Unsure, Constance glanced at Carradale. He dipped his head. “The cool room here holds temperature reasonably well. If the inspector arrives tomorrow afternoon, which he should, that should suffice.”
Percy looked at Rosa Cleary’s body, then met Constance’s gaze. “I’ll get Carnaby to arrange moving…Rosa.”
Satisfied, Constance nodded. Nevertheless, as she and Carradale followed the other three out of the room, she locked the door once more.
She strolled beside Carradale in the wake of the others as they went down the main stairs, through the front hall, and out onto the front porch.
Together with Carradale, she halted beside Edward and Percy and watched as Sir Godfrey’s footman helped hoist his master into his coach. Calling out a last promise to send a courier to London with all speed, Sir Godfrey rattled away down the drive.
Edward, whose expression had remained a mask of rectitude for the duration of Sir Godfrey’s visit, snorted softly. “An investigation run by Scotland Yard. Viscount Mandeville will be furious. And I can’t imagine how your mother and her cronies will react to the gossip. As for the rest of the family, I believe I can state with absolute assurance that they will be horrified.”
His expression close to blank, Percy regarded his cousin for a silent moment, then said, “At least Scotland Yard will get to the bottom of it.”
“Perhaps,” Edward scoffed. “But at what cost?” With an abrupt shake of his head, he stalked back into the house.
Percy sighed. He raised a hand and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “He means well, but he’s so damned focused on the family’s reputation, he simply doesn’t consider…” Belatedly realizing a lady was present, Percy looked up and grimaced. “Forgive me, Miss Whittaker.”
She smiled briefly. “No need. I understand your frustration.”
“Yes, well.” Percy looked into the front hall. “I suppose I had better go and explain to the others what’s happening.” He pulled a face. “At least having to remain shouldn’t prove a problem.” To Constance, he explained, “The house party was to run until Saturday.”
“So I understood.” Today was Wednesday. If the inspector from Scotland Yard arrived tomorrow afternoon, he would have less than two days before the guests started agitating to be allowed to leave.
Percy sighed again, then nodded to Constance and Carradale and walked into the house.
Constance watched him go, then turned to Carradale. “Will you remain at the Hall, or do you need to return to your home?”
He met her eyes, then said, “No. I’d intended to spend most of my days this week here, and now…I rather think I want to be on hand, in case anything else happens.”
“In case the murderer gives himself away in some fashion?”
His features hardened. “Indeed.”
She looked in the direction Percy had gone. She compressed her lips, then eased them and admitted, “I’m still not sure what I feel about Scotland Yard being involved.” Briefly, she glanced at Carradale. “My instincts run more along the line of Edward’s—that nothing but greater scandal will ensue.”
Carradale shook his head. “I’m almost certain the commissioner will send Stokes—if he’s available. And all I’ve seen and heard suggests he’s a sensible and reasonable man, one with insight into the world of the ton and how it operates.”
She studied his face. “You’re speaking from experience.”
He dipped his head in acknowledgment. “I wasn’t directly involved, and my interaction with Stokes himself was brief, but I know Adair—the gentleman who often acts as Stokes’s partner with, I gather, the commissioner’s consent—and Adair is an earl’s son and is more than aware of all the ins and outs of our world. He’s also inherently trustworthy.”
He’d said as much before—or at least had alluded to it—but that he spoke from personal knowledge went a considerable way toward reassuring her that she wasn’t going to see her cousin’s name dragged through any mud.
Side by side, they started walking back into the house.
“At least with Scotland Yard on the case,” Carradale continued, “you can be assured of a properly conducted investigation.” He met her eyes. “In terms of securing justice for your cousin and Rosa Cleary, getting Scotland Yard involved is the most critical thing we needed to do.”
She found herself faintly smiling, not just at his words but at the determination and intent investing them. It was comforting to have confidence that however grimly she was set on catching Glynis’s and now Rosa’s killer, Carradale’s commitment matched hers.
