Penelope arched her brows. “I doubt we’ll get much from Alison Waterhouse, but she’s next.”
While the footman fetched Miss Waterhouse, Penelope informed Barnaby and Stokes, “Alison is generally viewed as a pleasant young lady who happens to be a very close friend of Cecilia Underhill. Alison is considered to have an…ameliorating effect on Cecilia’s less socially acceptable tendencies. By which I mean Cecilia’s propensity to sulk or to be overweeninglyarrogant. Alison is in her early twenties and expected to make a good match quite soon. To date, she’s been biding her time, considering her options, and has been careful to give no indication of partiality for any particular gentleman. However, she is well-regarded and well-connected, so her parents will have high hopes.”
When the door opened and Miss Waterhouse walked tentatively into the room, Penelope rose, greeted the younger lady with a smile, and directed her to the interviewee’s armchair.
Of average height, Alison had blue eyes and glossy brown ringlets, and her features were quietly attractive, and her figure was sufficiently curvaceous to draw male eyes. However, at present, she appeared somber and subdued, a circumstance she immediately explained.
As she sank onto the cushions, her gaze on Penelope, she murmured, “I doubt I can help your investigation, but I’m happy to do whatever I can to assist in finding whoever did this to poor Mr. Underhill. Cecilia and her mother are so upset—I suppose we all are, albeit to a lesser extent.”
The level-headed tone of that observation reassured Penelope; Alison seemed the sort of young lady who could be relied on to behave in a steady, sensible manner. Penelope duly embarked on their standard questions, and Alison responded not only with transparent candor but also with a conciseness and clarity that sped matters along.
“We drove from London in our carriage and arrived on Sunday afternoon. I was looking forward to spending a pleasant week with Cecilia—it’s so much quieter and less hectic here than in town.” Alison colored faintly and met Penelope’s eyes. “As I’m sure you realize, Cecilia and I were also hoping to spend a little time getting to know some of the bachelors attending.”
Penelope smiled understandingly. “Naturally. Now, on Monday morning, when did you come downstairs?”
Alison’s reply confirmed her mother’s account—they’d come downstairs just after hearing other ladies go down at soon after eight o’clock and had joined Lady Pamela, Lady Susan, Cecilia, and the Goodrich girls at the table. Alison added, “Many of the gentlemen had already left or were on the point of leaving.”
“And after breakfast?” Penelope asked.
“The four of us—Cecilia, Enid, Samantha, and I—went to the conservatory, but Lady Carville was already there, looking at the orchids. So we went on to the music room—it’s a little farther along that wing.” Alison blushed slightly and admitted, “We wanted our discussion to remain private, you see.”
“Of course.” Penelope could imagine. “Now, while in the music room, did you see anyone outside or notice anyone leaving the house?”
A faint frown furrowed Alison’s fine brown brows. “A little after we settled in the music room, I saw Lady Wincombe set off across the rear lawn.”
Realizing from Alison’s curious gaze that she was now wondering whether that had any connection to the murder, Penelope smiled reassuringly. “Thank you. That confirms Lady Wincombe’s account. Now, I gather you’ve known Mr. Underhill for some years.”
Alison nodded. “For as long as I’ve known Cecilia, really.”
“How would you describe him?” Penelope asked.
Alison’s face clouded. “He was a very nice man. Always jovial and comforting, but never in a way that made one uncomfortable.”
Penelope nodded. “And do you know of any reason why anyone might have wanted to kill him?”
“No.” Alison’s features firmed. “None. And it’s been thoroughly upsetting and shocking to know that someone—with no reason—just up and killed him in such a terrible way.”
Penelope resisted the impulse to correct the assumption that there had been no reason—no motive—behind the killing.
As if knowing she was biting her tongue, Barnaby smiled and smoothly thanked Alison, and Stokes added a rumbling expression of gratitude, then Penelope rose and, in kindly fashion, showed Alison from the room.
After instructing the footman to find and deliver Mr. Morehouse, Penelope returned to the armchairs and nodded at Barnaby. “Your turn.”
As the younger gentlemen were more than seven years his junior, Barnaby had little prior knowledge of them to share. He greeted Morehouse and directed him to the central chair. As Barnaby resumed his seat and Morehouse settled in the large armchair, Barnaby saw a gentleman very much of the same ilk as Morehouse’s friend, Carrington. Around thirty years old, with straight dark-brown hair, brown eyes, even features, and a pale complexion, Morehouse, like Carrington, was sufficiently handsome to pass muster yet not striking enough to stand out from the crowd. Yet from the quality of his clothes and the ease with which he wore them, he was plainly one of the rather large number of well-heeled eligible bachelors currently gracing the ton.
Morehouse fixed an inquiring gaze on Barnaby, polite yet faintly curious. He projected a genial, likeable persona, appearing relaxed and confident without being arrogant. It wasn’t difficult to understand why Lady Pamela had invited Morehouse and Carrington. Both were personable, unexceptionable bachelors who just might be tempted into marriage.
Barnaby commenced with the first of their standard questions, and Morehouse confirmed what Carrington had told them regarding their arrival and the reason for their inclusion on the guest list. “Although I do assure you,” Morehouse addedwith a swift glance at Penelope, “that I’m in no hurry to tie any knot.”
His account of his Monday-morning activities tallied with Carrington’s, including seeing Richard and Cordingley go upstairs after they’d quit the dining room. When asked if, while in the library, he’d noticed anyone leave the house, Morehouse replied, “Well, Underhill said he was going out, but of course, I didn’t actually see him go through the front door, although he did turn in that direction.” Morehouse paused, then added, “I was sitting facing the open doorway, and for what it’s worth, I didn’t see anyone else but Monty head toward the front door. Not until Miss Hemmings screamed and Percival raced past.”
“What was your view of Underhill?” Barnaby asked and found he was actually interested in hearing the answer. Morehouse seemed to have a sound head on his shoulders.
“Lovely old chap,” Morehouse declared. “Easygoing, which, I can tell you, not all of his age are. He seemed…genuinely interested in life. In the people and society around him.”
“Are you aware of any reason why someone might have wanted to kill him?”
Morehouse frowned. “No. None.” He met Barnaby’s eyes. “And in all honesty, that’s rather disturbing.”
