Page 30 of The Meriwell Legacy
Stokes nodded. “No doubt we’ll shorten that list soon enough.” He glanced at Philpott, who had been scribbling throughout. “Let’s get the names of all the guests from Mr. Mandeville later.” Stokes frowned, then glanced at Carradale and Miss Whittaker. “When you mentioned your host, both of you specified a Percy Mandeville. Are there more Mr. Mandevilles present?”
“Just one other—Edward Mandeville, Percy’s cousin.” Carradale lightly grimaced. “He’s older and, as you’ll discover, pompous and arrogant. He apparently took it upon himself to attend to ensure nothing of a scandalous nature occurred to blot the family escutcheon.”
“Ah.” Barnaby nodded in understanding. “I take it that, in the past, Percy Mandeville’s house parties have been…racy if not outright licentious.” He glanced at Miss Whittaker. “That explains your family’s aversion to having Miss Johnson attend.”
Miss Whittaker nodded. “That was what we had heard and feared.”
“To give Percy his due, while in the past these yearly parties of his were on the licentious side, this year, while I’m sure several affairs are being conducted under the Hall’s roof, the tone of the event has been much more sedate.” Carradale shrugged. “I put it down to the guests having attained a degree of wisdom, but perhaps Percy inviting two unmarried young ladies and their chaperons also contributed to the more acceptable tone. None of those here are of the ilk to seduce or act in a way that would shock innocent young ladies.”
“How…interesting.” Penelope had to wonder what had caused Percy Mandeville to change his spots, so to speak. And possibly Carradale, too, although in his case, while any experienced lady with eyes would instantly place him in the too-dangerous-to-know class, she understood that when it came to his liaisons, he had always been rigidly discreet. A rake he might be, but an aloof and distant one, a gentleman who kept his private life private.
“Very well. So that’s the first murder in brief.” Barnaby arched his brows at Carradale and Miss Whittaker. “Now tell us about the second.”
Miss Whittaker drew in a deeper breath and embarked on a clear and concise recitation of events, covering Mrs. Cleary’s strange turn in the corridor in the evening, followed by her retiring early, then Miss Whittaker waking to a maid’s scream and discovering Mrs. Cleary smothered in her bed. Between them, she and Carradale described the evidence that supported that conclusion, then Carradale swiftly sketched the details of their subsequent encounter with the magistrate and Sir Godfrey’s agreement to call in Scotland Yard.
Carradale concluded by outlining the present state of play, namely that both bodies had been preserved as well as possible pending the Yard’s advice—Stokes broke in to inform them that Pemberton had traveled down with him and was conducting his examination as they spoke—that they’d locked up the second murder scene for what that might be worth, and that Sir Godfrey had at least had sense enough to decree that all the guests had to remain at the Hall until Stokes gave them leave to depart.
Barnaby frowned. “When is the house party due to end?”
“Saturday morning,” Carradale replied.
Barnaby grimaced. “It’s already Thursday afternoon.” He met Carradale’s eyes. “I suspect we’d better learn who’s on the guest list now rather than later.”
Penelope saw understanding dawn in Carradale’s eyes. He thought, then grimaced as well. “Leaving aside the ladies, in addition to the two Mandevilles, we have Mr. Henry Wynne, the Earl of Dorset’s nephew, the Honorable Mr. Guy Walker, Mr. Robert Fletcher, heir to Viscount Margate, Viscount Hammond, Mr. William Coke, Colonel Walter Humphries, and Captain Freddy Collins.”
Barnaby sighed and looked at Stokes. “Finding our killer just turned urgent. You might be able to persuade some of the guests that they need to remain here until we’ve identified the murderer, but your chances of holding the likes of Wynne, Walker, and Fletcher, much less Coke and even Humphries, are slim to none.”
Stokes pulled a face. After a moment, he looked at the house. “Let’s cross that Rubicon when we come to it. But if we are going to be pressed for time, I suggest that now we have some inkling of what happened, we’d better make a start.”
Penelope settled her spectacles on the bridge of her nose. “Before we march in and start asking questions, are we all agreed that, based on what we currently know, our working hypothesis is that Miss Johnson was strangled by one of the gentlemen staying at the Hall, that he ripped the chain and whatever pendant she was concealing from about her neck, left her lying on the grass in the shrubbery, and returned to the house via the front door—along the way being glimpsed by Mrs. Cleary, but as a gentleman she couldn’t identify. The next evening, Mrs. Cleary’s turn in the corridor led the murderer to assume that she had recognized or would recognize him, and subsequently, he silenced her by smothering her in her bed.” Penelope looked around the faces of their small group. “Is that it?”
The others took a moment to think through her words, then nodded or murmured agreement.
“Excellent!” Penelope turned to the porch and the open front door. “Now we know where we stand, I suggest we forge on.”
She led the way up the steps, unsurprised that Miss Whittaker quickly caught up with her and kept pace. They walked together over the threshold and into the cool dimness of the front hall and found the butler waiting.
“What is it, Carnaby?” Carradale asked as, with Barnaby and Stokes, he joined Penelope and Miss Whittaker.
The butler—Carnaby—swiftly studied their faces, then settled on Stokes. “Inspector?”
Stokes nodded. “I’m Inspector Stokes of Scotland Yard, here to investigate the deaths of Miss Glynis Johnson and Mrs. Rosamund Cleary.”
“Indeed, sir. And I wish to assure you that the staff hold themselves ready to render whatever assistance we may.” Carnaby drew himself up. “However, if we might beg a small indulgence, time is getting on, and we have a houseful of guests to feed—is it at all possible to put off any questioning of the staff until later?”
Stokes thought, then replied, “Given the hour, I can’t see us getting around to interviewing the staff until tomorrow. If any member of the staff has information pertaining to the murders that they feel should be brought to our attention immediately, they can give that information to Constable Morgan, who I believe is currently in the servants’ hall.”
Obviously relieved, Carnaby nodded. “Indeed, sir, he is. I’ll instruct the staff to inform him of any urgent matter.” Carnaby stepped back and gestured to a closed set of double doors. “The company are waiting in the drawing room, along with the magistrate, Sir Godfrey Stonewall. If you’re ready—”
“Stokes! Before you get caught up…” Pemberton, the police surgeon, came lumbering up from the rear of the front hall. He dipped his head to Barnaby and Penelope. “Adair. Mrs. Adair.”
“What can you tell us?” Stokes asked. “Anything to make my life easier?”
“Well, I can confirm that you’re dealing with two murders—one by strangulation, the other by smothering. No doubt about either, and both likely committed by a man…” Pemberton’s gaze had passed to Miss Whittaker. After a moment, he faintly grimaced and amended, “Or a very strong woman. Height is also necessary—whoever strangled Miss Johnson was at least several inches taller than she.”
Penelope glanced at Miss Whittaker. “How tall was Miss Johnson?”
Miss Whittaker dryly replied, “She was of average height.”