Chapter 5
At a little after four o’clock on Thursday afternoon, Senior Inspector Basil Stokes of Scotland Yard looked out of the window of the carriage that was bowling up a gravel drive and beheld his destination, Mandeville Hall.
A Gothic-style building in pale brown stone, the central house had been added to over centuries; like some crouching beast, it appeared to have spawned two sprawling wings and—like horns—two rather pretentious turrets. The central building was three stories high, while the wings were two stories with attics above. A long, stone-balustraded terrace stretched along the front of the house and appeared to continue down the left side. Mature woodland crowded close on the right and, it seemed, the rear, but on the left was held back by an extensive array of established hedges.
The sweeping drive ended in an oval forecourt before the stone steps leading up to the porch and the front door.
Seated next to Stokes and leaning forward to peer at the house, the police surgeon, Pemberton, grumbled, “About time. If the nobs have to kill each other, why can’t they do it in London?”
Stokes grunted; he wasn’t best pleased to have been sent into deepest Hampshire either. “At least it isn’t Yorkshire.” With the new arrangements in place, Scotland Yard—in the person of its inspectors, sergeants, and constables—could be called on to take charge of investigations into serious crimes anywhere in the country.
He glanced across the carriage at his constables, Morgan and Philpott. He would miss Sergeant O’Donnell, but the older, more experienced man had had to be left at the Yard to tie up the loose ends pertaining to a string of jewel robberies in Hatton Gardens.
As their carriage—not the usual lumbering Yard conveyance but a faster, lighter hired coach—swept around the last bend in the drive and the front porch, until then largely obscured by the canopies of the trees bordering the drive, came into clear view, Stokes caught sight of a tall, dark-haired, elegantly yet somehow negligently attired figure lounging against one of the porch pillars.
Stokes blinked and leaned forward, eyes squinting against the westering light.
Pemberton shot him a glance. “Who is he?”
“I’ve met him before…once.” Stokes flicked through his capacious memory. It hadn’t been that long ago… “Carradale. Lord.” Intrigued, he added, “A denizen of Jermyn Street. I didn’t expect to see him here.”
“Hmm. Will he be useful? Can we trust him?”
“He’s acquainted with Adair. If I read their interaction correctly, they’ve known each other for years.” Stokes replayed what he could remember of his and Barnaby Adair’s short interview with Carradale while pursuing a case the previous year. “Carradale seemed a decent sort. So yes, potentially useful.”
Possibly very useful. Stokes was distinctly pleased to discover he had a contact already in the household.
The carriage slowed, then halted. Stokes opened the door and climbed down. He looked up at Carradale, nodded to signify recognition, and started up the steps.
Carradale pushed away from the pillar and came to meet Stokes. Somewhat to Stokes’s surprise, Carradale held out his hand and said, “I hoped they’d send you.”
Grasping the proffered hand, Stokes arched his brows. “In that case, I’m glad not to disappoint.”
Carradale’s mobile lips twitched, but then he sobered. His gaze moved past Stokes to Pemberton as the surgeon stumped up the steps, his telltale black b
ag in hand.
Stokes gestured to Pemberton. “Our police surgeon. He needs to examine the bodies.”
Pemberton touched the brim of his black hat and nodded to Carradale. “My lord. If you could direct me to the deceaseds, plural, I’d like to get started immediately. I’m expected to return to London tonight.”
“Of course.” Carradale turned to the open door. “Carnaby.”
The butler came forward and inclined his head to Stokes and Pemberton, then looked at Carradale. “My lord?”
“Mr. Pemberton needs to examine the bodies. Please show him to the cool room.”
“Indeed, my lord. At once.” To Pemberton, Carnaby said, “If you’ll come this way, sir.”
With an “I’ll come and make my report before leaving” to Stokes, Pemberton went, pacing alongside Carnaby, his focus already on his work.
