Sir Godfrey was known to be an irrationally stubborn man; his scowl only deepened and his resistance, palpable, hardened.
Constance’s clear tones cut through the simmering silence. “The Whittakers might not be local, however, I can assure you that my grandfather has many highly placed friends, and he will not be pleased to learn that the murder of his cousin’s daughter was not accorded a thorough and exhaustive investigation and that the man responsible wasn’t brought to justice.”
The calculation in Sir Godfrey’s eyes suggested he didn’t know whether to risk Constance’s grandfather’s ire or not.
“It seems to me,” Alaric said, “that given the circumstances, the least you can do is to properly investigate.”
“Humph!” Sir Godfrey’s exclamation was less trenchantly resistant than before. “Don’t try to tell me how to do my job—of course I’ll properly investigate…” Blinking, Sir Godfrey broke off. “If that’s what’s called for.”
Alaric endeavored to make his next statement as much of a suggestion as he could. “That will mean instructing everyone to remain at the Hall until you can be sure who the murderer is—one of the company or otherwise. Of course, that way, if anyone seeks to leave prematurely—or actually runs—that could surely be taken as an admission of guilt, don’t you think?”
From experience, Alaric knew Sir Godfrey was suggestible. The magistrate appeared to be imagining how such an investigation might go…
Eventually, Sir Godfrey turned to Percy. “Is that what you want, then? A thorough investigation? Surely you don’t wish to have this matter further inconvenience your guests to that extent.”
Percy stared at Sir Godfrey as if seeing him clearly for the first time. The magistrate’s last question appeared to have stripped away any lingering shock and seized and focused Percy’s wits. “No.” The word was cold, sharp, and decisive. “However, Miss Johnson was killed— murdered—in my house. Under my roof, so to speak, where she should have been safe. Where she was, in effect, under my protection. Nothing can erase that or the duty I therefore must assume to ensure all is done—every last stone turned—to identify the murderer and bring the miscreant to justice.”
Alaric felt like applauding; Percy had finally found his backbone.
Percy cast a glance at Edward—reminding Alaric of Edward’s purpose in being at Mandeville Hall. Regardless, Percy, his voice gaining strength, declared, “And as Carradale pointed out, my guests—the gentlemen at least—will not be best served by having an unsolved murder in their past, one they might be suspected of having committed.” Percy met Alaric’s eyes and, seeming to draw strength from the contact, concluded, “I agree with Carradale. For everyone’s sakes, a thorough investigation must be mounted and Miss Johnson’s murderer apprehended.”
“I entirely agree,” Constance stated, sparking murmurs of agreement from Monty and Rosa, too.
Alaric looked at Edward, but he was looking down at his clasped hands. Given his self-appointed role of defender of the family’s name, Edward’s resistance to the notion of a full-scale investigation was understandable. It wasn’t, however, tenable in the circumstances, and Edward appeared to have accepted that.
Sir Godfrey remained recalcitrant to the last. He cast a long look at Alaric, who coolly arched his brows in response, hoping very much that Sir Godfrey would take as read the threat Alaric hadn’t voiced—that if Sir Godfrey failed to mount an adequate investigation, Alaric would inform Scotland Yard himself.
Something of his thoughts must have reached Sir Godfrey, because with a final harrumph, he surrendered. “Very well.” Briefly, he flung up his hands, then pushed to his feet. “If that’s what you all want, then that’s what you shall have, although mark my words, it’ll prove a dead end. The man responsible is long gone. But we’ll question and be thorough—just don’t later say I didn’t warn you.” He fastened his gaze on Constance, Rosa, and Monty and pompously advised them, “Investigations are never pleasant.”
Constance returned his look coldly. “I’m quite certain that being murdered was not a pleasant experience for my cousin.”
Sir Godfrey blinked, then swung to face Percy, who had also risen. “As Carradale suggested, I’m ordering everyone residing under this roof to remain here, on the estate, until my investigation’s complete.” He glanced sidelong at Alaric. “You, my lord, may continue to sleep in your own bed, but you must not leave the area of the combined estates.”
Alaric inclined his head in ready acceptance.
