Page 10 of The Meriwell Legacy
He arched a brow. “I’m resigned. I never thought they’d agree, but I felt the point needed to be made.” After a second, he remarked, “At least this way, no one will balk at sending for Stonewall.”
Sure enough, as the protests faded into grumblings, with some opining that Alaric had only made the suggestion to throw the proverbial cat among the pigeons, Edward conferred with Percy, then once more raised his voice. “I’ll send for Stonewall—he’s the local man here.”
When many looked his way, Alaric inclined his head in acceptance; it wasn’t, after all, his house.
Miss Whittaker was still studying him as if he was some strange specimen. As Edward strode from the room, presumably to consult with Carnaby, and the other guests returned to their speculation, she inquired, “Why not Stonewall?”
Alaric shifted his gaze to meet hers. “You’ll see. Then again, who knows?” He shrugged. “He might have changed.” He doubted it, but anything, he supposed, was possible.
Miss Whittaker bent her frown—the one he’d already realized meant she was trying to puzzle something out—on him. “Stonewall is—presumably—closer. And perhaps he’ll take one look and summon Scotland Yard himself. He can do that, can’t he? That might be more effective.”
Alaric’s reply was a dry “We can but hope.”
The door opened, and Edward came in. He walked to his previous position before the hearth, turned, and informed everyone that the magistrate, Sir Godfrey Stonewall, had been summoned.
Everyone waited, patently expecting some direction. Edward looked at Percy—many others did as well, Alaric and Miss Whittaker among them—but as before, Percy seemed disinclined to take the lead. He still looked ashen, as if the shock of the murder had knocked him for six and he hadn’t yet got his mental legs under him.
Or more likely, in Alaric’s estimation, a realization of the consequences of it becoming known, as it inevitably would, that such an unsavory murder had occurred at his house, during a house party he was hosting, had started to impinge on Percy’s awareness and had—perhaps unsurprisingly—scuppered all confidence.
Alaric could attest that Percy was definitely not the strong and decisive sort, that he’d always lacked confidence in unexpected situations. His patent inability to step up and lead the company now was entirely consistent with his known character.
Edward cleared his throat and, when everyone looked his way, said, “I gather Stonewall is unlikely to arrive before the afternoon. Perhaps, in the circumstances, it might be best to go over what information we have of Miss Johnson’s movements during the evening just past. Who knows? By sharing what we observed and assembling all the facts, we might unearth a clue, which we can then lay before Stonewall and perhaps get through his visit with less fuss.”
Constance bit her tongue against the urge to inform the company that she didn’t care how much fuss it took to identify the man who’d killed Glynis—and that they shouldn’t care, either. But she was a realist, and people of this ilk always seemed to measure the cost of things in terms of how much they, personally, would be put out. But even more pertinently, learning all the company knew of Glynis’s movements the previous night ranked high on Constance’s list of immediate objectives.
She felt Carradale’s gaze touch her face, as if he could read her thoughts—feel her impulses. A second later, he murmured, “Just wait. They’ll perk up at the thought of sharing what they know—it’s an occupation very close to gossiping.”
Despite the weight that had settled about her heart, she almost smiled.
He touched her arm, then gestured to an unoccupied armchair. “This,” he murmured, “is likely to take some time.”
She walked to the chair and sank down; the position—nearer to the door than the other settings—gave her a decent view of all the company as they gathered their thoughts. Carradale fetched a straight-backed chair from against the wall and placed it alongside the armchair. He sat as the gentleman who had summoned the magistrate stated, “Perhaps we should start from a moment when we can all agree Glynis was present in the drawing room.”
Constance glanced at Carradale and quietly asked, “Who is that gentleman—the one who just spoke?”
“Edward Mandeville. He’s Percy’s older cousin.”
She nodded as a lady with brassy-blond ringlets raised a hand.
“Glynis and I were together, chatting with Monty and Robert for a time. Then we four joined Carradale, and after some time, Glynis asked him to escort her out onto the terrace.”
Constance wasn’t surprised at the salacious glances cast at the gentleman beside her.
For his part, he didn’t seem to notice. Instead, his expression entirely serious, he nodded. “Miss Johnson declared she needed some air. She and I walked the terrace for about ten minutes. She didn’t say anything to suggest she was in any way frightened, much less that she feared for her life or even held reservations over any man present.”
The realization that Glynis apparently had had reason to fear one of the men present registered in most minds and eradicated all inclination to levity. Every face grew somber.
“Subsequent to our stroll in the moonlight,” Carradale continued, “I returned with Miss Johnson to the drawing room, and we joined the group that included Percy, Monty, Cyril and Caroline Hammond, and Colonel Humphries.”
An older gentleman with a military mustache humphed. “Remember that quite clearly. You left soon after.”
Carradale inclined his head. “Indeed. The last I saw of Miss Johnson, she was chatting with Cyril and Caroline.”
The Hammond pair, apparently brother and sister-in-law, took up the tale. Consequently, others chimed in, various members of the company growing animated as they either related their interaction with Glynis or confirmed seeing her talking with someone else.
Minute by minute, interaction by interaction, the assembled guests traced Glynis’s movements as she’d circulated among the groups in the drawing room. As she listened, Constance realized that although Glynis had to have been somewhat out of her depth in this company, she’d managed to hold her own among them quite creditably; no one spoke of her with anything less than respect and, at minimum, mild liking. From no quarter—not even the other unmarried young lady—did Constance sense any animosity.
Why, then, had Glynis been killed?
