Page 17 of The Meriwell Legacy
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.