Carradale stared at the surgeon’s retreating back. When Carradale glanced at Stokes and realized he’d noticed, Carradale said, “I’ll be interested in hearing his findings.”
Stokes allowed his brows to rise. After a second, he said, “I take it you’re staying here.”
“Yes and no. I’m attending the house party, along with about twenty others. However, my own house is just through the woods, so I haven’t been spending my nights here. I’ve attended through the days and evenings, and as I’m an old friend of the owner—Mr. Percival Mandeville—and was acquainted, however briefly, with you, Percy asked, and I agreed to meet you and act as your liaison with the other guests, as well as with Percy and the staff.”
Inwardly, Stokes rejoiced; his task had just got immeasurably easier. “You know everyone?”
“Some better than others, but yes—we run in the same circles.”
Excellent. Stokes felt much more confident of catching his man sooner rather than later. In acknowledgment of Carradale’s willingness to act as go-between, he said, “If you were glad to see me, then I expect you’ll be even happier to hear that Adair’s on his way. Along with his wife, who is shockingly adept at ferreting out social secrets.”
Fleetingly, Carradale grinned. “Mrs. Penelope Adair—indeed, her reputation is legion, even among this set.” He paused, then admitted, “Given the season, I didn’t dare hope Adair might be available.”
“Well, if one can talk of luck in the face of murder, in this instance, it was on your side—the Adairs deposited their son with his doting grandparents at Cothelstone Castle and came down to attend a house party near Andover. I sent a courier before I left London. I’ll be surprised if they aren’t here soon.”
Carradale looked relieved. “That’s…excellent news.”
Stokes nodded. “Meanwhile, I haven’t received any detailed information. The magistrate simply wrote that two women—ladies attending this house party—have died in suspicious circumstances, one on Monday night and the other on Tuesday, again sometime during the night.”
Carradale grimaced. “As far as it goes, that’s accurate.”
“But not terribly informative.” Stokes glanced at the house. “I would appreciate having a better notion of what happened before I go in and meet possible suspects.” He held up a finger. “One moment.”
At the bottom of the steps, Philpott and Morgan were waiting for orders. “Usual procedures,” Stokes said. “Philpott—you’re with me. Morgan—go and charm the cook and the maids and see what they can tell us.”
“Aye, sir.” Morgan grinned and snapped off a salute, then he turned and made his way around the house.
Carradale watched him go, then looked back at Stokes. “Your constable appears to know his way about a country house, at least when it comes to ingratiating himself with the staff.”
“That he does—an invaluable trait.” Stokes arched a brow at Philpott, who quietly extracted his notebook and pencil, then Stokes looked back at Carradale. “The beginning is always a good place to start.”
Carradale gathered his thoughts, then offered, “The house party officially commenced on Sunday afternoon. All the guests were here by then, and I’d ridden over from Carradale Manor—there’s a bridle path between the stables of the two houses.”
“Did you notice anything unusual on Sunday—or on Monday, during the day?”
Carradale thought before shaking his head. “No. Nothing at all. As far as I saw, everyone behaved entirely normally.” He met Stokes’s gaze. “It was a good group—a felicitous choice of guests. Everyone seemed to be getting on, and there was no hint of any tensions. Mandeville—Percy, that is—and I commented on the ease of the company on Monday evening, during what was effectively a soirée, held in the drawing room.”
“So when did Monday’s death occur, and who died?”
Carradale’s expression turned grim. “The first to die was a Miss Glynis Johnson. Sometime after the company retired—so more correctly in the early hours of Tuesday—she was strangled just inside the shrubbery. At about that time, another guest, a Mrs. Rosamund Cleary, was taking the air on the terrace. She saw a gentleman leave the shrubbery and make for the house. The light was poor, and she couldn’t see who it was, but she was certain the man was a gentleman and that he headed for the front door, which at that hour was still unlocked.”
Stokes closed his eyes and stifled a groan. “Don’t tell me—this Mrs. Cleary is the other lady now dead.”
