Richard arched a brow at Penelope. “A connection?”
“Very distant on Mama’s side,” she replied, “but a connection nevertheless.”
“I knew Underhill,” Barnaby said, “but only socially, in passing, as it were.”
“That’s much the same as me,” Richard said. “One couldn’t have said we moved in the same circles.” He glanced shrewdly at Penelope and Barnaby. “But what you know of the family willbe helpful. You’ll have some understanding of the familial and social dynamics at play.”
From his tone, Penelope deduced he was referring to the issue of Pamela being the actual owner of all they were presently surveying. The orchard was quite some way across the lawn; Penelope could only just make out an entrance archway. “The orchard’s walled?”
“Yes. All the way around,” Richard replied, “but there are at least three archways—the one we’re approaching, another giving onto the shrubbery, and one at the rear corner, which leads into the wood.”
Barnaby asked, “How many guests are presently here?”
“The rest of the immediate family—so Pamela, the son, Vincent, and the daughter, Cecilia. Also here are Pamela’s sister, Lady Susan Goodrich, along with her daughters, Enid and Samantha.” Richard went on, “None of that group were at luncheon, and there were twenty-three around the table, including myself.”
Penelope slanted him a glance. “Also including your aunts?”
Richard met her gaze and warily admitted, “Including my aunts.”
“And the Hemmingses?”
Richard sighed. “I suppose it was too much to imagine you wouldn’t know about that. But yes, Mrs. Hemmings and her daughters, Rosalind and Regina, are here. It was Rosalind who discovered the body and raised the alarm.”
With the orchard nearing, Penelope slowed her steps to ask, “What’s your family’s connection with the Underhills? I can’t place it.”
“My aunts are close to the family via an old and longstanding friendship with the late marquess.”
“Pamela and Susan’s father?” Penelope clarified.
“Yes. And courtesy of that, Pamela has always had a soft spot for my aunts, so when they asked, she was happy to oblige them by inviting not just them but me and the Hemmings ladies.”
Penelope nodded. “And the rest of the company? Why are they here?”
“As I’m sure you’re aware, the principal purpose of Pamela’s house party is to promote suitable matches. To that end, I gather Pamela hopes to entice Leith into offering for Cecilia. I imagine that would be hailed as an acceptable match on all sides, and it seems that Leith is interested enough to look. As for the others, Mrs. Waterhouse has hopes of snaring Elliot for her daughter, Alison. The Waterhouses and, indeed, most of those here are close acquaintances of one or another of the Underhills, and I understand most of the middle-aged set are reasonably frequent visitors, either here or at Wyndham Castle.”
Stokes had reached the orchard archway and paused, waiting for them to catch up. He’d heard the last comment and arched his brows. “Wyndham Castle?”
“The seat of the Marquess of Skeldon,” Barnaby supplied. “It’s in the Midlands.”
“The castle was Lady Pamela and Lady Susan’s childhood home,” Penelope added. “On their father’s death, the title, castle, and estate passed to their cousin, Bradley Hurstbridge.”
She looked past Stokes into the orchard. Some way inside, she could just make out a white sheet tossed aside and a still form stretched on the ground beneath a tree. Findlay was already crouched beside the body.
Penelope, Barnaby, and Richard hung back, allowing Stokes and Sir Henry to approach the body first, then the three followed the pair deeper into the orchard, with the uniformed officers at their backs.
As they neared the scene, Barnaby noticed a footman standing back against the stone wall a few yards from the body.On seeing the man, Stokes asked his name, then sent him to wait at the archway. Patently grateful, the footman decamped, leaving the rest of them to take in the scene.
Quietly, they drifted wide around the body, observing and cataloguing what they could see while Findlay continued with his necessarily cursory examination, yet not that much study was required to establish the cause of death.
Finishing his circuit, Stokes halted beside the crouching Findlay and glanced at Richard. “Do you know Underhill’s movements prior to him coming to the orchard? When was he last seen alive?”
Standing nearer the tree trunk, Richard replied, “He came down to breakfast later than I. He arrived a few minutes before I left the dining room, which must have been about seven-thirty. I’ve heard others say he was at the table with them, and by all accounts, he was one of the last to leave. At a guess, that would have been closer to nine o’clock, when the staff would have wanted to start clearing the board. Several gentlemen had settled in the library with the day’s news sheets, and they say he looked in and chatted for a few minutes before wandering off, apparently outside.”
Stokes had fished out his trusty notebook and was busily scribbling. “When was the body found and by whom?”
“One of the guests—Miss Rosalind Hemmings—was taking the air and came this way. She saw the body, realized who it was and that he was dead, and screamed for help. I was on the stairs at the time—I’d been writing letters in my room and was on my way down to leave them for posting when I heard the scream. That must have been about ten o’clock. I came racing out, and others followed.”
Stokes nodded, paused in his writing, and looked down at Findlay. “What can you tell us?”
