The intervention earned her a grateful look from the cook.
With a pained grimace, Grimshaw complied. “I won’t argue with that. My head’s still splitting.”
Judging from what she could see of the bandage, Penelope concluded he’d taken a powerful blow to the rear of his head.
Stokes sat on the end of the nearest bench so he could see Grimshaw’s face without forcing the man to lift his head completely. “Tell us what happened.”
Grimshaw moistened his lips, then stated, “Last evening after we’d had our tea, I went to the master’s dressing room. Her ladyship had asked me to pick out suitable clothes for… Well, I’d been steeling myself to do it since the morning, when she asked me, so I thought I’d better get it done before I went to bed.”
“Is there a door to the dressing room from the corridor?” Penelope asked.
Grimshaw started to nod, then caught his breath and said, “Aye, ma’am. That’s the door I used. There’s another from the master’s bedchamber and, opposite that, a door leading to his bathing chamber, but when he’s not in the house, I always use the corridor door.”
“To be clear,” Barnaby said, “all three doors leading into the dressing room are at the corridor end of the room?”
“Aye. That’s right.”
Stokes asked, “As near as you can remember, what happened? Walk us through it.”
“I went up the main stairs and along the corridor. I opened the door… I paused then, steeling myself. It was the first time I’d been in there since…”
“All right,” Stokes said. “And then?”
“I pushed the door fully open, stepped inside, and turned to shut the door. That’s when he rushed in and hit me. He came from the bedroom—I’d put my back to that door as I shut the one from the corridor, and the door to the bedroom was open, now I think of it. Shouldn’t have been. I usually leave it shut so I can go in and out of the dressing room without disturbing the master.” Grimshaw paused, then added, “Can’t say as I remember much more.”
Barnaby had circled behind Grimshaw enough to visually examine his bandaged head. He winced. “That’s a very nasty lump.”
“Aye. It was a tremendous blow, I can tell you that.”
Stokes looked at Barnaby. “Just the one?”
Barnaby nodded. “Looks like it.”
“I only remember one, of course.” Grimshaw met Stokes’s eyes. “I’ve been in my share of dust-ups, and I don’t normallygo out that easily. You learn how thick your skull is from experience, you know?”
When Stokes nodded, Grimshaw went on, “So this time, I tried to cling to my wits, at least long enough to get some sense of who the attacker might be, but the pain was so bad, I couldn’t focus, and my wits just slipped away.”
“You said ‘he,’” Penelope stated. “Are you sure it was a man?”
Grimshaw tipped his head enough to faintly smile at her. “Aye, ma’am. I’m sure. Not many women strong enough to deliver such a hammer blow, and I got the sense—just before he struck me—of a body bigger than mine.”
Penelope studied him, then gently asked, “If you can, do you think you could manage to stand? Just for a moment so we can get some idea of how tall you are and how large is bigger than you?”
Grimshaw winced, but gamely placed his palms on the table, and Gearing and the cook rushed in to help him to his feet.
Once he was upright, Stokes, Barnaby, and Penelope studied him. Unlike most valets, many of whom were short, and in keeping with his solid frame, Grimshaw was a touch above average height.
After checking to confirm that Barnaby and Stokes had seen enough, Penelope waved Grimshaw back to the stool. “Thank you, Grimshaw. That will help us identify your attacker.”
Stokes glanced at her, then looked at Gearing. “I’m officially advising Grimshaw to rest up and take things easy for the next several days.”
“Until his headache eases off, preferably to nothing,” Penelope said and received a grateful nod from the cook.
“Not only is that a very nasty knock,” Barnaby said, also catching Gearing’s eyes, “but we would all feel better if Grimshaw remained with others, including having a footman sleeping on a pallet in his room, until we have your master’smurderer—who was almost certainly Grimshaw’s attacker—by the heels.”
The cook sucked in a breath. “You think the dastard might come after Grimshaw again?”
“It’s possible,” Stokes said. “He won’t know if Grimshaw saw and will remember something that gives us a clue to his identity, and he might well want to be sure.” He looked at Grimshaw, who was even paler than he had been before. “So no going about the house by yourself. Stay down here and use the servants’ stairs, but even then, keep someone with you all the time. We don’t want another murder on our hands.”
