breath, gathered himself, then more calmly explained, “Grimshaw was set upon yesterday evening, upstairs. He was hit quite viciouslyand fell unconscious, and he only regained his senses this morning and raised the alarm.”
Stokes exchanged a glance with Barnaby and Penelope, then asked Gearing, “Where is Grimshaw?”
“We have him in the kitchen under Cook’s eye. He’d gone upstairs yesterday evening because the mistress had asked him to select clothes for laying out the master’s body once it’s returned to us. Grimshaw went into the master’s dressing room, not expecting anyone to be there, and was coshed over the head.”
“We’ll speak with Grimshaw immediately,” Stokes said, “and then we’ll need to examine the dressing room.”
“Yes, of course.” Gearing stepped back, gestured toward the green-baize-covered door at the rear of the hall, and led them in that direction. “I mentioned the assault to your constable when he arrived this morning, and he sent up the constable who’d kept watch in the study overnight to keep an eye on things upstairs.”
“Good.” Stokes followed at Gearing’s heels. “Let’s see what Grimshaw can tell us.”
As they strode along the narrow corridor beyond the baize-covered door, from his position at the rear of the small procession, Barnaby asked, “Who else have you told of the attack?”
Gearing glanced over his shoulder. “I reported the incident to her ladyship at once, and she suggested it would be best to keep silent about the matter until the inspector was informed.”
Stokes grunted in clear approval, and facing forward, Gearing added, “Constable Morgan assured me you would be along shortly, or else I would have sent word.”
The corridor ended in a very large kitchen that, to Penelope’s eyes, was neat, clean, and efficiently run. At that hour, maids and footmen were ferrying breakfast dishes into the scullery from which emanated sudsy sounds punctuated by the clinkingof cutlery and crockery mixed with the clang of pans being scoured.
An older footman was sorting silverware on a bench along one wall, and a pair of kitchen maids were making what Penelope thought was dough for scones, while a younger maid was sieving berries for a sauce. The delicious aroma of baking bread filled the already warm room.
Gearing led them down the long, freshly scrubbed deal table to where, at the far end, a solidly built, middle-aged man sat slumped on a stool, his elbows propped on the table with his bandaged head held between his hands. Behind him was the massive hearth, and the cook stood nearby, polishing a copper bowl while keeping a careful eye on the injured man.
“Grimshaw,” Gearing said as they neared. “The inspector and the investigators are here.”
Moving carefully, Grimshaw shifted his head enough to look up at them, then he tensed to stand.
“No, no.” Penelope waved him back to his stool. “Please remain seated. You’re in no condition to stand.”