Sir Godfrey turned back to Percy. “Will you inform your guests, or shall I?”
“I’ll do it.” Looking as if he wanted to be rid of Sir Godfrey, Percy gestured somewhat curtly to the door.
Sir Godfrey acknowledged the others with nods, then stumped toward the front hall. “I’ve appointments this afternoon,” he declared, his customary arrogance resurfacing. “I’ll return tomorrow morning with the constable to begin my investigation.”
Alaric refused to rise to the bait. What could be more important than murder, especially the slaying of an apparently blameless young lady? He caught Constance Whittaker’s eye and saw that she, too, was biting her tongue. As she and Rosa Cleary and Monty joined him and they followed in Percy and Sir Godfrey’s wake, Alaric murmured, “I believe we should be appropriately grateful for small mercies.”
“Evidently,” Constance replied.
Edward trailed them as they entered the front hall. Percy was seeing Sir Godfrey off. Monty gallantly offered Rosa his arm; she accepted, and the pair went off, presumably in search of the other guests. Edward looked in that direction, then turned and made for the stairs.
Sir Godfrey left, and Percy turned from the door. He saw Alaric and Constance and nodded to them, then strode off in Monty and Rosa’s wake.
Constance drifted in the same direction; Alaric kept pace beside her. She glanced around, confirming no one else was within earshot, then murmured, “Mrs. Macomber dosed herself with laudanum and is still too sedated to question.”
Alaric halted, and she paused beside him. He trapped her gaze. “I asked Percy why he’d invited your cousin. He said it was merely because he’d thought she would enjoy the stay, and he’d been asked to invite Miss Weldon as well, and so had thought the invitation not inappropriate.”
“Hmm.” After a moment, the Amazon—despite knowing her name, he still thought of her as that—grudgingly admitted, “I suppose that’s understandable.”
Alaric didn’t add that when he’d asked his question, Percy had looked at him blankly—strangely—for several seconds before bleakly offering his reason: that he’d thought she would enjoy it. There’d been emotion behind the words—guilt of a sort, not so much in a personal sense but more in the vein of failing as a host, along with something else. Failing someone he’d been attracted to? Alaric had to wonder. From what he’d seen, Miss Johnson had caught the eyes of several gentlemen present, but not in any over-lustful fashion. Innocents were not the favored prey of the unmarried gentlemen there, and Glynis Johnson had given no sign whatever of angling for an illicit liaison. No—she’d been gay and carefree and utterly blameless…at most, possibly seeking to attract one particular gentleman there.
Constance glanced around the now-empty front hall, then looked at Alaric. “Perhaps by the time Sir Godfrey returns, we might have more definite evidence of murder—and of the murderer.”
Alaric feared that was unlikely, yet they’d succeeded in wringing from Sir Godfrey as much as—indeed, more than—he’d hoped. Electing to focus on that positive, he inclined his head, then waved her toward the side corridor down which the sounds of other guests could be heard, predictably exclaiming over the news of Sir Godfrey’s edict.
* * *
Constance allowed Carradale to lead her to the morning room. There, they found the other guests giving vent to their thoughts, speculations, and what seemed largely pro forma grumblings about being confined to the Hall estate for the duration of Sir Godfrey’s investigation. As
Constance had gathered that they’d all expected to remain until at least Saturday morning, she judged the grumblings as being merely for show—what people felt they should say in such circumstances.
Carradale excused himself and went to speak with his cousin and Percy Mandeville. Constance found her eyes tracking him as he crossed the room, appreciating his easy, loose-limbed stride… She blinked and looked away. Telling herself she was grateful for a chance to again survey the company, she hugged the wall and studied the groupings scattered about the room. Studied the gentlemen.
Despite accepting—as she suspected many there now secretly did—that one of the gentlemen present might be a murderer, she found it impossible to pick out one as more likely to be the villain…indeed, to be the sort of man who would strangle a lady at all. Although presently understandably subdued, all the gentlemen appeared personable, even likeable; they were an easygoing, socially confident lot, not overtly villainous in any way.
Yet it was almost certain that one of them had put his hands about Glynis’s throat and choked the life out of her.
