Page 26 of The Meriwell Legacy
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.
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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.”
