Glancing up from his notebook, Stokes asked, “When was this?”
“When we were on our way to the stable and kennels.”
“Which was about what time?” Stokes asked.
Patterson thought, then grimaced. “I really can’t say with any exactitude, but somewhere between eight-thirty and nine.”
Barnaby exchanged a meaning-laden glance with Stokes and Penelope, then returned his attention to Patterson. “What was your view of Mr. Underhill?”
Patterson’s expression sobered, then he shrugged lightly. “He was Vincent’s father and a surprisingly good sort. Always encouraging and jolly.”
When Patterson offered nothing more, Stokes asked, “Do you know of any reason why anyone would want to kill Mr. Underhill?”
“No. None.” Plainly puzzled, Patterson added, “It seems deuced odd. He was such an easygoing chap that it’s hard to see why anyone would want to murder him.”
After glancing briefly at Penelope and Stokes, Barnaby thanked Patterson, rose, and showed him out. On returning to the armchairs, he rested his hands on the back of the central chair and looked at Penelope and Stokes. “Do we press on or…?”
Penelope glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece, which showed it was nearly eleven o’clock. “Tea,” she declared. “I need tea and sustenance if I’m not to develop a headache.”
When Stokes grunted in agreement, Barnaby smiled and returned to the door to request the footman to fetch some tea.
Within minutes, Gearing arrived, bearing a well-stocked tray. Given the speed, it was clear he’d anticipated their need. After seeing the plates set out and confirming that they required nothing more, he left them to imbibe and consume in peace.
For several minutes, they did just that, then Penelope settled back, sipped, and observed, “That was the first mention of someone whose identity we don’t yet know being outside the house.”
“And whoever he was,” Barnaby pointed out, “he was leaving, presumably having exited via the side door at, say, eight forty-five. Time enough to circle around to the orchard and meet Monty there.”
Stokes reached for another slice of cake. “Other than those three, no other guests were in that area at that particular time. Lady Susan, Rosalind, Regina, and Lady Wincombe all went out later and via the terrace, not the side door.”
Barnaby nodded. “So Patterson, Fentiman, and Vincent are the only ones likely to have seen the mystery man leave the house. There was no one else on that side of the house until later.”
Penelope set down her empty cup. “We need to learn what Fentiman and Vincent saw. Luckily, we’re almost at the end of our interview list, and they’re two of the four remaining.” She met Barnaby and Stokes’s gazes with renewed determination. “So let’s get to it.”
Stokes sighed and leaned forward to place his cup on the tray. “At least there are only four left. My pencil is worn to a nub.”
Barnaby grinned. He stood, picked up the tray, and arched a brow at Penelope. “Who’s next?”
She consulted her list, and armed with the name, Barnaby crossed to the door, handed the tray to Gearing, who had been about to enter, and asked for Miss Enid Goodrich to be summoned.
Before Enid arrived, Penelope filled in Barnaby and Stokes with what little she knew of the elder Goodrich girl. “She’s plain and suffers from the same unattractive disposition as her mother and her aunt. Given her age, she’s definitely actively seeking an offer, which is why she’s here, hoping to capture and fix the attention of one of the eligible gentlemen present.”
The door opened, and summoning a reassuring smile, Penelope rose and went to greet Enid, who, plainly hesitant, entered exceedingly tentatively.
With a slightly dumpy figure and rather horsey features, Enid was blessed with glossy dark-auburn hair—her redeeming attribute. Her complexion was pale, which showed her hazel eyes to good effect. Penelope felt Enid would do rather better for herself if she would only add a little vibrancy and vitality to her expression. Instead, she seemed intent on clinging to sullen impassivity.
Once she had the girl installed in the central chair, Penelope resumed her seat, noting as she did that Enid fixed her gaze tightly on Penelope, ignoring Barnaby and Stokes.
Enid was definitely not as composed as Cecilia or Alison or even Harriet. She fidgeted, but then Penelope caught a gleam of surprisingly avid curiosity in Enid’s slightly protuberant eyes, suggesting a deep vein of morbid inquisitiveness.
Deciding that taking charge was the only way to deal with an interviewee as flighty and sensation-seeking as Enid, in a direct and no-nonsense manner, Penelope asked, “When did you arrive at the Grange?”
“I came with Mama and my sister in our carriage. That was on Saturday. We came early to spend some private time with Aunt Pamela and Cecilia.”
“And you’re at the house party because…?”
Enid blinked. “Well, because we were invited, of course.”
“Let me rephrase,” Penelope said. “Is there a purpose behind your visit? Do you hope to achieve anything while here?”