The sobering thought reminded Constance of another duty awaiting her. After one last glance around the company, she slipped out of the door and went to find the housekeeper.
Mrs. Carnaby was all sympathy rolled up in refreshing practicality. She conducted Constance to the cool room off the laundry, along the way briskly advising that they’d summoned the local undertaker from Salisbury. “Given the time, he’s not likely to be here until tomorrow, but John Wilson’s a good man—he’ll handle the body with all due respect, and you can rely on him to carry out whatever arrangements you decide on.” Mrs. Carnaby opened the cool room door and stood back.
“Thank you.” Constance paused on the threshold, scanned the room, then said, “My grandfather’s house lies north of Derby. Your husband was kind enough to dispatch a letter for me a few hours ago. Miss Johnson’s mother lives close to my grandfather’s house, and I expect she’ll have sought refuge with the rest of the family there.”
“Indeed, miss. John Wilson will be able to arrange to have the body taken north for you—just let him know the direction.” Mrs. Carnaby nodded toward the shroud-draped figure resting on a trestle table. “Our old cook is used to laying out. She’s done what she can to set your young lady properly at peace. Anything else you need, you just let us know.” She paused, then added, “We’re right sorry to have had such a thing happen here. Please accept the staff’s sympathies on the young lady’s sad passing.”
Constance ducked her head. “Thank you.”
Mrs. Carnaby bobbed, then turned and walked away. Constance looked at the shrouded body. There was no one else in the room. She closed the door, then advanced on the table. After a second of steeling herself, she reached for the top of the sheet and drew it down.
She remembered that the still faintly protuberant, staring eyes had been closed when she’d come upon Carradale and the body. Presumably Carradale had drawn down Glynis’s lids; it seemed the sort of thing he would do. Now, with her features further smoothed, Glynis looked to be sleeping. The only sight that marred the illusion was the necklace of ugly bruises that circled her white throat. Someone—given that Mrs. Macomber was still unresponsive, presumably the old cook or Mrs. Carnaby—had found a white cotton nightgown with a high, lace-edged collar that partially concealed the dark marks.
Constance looked down on the distant cousin she’d been sent to fetch safely home and, again, the sense of failure—of failing in that task—swamped her.
Focusing on Glynis’s face, taking in the sweetness still apparent, Constance murmured, “Our poor Glynis—who did this to you?”
Two seconds later, a light tap on the door drew her from her unhappy thoughts. The door opened to reveal one of the upstairs maids.
Halting just inside the room, the maid bobbed a curtsy. “Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am, I’m to report that your maid and groom have arrived with your things, and as you requested, we’ve set you up to share the poor young lady’s chaperon’s room.”
“Thank you.” Earlier, on hearing that Constance had put up at the village inn, Percy had invited her to stay at the Hall; while Constance valued the privacy and anonymity of staying at an inn, if she was to find Glynis’s killer, being on site was surely preferable, and she’d accepted Percy’s offer.
The maid went on, “And Mrs. Carnaby wanted me to ask if you’d like one of us to spell your girl while she’s watching over Mrs. Macomber, ma’am.”
Constance thought, then replied, “My thanks to Mrs. Carnaby and the staff. Until Mrs. Macomber wakes, if one of you could spell Pearl whenever she requires it, that would be helpful.” She should remember to tell Pearl she was referred to as a girl; that would make the middle-aged lady’s maid laugh.
The maid—a girl in truth—bobbed again. “I’ll let Mrs. Carnaby know, ma’am.”
The girl turned, then stepped back and held the door—allowing Carradale to enter.
He directed a vague smile and a nod at the girl. “Milly.”
Milly bobbed again. “Your lordship.”
For an instant, Constance wondered if there was anything between the pair, if Carradale and the maid had…
Constance blinked. Carradale was a local; of course, he would know the maid’s name. And while it was impossible to miss his rakish side, all she’d seen suggested he wasn’t the type to be constantly on the prowl, sniffing after anything in skirts. He was a reserved and aloof wolf, if there was such a thing—picky and needing a challenge to stir him. Where she got such an assurance from, she had no idea, but whatever prey he settled on, she felt certain it would be no relatively helpless maid.
