Morgan carried the iron stake believed to be the murder weapon, and judging by his expression, he bore good news. He confirmed that with a jaunty salute and a “You’ll want to hear this, guv.”
The constable halted before the chairs, and whipping off his cap, the older man stopped by his shoulder. Morgan gestured at the man. “This is the head gardener, Winston.”
Winston had a weather-beaten face and shrewd brown eyes. He nodded respectfully to the investigators, then tipped his head at the stake in Morgan’s hand. “That’s definitely one of ours. There’s a collection of ’em. They were used by the old lord—the one who had the arboretum out front planted. The stakes were used to steady the young saplings, and the number painted on each stake identifies which tree it was. There’s a plan somewhere that matches the numbers to the trees, saying what type of tree they are. Even though, now, the trees are well-grown, we’ve left the stakes in the ground.” Winston shrugged. “Might be useful to someone sometime to know which tree is which.”
Stokes asked the vital question. “Do you know which tree that stake was supporting?”
“Oh, aye.” Winston half turned to the door. “If you need to know, come outside and I’ll show you.”
They found themselves in the thick band of trees bordering the front lawn. Winston led them through the shade beneath the massed canopies, weaving between thick trunks on a path that ran roughly parallel to the right-hand façade of the huge old house.
“Here’s thirty-three.” Winston tapped the head of a stake as he passed. A step farther on, he pointed at a tree on the outer rimof the arboretum, closer to the lawn. “And that’s thirty-four over there.” He looked ahead, then halted and pointed at a large dark-green spiky-leaved tree a few paces on. “Thought so. That yew is number thirty-five, and you can see the hole that stake should’ve been in.”
Stokes, Barnaby, and Penelope went cautiously forward, careful of where they were placing their feet.
A yard from the yew’s trunk, they saw the small mound of disturbed dark earth marking the hole from which the stake had been hauled.
Carefully, Stokes and Barnaby studied the ground. Although it had been dry for the past few days, where it wasn’t covered in leaf mold, the ground under the trees was dark and soft.
“When last did it rain here?” Stokes asked Winston.
“We had a good bit of rain Sunday night,” the gardener promptly replied. “Heavy enough to soak in.”
Continuing to scan the ground, Stokes nodded. “We might find something, then.”
Barnaby had drifted out from the yew, past the hole. He stopped, staring down. “Here.” He crouched to study the ground more closely.
Stokes and Penelope came up, and with a pointed finger, Barnaby outlined the print he’d found in a patch of softer earth. “A man’s shoe with a leather sole. Not a work boot.”
“And shallow, suggesting it was left recently, since the last rain,” Stokes said.
Barnaby grimaced and rose. “It’s an average-sized gentleman’s shoe. That won’t help us identify who left the print.”
Stokes looked at where the shoe’s toe pointed, then nodded in that direction. “He made this when he was striding for the orchard, stake in hand.”
Stokes turned to Winston. “Thank you for your help. It’ll make a real difference to the investigation.”
Winston tugged his cap. “Pleased to be able to help.” He paused, then added, “The staff all liked Mr. Underhill. If this helps you catch who did for him, I’ll be right happy.”
With that, Winston bowed to them all and walked off through the trees, making for the side of the house.
“So,” Stokes said, looking between the hole and the shoe print, “our killer was here immediately before the murder. Why was he out here?”
Penelope walked closer to the lawn, to where she could see the house clearly. She almost stood on another set of shoe prints, but caught herself just in time. “He was standing over here, it seems.” She looked at the house. “Perhaps staring at the house.” She looked upward at the thick overhanging branches shading the spot. “He would likely have been shaded sufficiently so that anyone in the house, looking out this way, wouldn’t have spotted him.”
With Morgan trailing them, Barnaby and Stokes came up and crouched to study the fresh set of prints.
After a moment, Barnaby nodded and rose. “He stood here for some time, facing the house.”
Stokes grunted and straightened. “That’s why these prints are more deeply indented.”
After glancing at the house, Barnaby stepped carefully forward, placing his shoes over the prints so that he was standing in the exact same spot, facing in the same direction as the murderer had been. He studied the house. “From here, I can see through one of the library windows.”
“Into the library?” Penelope asked.
“If I had a spyglass, yes. I can see movement without a glass, but to make out anything inside the library clearly, one would need a spyglass.”
“I wonder if any guest has a spyglass in his possession,” Penelope said.
