“As a matter of fact, I did.” A puzzled frown tangling her brows, Samantha went on, “As we were leaving the music room, after we heard the scream and decided we’d better find out what had happened, I forgot my handkerchief. I’d left it on the chair, but when I got to the door, I remembered and ran back to pick it up. As I bent to get it, through the side window, I saw a gentleman striding toward the house. He was in the wood, and I thought he must have heard the scream, too, and was coming back to find out what had happened.”
Holding her breath, hope welling, Penelope asked, “Could you see which gentleman it was?”
But Samantha shook her head. “It was all shadowy under the trees. I couldn’t see his face clearly.”
“But you’re sure he was a gentleman?” Barnaby pressed.
“Oh yes.” Samantha’s tone rang with confidence. “He wasn’t a vagrant or a gypsy or anyone like that. His coat was far too well-tailored. And there’s a certain way a gentleman strides along, if you know what I mean?”
Penelope nodded. “Indeed.” She exchanged a swift glance with Barnaby and Stokes. It now seemed incontestable that one of the gentlemen was returning to the house when Rosalind screamed.
“Just a few more questions.” Penelope returned her gaze to Samantha. “You’ve known your uncle Monty all your life. What did you think of him? How did you see him and find him?”
Samantha’s lower lip trembled, and suddenly, she looked much younger. She blinked her large blue eyes, now shining with unshed tears, then drew in a tight breath, tipped up her chin, and gamely replied, “He was a lovely uncle, and I’m very sad he’s gone.” Her eyes sparked, and her lips and chin firmed. “And I’m not at all in charity with whoever killed him.”
Penelope seized the opening to ask, “Do you know of any reason why anyone would want to kill him?”
Samantha’s frown was patently genuine. “No. None. He was a good, kind man, and it seems so strange that anyone would think to even hurt him.”
Penelope glanced at Barnaby and Stokes, then rose. “Thank you, Samantha.” As the younger woman got to her feet, Penelope assured her, “You’ve been a very real help.”
The words pleased Samantha. With a polite nod to Stokes and Barnaby, she followed Penelope to the door.
After Penelope dispatched the footman to find and deliver Vincent to them and she returned to sink into the chair beside Barnaby, he observed, “Well, it seems that, finally, matters are growing a little clearer.”
His tone hard, Stokes repeated, “We can hope.” He glanced toward the door. “Let’s speak with our last interviewee and see where we end up.”
The instant Vincent Underhill walked into the room, Barnaby, rising to greet him, saw that the young man was much more somber than he’d previously been. His dark gaze held a bleakness it hadn’t before. Clearly, the reality of his father’s death had started to sink in.
As Vincent took the chair Barnaby indicated and nodded soberly to each of them, it seemed that Vincent was evolving—maturing—before their very eyes, as if the weight of his inheritance falling squarely on his shoulders was forcing him to change and grow.
Added to that, sorrow had scored new lines in his face. His feelings over losing his father, and in such a way, could not be doubted.
“We’ll try to make this as quick as we can,” Barnaby said, “but we’re asking everyone the same questions. First, when did you arrive at the Grange, and what did you hope to take away from the house party?”
Vincent faintly grimaced. “I live here some of the time. When I’m not in town. I came down with the rest of the family—that was just over two weeks ago, after we’d been visiting at Wyndham. As for what I hoped to gain from the week, it was simply to spend time with my friends—Patterson and Fentiman.” His next grimace was stronger. “It doesn’t do to try to skive off—Mama won’t stand for it—so I have to be here.” He shrugged. “Best I could make of it was to invite Patterson and Fentiman to join me. At least I have good company.”
Barnaby nodded understandingly. “On Monday morning, when did you come downstairs?”
“We three left my room at just on seven-thirty. We were rushing to beat Mama and all the females and their noise. Then…” Delivered in a low monotone, his account matched Fentiman’s and Patterson’s exactly.
“What time did you head off for the stable and kennels?” Stokes asked.
Vincent frowned. “I really can’t say. It would have been after eight-thirty, I think—say five or ten minutes after that.”
“And between nine and ten o’clock?” Barnaby gently probed.
“We went to the stable first, then after we’d looked over my new gelding, we went on to the kennels. We left there—it must have been going on for ten by then—thinking to get back intime for the ramble that someone had suggested. We’d left the kennels and were on the path that cuts through the trees and leads to the rear lawn when we heard the scream. We paused for a second, then we started running for the house. We couldn’t tell where the scream had come from, but it was in that direction.”
“Did you see anyone else outside the house during that time?” Barnaby asked.
Vincent frowned. “When we were walking to the stable, I thought I glimpsed someone in the wood to the east, beyond the side door. But when I looked more closely, I didn’t see anyone, so…” He shrugged. “It might have been a trick of the light, a shifting of shadows under the trees.”
Stokes caught Barnaby’s gaze, then to Vincent, said, “Patterson saw the man, too.”
Vincent’s expression turned puzzled. “He did? When we were heading out? Not later, like Fentiman?”
Barnaby exchanged a glance with Penelope, then looked at Vincent. “It seems some man was going out at the same time as you three were heading for the stable, and he was returning when you heard the scream and came running toward the house.”