Indeed, despite the exchange, he seemed to have barely registered Milly’s presence; his gaze had swung to Constance all but immediately, and there it remained as he crossed the small room to stand on the opposite side of the table.
Only then did he lower his gaze to Glynis’s face.
Alaric was battling surprise and had to own to being curious as to why, despite the dead body between them, the primary focus of his senses was the Amazon facing him. He’d been informed by Mrs. Carnaby—who had known him since he’d been in short-coats—that in the staff’s estimation, Miss Whittaker was “a proper lady” and sane and sensible to boot. The latter assessment was high praise, indeed; Mrs. Carnaby did not bear fools gladly and usually sniffed and tipped up her nose at the foibles of the tonnish ladies Percy invited to stay.
Aware that he wasn’t the only one subject to the prods of curiosity, he glanced briefly at the Amazon’s strikingly attractive face. “I remembered something from last night, and I wanted to check.”
That, of course, guaranteed him her full attention; the mystery was that he craved it.
“Oh?” She stepped closer to the table and looked down at her dead cousin. “What did you remember?”
He reached for the high ruffle that largely concealed Glynis Johnson’s slender throat. “I need to see the base of her neck. Do you mind if I undo the collar?”
She frowned, but waved at him to proceed. “Not if it gets us any closer to identifying who did this.”
He slipped the top two buttons of the nightgown free, then spread the halves of the collar, exposing Glynis’s throat to the collarbones. He bent closer, examining the purple blotches left on the fine white skin. He pushed the cotton ruffle farther back, with his eyes following a line toward Glynis’s nape, and found, all but hidden beneath the heavy bruising, what he’d thought might be there.
Feeling a spark of elation, he pointed to the side of the throat, just above the point where neck met shoulder. “There. Can you see it?” He eased back a little to allow her to lean closer and examine the area. “The mark left by a chain.”
He looked and confirmed, “It’s repeated here, on the other side.” He straightened and looked at the Amazon; head bent, she was minutely examining the tiny marks left on the side of Glynis’s throat. “When I saw your cousin yesterday evening, when we
strolled on the terrace and then when I left her with Percy and the others, she was wearing a gold chain with some pendant—some weight—on it.”
Slowly, frowning more definitely, the Amazon straightened. “So presumably she was still wearing the chain when she met the murderer.”
“So one would think.”
“The chain’s been ripped off—that’s what left those marks.” She met his gaze. “What was the pendant—the thing she had on the chain?”
“I don’t know. She wore it beneath her bodice.”
For a second, they stared at each other, then she said, “I suspect this is—or at least might be—new evidence to lay before Sir Godfrey tomorrow.”
“Possibly.” He glanced at the body, then looked at the Amazon. “If you’ve finished here, perhaps we might take a stroll.”
“In the shrubbery?”
Dead body or no, his lips lifted. “That was my intention.”
With care and due reverence, she did up the buttons he’d undone, resettled the nightgown’s collar, then drew the sheet once more over her cousin’s face.
Then with a last, lingering glance at her cousin’s shrouded body, she rounded the table.
When she looked at him, he waved her to the door. “We have at least half an hour before it’ll be time to dress for dinner.”
Keen not to waste any of those minutes and therefore wishing to avoid the other guests, he directed her to the nearest exterior door—the one at the base of the west wing stairs. They quit the house and strode swiftly toward the forecourt to circle around to the shrubbery.
The instant they were out of the house, Constance glanced sidelong at Carradale; with his long legs, he was easily keeping pace with her, not something all men could do. It was her habit to plot and plan ahead, to thoroughly assess all options in advance for any scenario where she might be called on to make a quick decision. They crunched across the forecourt, and she fixed her gaze forward, looking across the lawn to the shrubbery entrance, still some way off. “Earlier, when Stonewall was here, you suggested that Scotland Yard should be called in. Based on all the protests voiced by the others and all I’ve heard elsewhere, I wouldn’t have thought bringing in Peel’s men would be something you would support.”
The Murder at Mandeville Hall: The Casebook of Barnaby Adair: Volume 7 Page 7