He opened his eyes to see Carradale nod.
“A maid found Mrs. Cleary dead in her bed on Wednesday morning. There was a pillow tucked down beside the bed. Those of us who’ve seen Mrs. Cleary and examined the pillowcase believe the pillow was used to smother her while she slept. She might well have taken laudanum to help her sleep, but it was clear she’d thrashed in the bed before she…died.”
The last word was said with both sorrow and distaste. And not a little underlying anger.
Stokes eyed Carradale. “Did you know Mrs. Cleary well?”
Carradale’s gaze snapped to his, then his lips twisted. “Not in the way you’re thinking. But I had been acquainted with her for…it must be nine years. Ever since her husband died and she started moving in the same circles I did.”
Stokes registered Carradale’s use of the past tense and wondered, but the point was unlikely to be relevant to the investigation. He glanced at the hedges beyond the end of the long front terrace. “Is that the shrubbery over there?”
Carradale looked over his shoulder. “Yes. It’s extensive.”
“You said Miss Johnson’s body was found just inside—who found it?”
“I did.” Carradale turned back and met Stokes’s gaze. “I’d ridden over after breakfast to join the company for the day. I left my horse with the stableman, Hughes, and was walking up to the house—I always take the path through the shrubbery, as it avoids having to go through the kitchen and disturbing the staff.”
Stokes nodded his understanding. He debated, then said, “You’re going to have to go through everything for Adair and Penelope—I can’t imagine they won’t turn up in the next half hour or so. Given that, instead of you telling and me hearing all twice, while the light’s still good, I’ll take a look at where you found Miss Johnson’s body.”
Carradale waved down the steps. “The fastest route is via the forecourt, along the front of the terrace, then across the lawn.”
On reaching the gravel of the forecourt, Stokes glanced at the front door, then fell in beside Carradale, matching his long strides. “Am I correct in thinking we’re retracing the route that the gentleman who was glimpsed leaving the shrubbery would have taken?”
“Going by what Rosa said, had he been a member of the house party, then yes. He would have come this way.” As they rounded the corner of the house, Carradale pointed along the terrace that continued down that side. “From the shrubbery entrance, I normally make for the steps and the side door there”—he was pointing to steps leading up to a door set between windows midway down the terrace—“but that door gives onto the library and, late at night, would likely have been locked.”
/> “That suggests the gentleman knew the ways of the house well enough to make for the front door.”
Carradale waggled his head. “In case guests want to walk at night, Percy makes a point of mentioning that the front door is the last to be locked and that very late. Any of the guests would have known.”
Stokes humphed.
Carradale led him to an archway cut in the thick, high hedges that, it seemed, enclosed quite a large section of the garden. “There are five discrete gardens within the shrubbery. The hedged paths link them—like corridors between rooms.”
Halting just inside the archway, Stokes saw what Carradale meant. The grass there was lush underfoot, rendering the “corridor” one with green walls and floor and blue sky for a ceiling. Noting an area three yards on where the grass was still partially flattened, Stokes pointed. “She was there?”
“Yes.” Carradale’s tone held the taut undercurrent of anger again. He walked to the spot and looked down. “Just there.” Then he looked further and waved beyond the end of the walk. “I passed through three of the five gardens to reach here. The other two gardens are on the other side of the entrance.”
Stokes crouched and examined where the body had lain—it was just possible to make out—then he raised his head and scanned the area. “This seems an odd place to meet—so close to the entrance. Perhaps Miss Johnson and the gentleman had been walking together in one of the gardens and had started back toward the house when some argument blew up.”
Carradale shrugged. “Either that or she came out expecting to meet someone, but ran into the murderer instead.”
“Then whoever she was supposed to meet should have found her, or at least mentioned the aborted meeting the next day.” Stokes looked up at Carradale and arched his brows. “What if she merely went for a walk in the night air and the murderer ran into her as she was heading back—possibly having followed and lain in wait?”