Barnaby rose and headed for the door. “Who’s first?”
“Mr. Angus Carrington,” Penelope replied.
After dispatching the waiting footman to fetch Carrington, Barnaby returned to the cluster of armchairs.
Looking at Stokes, Penelope said, “Carrington is about thirty. He’s a perfectly eligible bachelor who hasn’t yet shown any signs of wanting to alter his marital state.”
One black brow arching, Stokes said, “I presume that’s why he was invited. To nudge him into taking action.”
Penelope nodded. “That would have been the intention.”
When Carrington presented himself, Barnaby could find nothing about the amiable, urbane, well-dressed man to contradict Penelope’s insight. Carrington settled in the central armchair and exuded an air of being completely relaxed regarding his present situation and a trifle curious as to how the investigation was proceeding.
In response to Barnaby’s initial question, Carrington replied, “I drove down with Morehouse. His leader had gone lame the day before, and I was happy to have the company. We arrived at about five o’clock on Sunday.” With a disarming smile, Carrington glanced at Penelope and added, “I’m supposed to be casting my eye over the available young ladies with a view to seeing if any strikes me as a potential bride, but in truth, I’m in no hurry to marry.”
Mildly, Stokes asked Carrington to describe his movements on Monday morning.
“I came down to breakfast with Morehouse at just after seven o’clock. We joined Percival at the table, and soon after, Cordingley, then Elliot, joined us. After a companionable time spent downing our coffee, bacon, and eggs, the five of us quit the table.”
“When was that?” Stokes asked.
Carrington screwed up his face in thought. “Not long after seven-thirty? Something like that.” Without prompting, headded, “Percival and Cordingley went upstairs, and Morehouse, Elliot, and I headed for the library. Leith was already there, flicking through the news sheets, but he left soon after we arrived—said he had some letters to write.”
“And for the hour before ten o’clock?” Barnaby asked.
“We three—Morehouse, Elliot, and I—remained in the library, reading and chatting about stories in the news sheets. Griffith looked in, but then went out again, and Morland and Wincombe turned up at some point and remained, like us, scanning the news sheets.”
“While you were in the library,” Stokes asked, “did you notice anyone outside or see anyone leave the house?”
Carrington paused, then said, “Well, there was Monty, of course. He came in after we’d been there for a time and chatted and asked if we had everything we needed—just being a good host—then he mentioned going for an amble outside to check on something to do with the estate. And off he went.”
“Did any of the four gentlemen who were in the library with you leave and return at any point?” Penelope asked.
Carrington shook his head. “No. We were all quite settled until we heard the scream.”
“What happened then?” Barnaby asked.
“We heard someone—it proved to be Percival—leap down the last stairs and race out, past the library doorway and out through the open front door. We five looked at each other—we were rather startled. We’d all been deep in the news sheets at the time. But then, we set them aside, leapt up, and rushed after Percival. When we got outside, we saw him running across the lawn toward the orchard—toward where Miss Hemmings was calling for help—so we followed him.”
Barnaby glanced at Stokes, who nodded, and Barnaby returned his gaze to Carrington. “What was your view of Monty Underhill?”
Carrington shrugged. “Genial chap. Good host. Older generation, of course, but not stuffy or disapproving. Very easygoing fellow. Truth to tell, I’ve never heard anyone say a bad word about him.”
“Do you have any idea why anyone might have wanted to kill him?” Barnaby asked.
Carrington pursed his lips and shook his head. “Damned strange, that. I have no idea what he might have done to provoke such an attack. Quite shocking in its unexpectedness, you know?”
Barnaby inclined his head, then thanked Carrington for his assistance. After showing the younger man out, Barnaby returned to the armchairs.
Penelope looked up. “We’ve heard exactly the same story from all the gentlemen in the library.”
Barnaby nodded. “Next?”
Penelope looked at her list and sighed. “As much as our remaining interviewees are unlikely to reveal anything of note, I suppose we have to put them through their paces.”
Stokes nodded resignedly. “We do, for appearances if nothing else, and especially as, as yet, we have no threads to tug on to unravel the mystery surrounding this killer.”
“And who knows?” With a slight smile, Barnaby said, “By now, we ought to have learned that critical clues often come from the most unlikely sources.”
