Enid stared, then moistened her lips and cast an uncertain glance at Barnaby and Stokes, both of whom attempted to look uninterested in the proceedings. “Ah.” She returned her slightly goggle-eyed gaze to Penelope. “Well, I’m supposed to be getting to know Mr. Cordingley. Or Mr. Carrington or Mr. Morehouse. Mama told me one of those three would suit, and I should concentrate my efforts there.”
Penelope inclined her head. “Your mother is a sensible lady. Now, on Monday morning, when did you come downstairs?”
“I came down with Mama, Samantha, and several other ladies, and we went in to breakfast. That would have been at just after eight o’clock—we always come down about then.”
“And after breakfast?”
“I went with Cecilia and the other younger ladies to the conservatory, but we didn’t stay there and, instead, moved on to the music room.”
“So between nine and ten o’clock?”
“We were in the music room, chatting and telling tales and laughing.”
“While in the music room, did you notice if anyone left the house?’
“No.” Enid looked surprised to have been asked. “But I wasn’t looking outside, and I had my back to the windows.”
Penelope nodded and changed tacks. “You’ve known Mr. Underhill—your uncle Monty—all your life. How did you see him?”
Enid’s eyes clouded with genuine emotion, and her features wavered. “He was a nice uncle—I liked him, and I’m quite upset that someone has killed him.”
Penelope was struck by the strong resemblance between Enid, her mother, and her aunt in the stubborn jut of a squarish chin in an attempt to hold back her feelings.
Penelope hesitated, but on the off chance Enid knew something relevant, asked, “Do you know of any reason why someone would have wanted to kill your uncle?”
Enid blinked again. “No, but then, I suppose a passing itinerant or a gypsy doesn’t need a reason, do they?”
The sudden avid interest in Enid’s gaze as it locked on Penelope’s face had her crisply replying, “Thank you, Enid. That will be all.”
Enid looked surprised, indeed, taken aback. Then, she darted a glance at Barnaby and Stokes as if expecting them to question her. When neither said anything—Stokes busy with his notebook and Barnaby looking supremely bored—Enid’s lips tightened. “Oh, all right.”
She rose almost grumpily as Penelope got to her feet, and briskly, Penelope showed her to the door.
Closing the door behind Enid, Penelope glanced back at Stokes and Barnaby, her expression signifying they’d just had a lucky escape, then she opened the door and sent the footman to fetch Mr. Fentiman.
Three minutes later, Barnaby sensed rising eagerness in his coinvestigators when the door opened, and he rose to welcome Fentiman. While they’d waited for the young gentleman to appear, Penelope had informed him and Stokes that she knew little more of the young man than she’d already imparted, other than that he hailed from a good family whose holdings lay in Norfolk.
Fentiman had dark-brown hair, bright brown eyes, and an engaging demeanor. Of similar build to Patterson, he was, perhaps, a fraction taller. Nevertheless, he and Patterson—as well as Vincent—were plainly cut from the same cloth. Aside from all else, the three obviously shared the same tailor.
After steering Fentiman to the central armchair, Barnaby sank into the chair directly opposite and briefly considered the younger man. Fentiman appeared willing to be helpful—even eager—yet there was a hint of wariness and caution, as if he was worried about saying the wrong thing or, perhaps, revealing too much.
Instead of embarking on their customary questions, thinking to reassure Fentiman, Barnaby opened by asking, “How did you come to know Vincent and the Underhills?”
Fentiman visibly relaxed. “Vincent and I—and Patterson—met at Eton. We were in the same form and, well, it’s safe to say none of us were teachers’ pets, not being all that skilled at the books. That said, we’re not dunces, either, as we all ended up at Oxford. At Balliol.”
“I see. And you drove down with Patterson?”
Fentiman nodded. “We lodge together in London—with Vincent, too, when he’s not here—and we arrived latish on Sunday afternoon.” Fentiman grinned. “We’re always happy to support each other through these sorts of events.” Then he sobered. “Just as well, as things have turned out.”
“So you’re here purely in support of Vincent?” Penelope gently inquired.
Fentiman looked at her in faint horror. “Lord, yes! None of us are ready to even think about a wife.”
Barnaby could see the smile Penelope struggled to hide and, drawing Fentiman’s gaze, asked, “What are your recollections of Monday morning? From the time you came downstairs.”
Fentiman’s account matched Patterson’s in every respect. He concluded, “We’d just started on our way back when we heard the scream.”
Keeping a tight rein on his hope, Barnaby mildly asked, “Did you see any of the company outside the house while you were going back and forth to the stable and kennels?”
