Page 10 of Marriage and Murder
“We would infinitely prefer them to tell us facts rather than what they think might have happened,” Penelope said.
“Of course,” Henry replied. “I have more than enough to get on with managing the estate. I’ll avoid the village for now.” He shook hands with Barnaby and Stokes and tipped his hat to Penelope, then strode off.
Penelope, Barnaby, and Stokes watched him go, then as one, they turned and looked at the police station.
“Right,” Stokes said. “Let’s get to it.”
There was a certain relish in his tone that made Penelope smile as he led the way into the building, and she and Barnaby followed.
Stokes strode directly for the front counter, currently manned by a fresh-faced constable. Stokes introduced himself and added that Barnaby and Penelope were consultants working for Scotland Yard. “We’re here to speak with Superintending Constable Mallard.”
The young constable’s eyes couldn’t have got any wider. “Yes, sir! At once, sir!” He glanced around, plainly wondering what to do next, then piped, “I won’t be more than a minute, sirs. Ma’am.” With that, he rushed to a door along the wall behind the counter and disappeared through it.
Significantly less than a minute later, a large, heavily built man of about fifty summers, with graying-brown hair and a heavyset figure garbed in a neat but well-worn police uniform, came out through the same door, moving with a slow yetdeliberate flat-footed gait. In keeping with his size, his features were large in his round face and, overall, unremarkable and tending toward the fleshy. The only element about him that was smallish was his gray-blue eyes, and the expression in them was shrewd and calculating as he rapidly took stock of his visitors.
Unruffled and urbane, Stokes nodded in greeting. “Mallard.”
Mallard’s answering nod was respectful. “Inspector Stokes.” Shifting his gaze to Penelope and Barnaby, standing at Stokes’s shoulder, Mallard blinked several times, clearly not knowing what to make of them.
Stokes took pity on him and gestured in their direction. “This is Mr. Barnaby Adair and Mrs. Adair. They act as consultants to Scotland Yard, especially when a case touches the aristocracy, as I believe this case does.” Stokes paused a beat, evaluating Mallard, then added, “They’re here at the express request of the commissioner.”
Mallard nodded heavily. “I see.”
Barnaby took that to mean that Mallard now recognized the futility of any move to limit Barnaby and Penelope’s involvement in the investigation. That didn’t mean that Mallard was, as yet, entirely happy over their presence.
“In that case, if you’ll come through to my office”—Mallard waved at the door through which he’d come—“we can discuss the details thus far known regarding the murder of Miss Viola Huntingdon.”
They followed him through the door, which gave access to a narrow corridor, then turned left and went through a door on the opposite side of the passageway. The room beyond was a decent-sized office, the central focus of which was a large desk half covered by a collection of messy papers and file folders. One large chair sat behind the desk, and wooden filing cabinets lined the walls. While Mallard drew forward two more chairs to join the single chair already facing the desk, Barnaby saw Penelopeto that chair, then accepted another straight-backed chair from Mallard, placed it beside her, and sat.
Stokes set his chair on Penelope’s other side and made himself comfortable while Mallard rounded the desk and sank into his customary chair.
“Right, then.” Mallard clearly wished to keep control of the exchange. “Now you’re here, we can get on with closing this case. It’s as open-and-shut as they come.” He clasped his hands on his blotter and regarded them steadily. “As I mentioned, the victim was a Miss Viola Huntingdon, a forty-two-year-old spinster lady, and she was strangled to death in the parlor of her cottage. That’s Lavender Cottage, in the village of Ashmore.”
Mallard focused on Barnaby and Penelope. “I take it you’re here because of Lord Glossup’s involvement, and indeed, him being involved is why I sent for Scotland Yard.” He switched his gaze to Stokes. “I didn’t feel I have the standing to arrest a lord.”
Stokes studied Mallard, then replied, “Before we discuss any arrest, perhaps you should outline your case against Lord Glossup.”
Mallard nodded, leaned forward slightly, and obliged. “First, on the morning of the murder, we have two witnesses to an argument—apparently quite a heated one—between the victim, Miss Huntingdon, and his lordship. At the conclusion of the exchange, his lordship issued a threat to the victim, along the lines that if she did a certain thing he disapproved of, he would make sure she didn’t live to do it again.”
Grimly, Mallard nodded and went on, “Then, later in the day, we have two other witnesses who saw his lordship leaving the victim’s house at a time when we now know she was dead.” Mallard paused, then continued, “And if that weren’t enough to put Lord Glossup in the dock, there’s the fact that his late wife was murdered in exactly the same way just five years back. She was strangled, too.” Mallard studied their faces, butBarnaby knew he would read absolutely nothing in any of their expressions. A trifle uncertainly, Mallard pressed on, “It’s hard to overlook the similarities in the two deaths, both associated with the one person. I wasn’t here then, but in light of this new murder, the locals are all whispering about how his lordship must have killed his wife, too, but he got away with it that time.”
Barnaby glanced at Stokes to see how he would react, but his friend was looking down at his notebook.
Without looking up, Stokes asked, “I understand the medical examiner has given an estimate of the time of death?”
Mallard looked pleased. “He has, indeed. To the minute. I took Doc Carter down with me as soon as we were told of the death. That was at noon on the day after the murder. By examining the body, Carter put the time of death as between twelve and four o’clock, but there was a carriage clock that plainly got broken in the struggle, and it had stopped at three-thirty-three. The housekeeper said the victim was very fond and proud of the clock and wound and set it every morning. The sister of the victim, who arrived the next day, confirmed that, so it seems we’re on sound ground in declaring the murder was committed at three-thirty-three.”
“I see.” Stokes was assiduously taking notes. “So at present, it appears that the murder was committed at three-thirty-three or close to that.” He finally looked up and pinned Mallard with his gaze. “You said his lordship returned to the cottage sometime in the afternoon. When, exactly?”
Mallard frowned. “As to that, we don’t actually know when he got there, but we have two witnesses who saw him leaving, and that was at about four-thirty.”
Stokes nodded. “We’ll get to those witnesses in a moment, but first, do you know how his lordship arrived at the cottage?”
“Apparently, he rode,” Mallard replied. “Seems he rides everywhere.”
“Indeed. Where did he leave his horse?” Stokes asked.
“According to our witnesses,” Mallard replied, “it was tied up in the lane by the gate.”
