In the library, Barnaby collected the last flaky crumbs from the slice of delectable game pie he’d consumed. “Everyone here, even Monty’s victims, viewed him in the same way as all of society—as a genial, innocuous, well-meaning, and entirely harmless older gentleman.”
Seated behind the desk in the library at which they’d eaten, Penelope added, “Not someone likely to inspire anyone to viciously murder him.”
“Except”—Stokes set his empty plate on the desk—“for the blackmail.”
Sitting back, Barnaby looked at his coinvestigators. “Is there any other motive that might apply? Or are we correct in assuming one of his victims realized he was their blackmailer and killed him in a fit of rage?”
“The latter, I think.” Penelope scrunched up her face, then stated, “While theoretically, the killer might have been hired by someone else—Vincent or even Pamela—for some reason we’ve yet to learn, the search of the study and the attack on Monty’s valet argues that the correct motive is Monty’s blackmailing. It was that that led to his death.”
Stokes was soberly nodding. “I believe we’re on solid ground in assuming the blackmailing is the foundation of our murderer’s motive. There’s the dispute with Lady Pamela over Underhill’s lack of independent income, but that appears to be a longstanding issue, so if that was the cause, why now? Also,that dispute is surely more a motive for Underhill to murder Lady Pamela rather than the other way around. From all we’ve learned, including from Lady Pamela herself, she valued what Underhill brought to the marriage, and she doesn’t seem the sort to cut off her nose to spite her face.”
“You’re definitely right there,” Penelope said. “I really can’t see Pamela, Vincent, or even Susan committing this crime. It wouldn’t suit any of them, in the sense of creating more problems than it solves.”
“However”—Barnaby tipped his head—“the lack of personal funds might well be what drew Monty to blackmail. Even if he wasn’t in any sort of debt, and there’s no hint that he was, the temptation of having a nest egg of his own could well have proved too great to resist.”
Penelope said, “That would fit with the care he took to hide his identity and also explains why he never asked for too much—for more than his mark could easily pay. He made it as easy for them as he could. He wasn’t blackmailing them to hurt them or even exercise power over them. His sole purpose was to accumulate some funds he could call his own.”
Stokes nodded. “I agree. So the blackmail, it is—that’s the root cause of this murder.”
“Most if not all of his victims were friends of the family,” Penelope pointed out, “and it seems likely he used their stays at Wyndham Castle to gather his intelligence—to learn their secrets.”
Stokes frowned. “I have to wonder if there’s any particular reason that makes Wyndham Castle a good location to learn of people’s secrets.” He looked at Penelope and Barnaby. “Is there anything special about the place?”
Penelope arched her brows. “It’s a drafty old castle. The modern house—and it’s not that modern—is built within andaround the ancient shell, which I understand dates to early medieval times.”
Barnaby was staring into space. “I wonder…” After a moment, he looked at Penelope and Stokes. “Let’s get Vincent back in. He might be able to shed some light.”
Barnaby rose and walked to the door.
While one footman went to fetch Vincent, another came in and cleared away their luncheon plates and platters.
Several minutes later, Vincent arrived. He shut the door behind him and walked to join them where they were again occupying the conversational grouping of four armchairs. He looked from one to the other. “You wanted to speak with me?”
“Yes. Just a quick question we’re hoping you might be able to help us with.” Barnaby waved him to the central chair, and once Vincent had sat, Barnaby asked, “If you wanted to learn people’s secrets, is there any reason you might choose Wyndham Castle as the place to do so?”
Vincent frowned. “Learn people’s secrets?” Then his face cleared, and he looked at Barnaby, Penelope, and Stokes. “The secret passageways. From them, you can listen to people and, in some rooms, spy on them as well.”
“Secret passageways?” Penelope inquired.
“The old staff corridors from when it was a medieval castle,” Vincent explained. “They’ve been closed up for years. Probably full of cobwebs. When we were little, Cecy and I used to play in them with Enid and Samantha. I doubt anyone’s been in them since then.” He studied their faces. “Why do you ask?”
Penelope smiled innocently. “It was just an idle point that came up regarding the castle. Now you’ve explained, we can see where the information fits. Thank you—that’s a help.”
Barnaby rose, and more slowly, Vincent came to his feet. He regarded them suspiciously but then inclined his head. “I’ll leaveyou to your investigation. If you need me again, I’ll be in the billiards room.”
Barnaby showed Vincent out, then returned to the armchairs. “Well,” he said, dropping into his chair, “that explains that.”
Stokes was studying his notes. “If we accept that Underhill learned his victims’ secrets via the secret passageways of Wyndham Castle, then what are the odds that most of those here have, at some point, visited the castle?”
Penelope grimaced. “Excellent, I would say. Pamela and Susan, together and also independently, host several events and even a house party or two there every year. Their cousin, the current marquess, is a widower, and his sons and their wives live in the north, so he’s happy to have the daughters of the previous marquess continue to use the castle socially and keep the place alive. That’s how he described it to me the last time we spoke.”
Still studying his notes, Stokes rumbled, “Is there any point interviewing the Grange staff?”
Penelope tipped her head one way, then the other, then said, “I doubt we’ll gain any value from that—at least not at this stage. From breakfast to the time of the murder, they would all have been very busy, more than usual with so many guests in the house. There would be rooms to tidy, beds to make, curtains to be neatened, water jugs refilled, basins emptied, and a host of other chores. And that’s just upstairs.”
“It’ll be more use,” Barnaby said, “to speak with Gearing and pertinent staff once we have some specific question to pursue. Such as if they saw Mr. X leaving the house before nine o’clock.”
A tap fell on the door, and when Barnaby called, “Come,” Morgan entered, closely followed by an older, heavyset man wearing old-fashioned gaiters on his sturdy legs and with a battered cloth cap perched on a head of bountiful gray curls.
