The wagon was still rocking on its springs when the door burst open, and Findlay, Scotland Yard’s medical examiner, leapt to the ground. His black bag in hand, he strode forward.
Stopping beside Penelope, Barnaby, and Stokes, Findlay scanned what he could see of the grounds. “The orchard, you said. Where is it?”
Footsteps crunched, and they turned as Richard and the older gentleman joined them.
The unknown man was in his late fifties, perhaps even sixty. He appeared a solid country-squire sort and carried himself well. His curling gray hair matched his wiry eyebrows, and his features, surely initially craggy, had softened with the years, although at present, those features were set in serious and sober lines.
Despite the circumstances, Penelope smiled delightedly at Richard.
Returning her smile in more muted fashion, Richard gestured to the older gentleman. “This is Sir Henry Coutts, the local magistrate.” To Sir Henry, he continued, “Allow me to present Inspector Stokes of Scotland Yard, the Honorable Mr. Barnaby Adair, and Mrs. Adair.”
“Inspector.” Sir Henry offered his hand to Stokes, then turned to Barnaby and Penelope.
Before Sir Henry could ask, Stokes supplied, “Mr. and Mrs. Adair act as official consultants to the Yard, and they are here at the Commissioner’s behest.”
Still puzzled but now curious, Sir Henry shook Barnaby’s hand and nodded politely to Penelope.
She smiled understandingly and explained, “We assist Stokes in dealing with cases involving members of the ton.”
“Ah. I see.” Sir Henry glanced back at the house. “I can imagine that in cases such as this, your presence would be beneficial.”
“Exactly so.” Penelope fixed her gaze on Sir Henry. “Now, what can you tell us of this murder?”
Sir Henry grunted, and his features clouded. “Bad business. I’ve known Monty Underhill these past decades. Utterly harmless fellow. Good man. But a young lady out walking this morning found his body in the orchard. Bludgeoned to death, it seems.”
Findlay appeared around Stokes’s shoulder. “The body?”
Stokes introduced Findlay as the Yard’s and London’s premier medical examiner—which was, in fact, Findlay’s growing reputation—and Sir Henry looked duly impressed. He pointed across the lawn to the far corner away from the drive. “Still in the orchard. Percival here was the first man on the scene and knew not to move him, so he’s as he was found.”
Richard added, “I confirmed Monty was dead but otherwise didn’t disturb the body, and we’ve had a footman on guard since then.”
“Excellent.” Plainly pleased, Findlay half bowed to the company. “If you’ll excuse me, the sooner I get to it, the sooner I can return to town and the morgue and the other bodies awaiting my attention.”
Penelope hid an appreciative grin as Findlay strode off across the lawn, his black bag swinging.
“Now,” Sir Henry continued, “I’ve had all the guests gather in the drawing room and asked them to remain there for the nonce. I’ve spoken with Lady Pamela, and she’s given the authorities—specifically Scotland Yard—free rein to uncover the dastard who murdered Monty. She’s understandably overset, but bearing up.” Sir Henry paused, then somewhat uncomfortably added, “I did gather that she expects the culprit to be taken up in short order.”
Stokes eyed the color in Sir Henry’s cheeks and wryly asked, “Did she suggest that said culprit will likely be a passing vagabond?”
Sir Henry’s eyes widened. “She did.”
Barnaby smiled faintly. “It’s always easier to believe a murder happened through some unpredictable, unforeseeable outside agency rather than being the action or reaction of one of the victim’s peers.”
Sir Henry nodded. “Human nature, I suppose.”
Stokes had glanced toward the open front door but turned to Sir Henry. “Findlay will want to remove the body to London as soon as he can, so we’d better take a look at the scene first.”
Richard waved them on, and he and Sir Henry fell into step beside Penelope, Barnaby, and Stokes. Stokes beckoned his men—O’Donnell, Morgan, and Walsh, who had come in the wagon with Findlay—to follow.
As they left the forecourt and started across the lawn, Richard dipped his head and murmured to Penelope and Barnaby, “Thank you for coming.”
Penelope shot him a wry grin. “You knew very well that we’d answer your call.” She looked ahead. “It’s not every morning one is invited to investigate a murder.”
“Especially,” Barnaby added, “a murder of one of our own.”
Richard raised his head. “It does strike closer to home.” As Sir Henry and Stokes drew ahead, Richard glanced at Penelope and Barnaby. “You were acquainted with Underhill, weren’t you?”
“Indeed,” Penelope replied. “Although I’m more familiar with Pamela, of course.”
