Page 31 of The Meriwell Legacy
Pemberton nodded. “Just so.” He immediately returned his gaze to Stokes’s face. “Neither lady was interfered with in any way. Whoever killed them simply wanted them dead.”
“Could the two murders have been committed by the same man?” Barnaby asked.
“Yes, and I would hope that was the case, or else you have two murderers under one roof.” Pemberton focused on Stokes. “Anything else you want to know?”
“Yes. According to Carradale, earlier in the evening, Miss Johnson had been wearing a chain and pendant that someone—possibly the murderer—subsequently ripped off. Any idea when the chain was taken?”
Pemberton nodded at Carradale. “Indeed—well spotted. And yes”—the surgeon returned his gaze to Stokes—“comparing the marks left by the chain to the bruises about her throat, I would say the chain was wrenched off at or very soon after the time of death.”
Stokes and Barnaby both nodded.
Miss Whittaker spoke. “Doctor, I’m a relative of Miss Johnson. Might I ask whether I can now make arrangements to have her body returned to our family?”
Penelope listened with half an ear as Pemberton, Stokes, and Miss Whittaker discussed and agreed on the release of Miss Johnson’s body. As Stokes bluntly said, “Given the time that’s elapsed since death and Pemberton’s undoubted expertise, I’m confident we’ve got all we’re likely to get from the dead.”
Looking smug at Stokes’s praise, Pemberton accepted his hat from a footman and bade them all goodbye.
Stokes watched him go, then turned to the others, still gathered in a circle in the middle of the front hall. Lowering his voice, he said, “It appears that whatever Miss Johnson was wearing on that chain was important to our murderer.”
Penelope nodded. “Could it—whatever it was—have precipitated her death? Did the sight of it enrage the murderer? Or was it something he knew she had, and he wanted it? Perhaps wanted it back?”
“All good questions,” Barnaby said. “But what I want to know is what the pendant or whatever was on the chain actually was.” He looked at Miss Whittaker. “Surely Miss Johnson’s maid would know.”
“Glynis didn’t have a maid with her,” Miss Whittaker said. “We could ask if any of the household’s maids was seeing to her—I haven’t yet had a chance to follow that up.”
“We can ask tomorrow.” Stokes glanced at Philpott, confirming he was making a note.
Miss Whittaker continued, “Glynis’s chaperon, Mrs. Macomber, might know what was on the chain, but after seeing Glynis dead—she was with me when I reached the shrubbery—she grew hysterical and had to be sedated. Sadly, when she woke the next day, before I could speak with her, a maid told her of Mrs. Cleary’s murder. After that, Mrs. Macomber grew so excessively distressed that the doctor recommended she be kept sedated for at least two more days, and he left a strong sedative. Unfortunately, Mrs. Macomber seems to have been powerfully affected by the draft, and she’s still sleeping too deeply to rouse—at least not to any purpose.”
Stokes grimaced. “So we’ll have to leave that until the morning, too.”
Penelope frowned. “If the murderer thinks Mrs. Macomber might know something that might help identify him…” She glanced at Miss Whittaker.
“Just so,” Miss Whittaker returned grimly. “But I’ve arranged to share Mrs. Macomber’s room, and when I’m not there, my maid is on duty and knows not to leave Mrs. Macomber alone.”
“Good.” Barnaby nodded approvingly. “So we can rest easy that we’re not going to wake tomorrow to find another dead body.”
“Indeed,” Miss Whittaker replied; Penelope thought she suppressed a small shudder, which was hardly to be wondered at. Coming upon one dead body, and that of a relative, was bad enough; coming upon two in quick succession would try any lady’s courage—even, Penelope suspected, her own.
“Right, then.” Stokes looked around their small circle. He nodded to Penelope and Barnaby. “We’re as ready as we can be.” To Carradale and Miss Whittaker, he said, “It would be helpful if the pair of you went in first and preserved the appearance of not being any more connected with the three of us than the other guests. Indeed, you are both on our suspect list until you’re formally cleared of involvement by the testimony of others, principally members of staff. Meanwhile, however, if you would, you could act as two extra pairs of eyes and ears—it’s more likely the guests will lower their guard around you two than us, and you might gain some valuable insight.”
More mildly, Barnaby said, “Please don’t imagine you’ll be committing any social solecism in observing and reporting on your fellow guests’ reactions. In cases of murder, nothing is sacred beyond our duty to the dead.”
“Specifically,” Penelope said, “our duty to identify and capture the murderer.”
Carradale and Miss Whittaker exchanged a glance, then both looked at Stokes, Penelope, and Barnaby and nodded. “We’ll do as you ask,” Carradale said.
“Indeed.” Miss Whittaker’s chin set, determination writ large in her face. “Nothing can possibly be more important than seeing the blackguard who murdered two innocent ladies brought to justice.”
With that declaration, she and Carradale turned, crossed the hall, and went into the drawing room.
Stokes, Barnaby, and Penelope waited for a full minute in silence, then Stokes turned and led the way—into what, for him, was the equivalent of a lion’s den.
Immediately becoming the cynosure of all eyes, Stokes calmly walked into the room and halted facing the fireplace about which the majority of the company were gathered. Rather than flank him, Barnaby and Penelope halted a few paces inside the door—in support, but not in any way detracting from Stokes’s authority.
“Good afternoon,” Stokes gravely said. “I am Senior Inspector Stokes from Scotland Yard. My men and I are here to investigate the recent deaths of Miss Glynis Johnson and Mrs. Rosamund Cleary.”
A heavyset gentleman peered around Stokes, nodded to Barnaby, then looked at Stokes. “And Adair and his wife?”
