Page 34 of The Meriwell Legacy
He shook his head. “I know Edward more by repute—via Percy and Percy’s older brother—than by direct exposure. Prior to this house party, I’d only met Edward a handful of times at family events.” He caught her green eyes. “But turning to the investigation of your cousin’s and Rosa Cleary’s murders, are you comfortable with Scotland Yard’s intervention?”
She arched her brows. “I wouldn’t say comfortable. Resigned, yes, and perhaps, now that I’ve met Inspector Stokes and his…I suppose the Adairs are consultants of sorts, then I’m rather more accepting of the notion that placing the investigation into their collective hands is our best hope for catching the murderer.”
She held his gaze, then her lips twitched, and she added, “I was watching the other ladies and some of the gentlemen, too, and I got the distinct impression that Stokes was a great deal more civilized than they’d expected.”
He felt his lips lift fractionally in response. “One can only hope the realization will make the others more amenable to assisting in whatever way they can.” He paused, then, his gaze steady on her eyes, went on, “I appreciate the reasoning behind Stokes’s request for us to continue to observe the others, but again, I deem it unlikely that the murderer, who thus far has remained entirely unruffled, will suddenly grow nervous or guilty and give himself away. And despite the edict that keeps all the others here, you are not a guest as such and therefore not subject to it, any more than I am.”
He wished he could foresee how she would react to his next suggestion; regardless, he felt compelled to make it. “I hope you won’t consider this impertinent, but there is a murderer in this house, under this roof, and there’s no real call for you to remain here and expose yourself to potential danger. You could retreat to the inn with Stokes and the others. There can be little question that you would be safer there.”
As she frequently had, she held his gaze in a direct and forthright manner. No blushes, much less any lowering of her gaze, and to his relief, he saw calculation behind the limpid green. After a moment, she tipped her head to one side, still studying him. “I understand your argument, and no—in these circumstances, with a murderer lurking, I don’t consider your suggestion impertinent. However, quite aside from being the investigative team’s eyes and ears among the guests, just in case the murderer does stumble and give himself away, as Rosa Cleary’s death and its aftermath demonstrated, at least one of us needs to be here—with the house party—all the time. If I hadn’t reached Rosa’s room so quickly, I’m perfectly sure she would have been moved, and the signs of violent death might well have been erased.”
He couldn’t help a cynical snort. “The others would have straightened her limbs and all but laid her out before they thought of informing anyone.”
“Precisely.” She paused, then added, “While I sincerely hope we have no more deaths, there’s always the chance something might crop up that points to the murderer—something others won’t see for what it is and will helpfully assist in destroying or concealing it.”
He couldn’t argue, but his anxiety—an emotion he’d rarely felt over anything yet couldn’t deny he felt now—didn’t abate. The notion of Miss Constance Whittaker being in any sort of danger…exercised something inside him he hadn’t known he possessed. “Very well.” The soundness of her reasoning left him with only one option—only one way to blunt the prick of an exceedingly pointed concern. “I’ll have a word with Percy and Carnaby—they’ll find me a room here.” He refocused on Miss Whittaker’s fine eyes. “Until we have the murderer by the heels, I’ll remain under this roof, too.”
With you.
Her eyes, locked with his, widened a fraction, then proving that she was more intelligent than the average, she inclined her head. “That might well prove a sensible move.”
Where the words came from, he didn’t know; he was too well versed in sophistication to make such a blatant move, yet…. “Would you think me presumptuous if I used your first name—Constance?”
Unblinking, she studied him for a second, then evenly replied, “Only if you refuse to extend the same courtesy to me—and I don’t know your first name.”
“It’s Alaric.”
Her brows rose. “That’s very old.”
“My family’s very old.”
Her lips twitched. “It suits you—and not because it’s old.”
Still holding her gaze, he arched one brow. “Just as, I suspect, your name suits you.”
She stilled for a second, then inclined her head. She rose. “I had better go and change.”
“As had I.” Now was not the time to push his luck. He got to his feet and followed her from the alcove.
* * *
Later that evening, Barnaby pushed back from the table in the private parlor of the Tabard Inn. Comfortably replete, he surveyed their small company. “It’s like old times.” He looked at Stokes. “Just you, me, and Penelope, with your constables to hand.”
Stokes nodded and leaned back in his chair.
The door opened. Penelope looked, then smiled and waved the two maids in to clear the remnants of what had proved a very acceptable repast.
After the door had shut behind the maids and their trays piled with dishes, the three friends sat and stared unseeing at the uninformative table; after a day of traveling, then having so many details of not one but two murders thrust upon them, none of them were feeling loquacious.
Glancing at the other two, Stokes felt certain that, like him, they were missing the children and Stokes’s wife, Griselda. Normally, with an investigation afoot, they would all have come together before dinner to share the known facts, then after dinner, it was their habit to go over the salient points of the case…
Stokes shook himself; he surveyed Barnaby, then Penelope, seated beside him. “We need to assess and plan our campaign. Let’s have Philpott and Morgan in and see where we are.”
Penelope duly roused herself. By the time the two constables arrived and drew up chairs to the table, she’d wrestled her mind from thoughts of her son, Oliver, who was no doubt thoroughly enjoying himself with his paternal grandparents, and refocused her wits on the murders. As the others settled, she said, “Why don’t we recount what we think we know and then see what loose ends present themselves—what facts we might tug on to unravel the case.”
Stokes grunted an assent and commenced a recitation of the bare facts as they knew them.
Despite there being two successive murders to describe, the bare facts didn’t take long to state.
