Page 12 of Marriage and Murder
“And,” Stokes continued, “returning to the witnesses who saw his lordship leave the cottage at about four-thirty, did they see him leave the cottage? As in, come out of the door and close it behind him?”
Mallard was not just seeing the light but, albeit reluctantly, finally accepting the reality. “No. They saw him walking down the path to the gate and stepping into the lane.”
Stokes nodded. “Do you have any evidence at all that places Lord Glossup inside Lavender Cottage on that afternoon?”
Mallard’s lips turned down. “No.”
“And when the medical examiner assessed the scene, did he find anything to suggest that the murder took place anywhere other than in the cottage parlor?”
“No.” Mallard sighed, then muttered, “Quite the opposite.”
Penelope sensed that Mallard was at the point of accepting that his case against Henry simply wouldn’t hold water, but to make certain of it, she shifted on the chair, and when Mallard and Stokes glanced her way, pointed out, “We shouldn’t forget his lordship’s horse. He tied it up in the lane where everyone in the village could see it, and everyone in Ashmore would know whose horse it was.”
Mallard wrinkled his nose. “He made no effort to hide the fact he was there.”
“Indeed.” Stokes shut his notebook. “As matters stand, Mallard, there are no evidentiary grounds upon which to charge Lord Glossup with the murder of Viola Huntingdon.”
Mallard’s expression resembled that of a bulldog whose bone had been taken away. “But his lordship’s late wife?—”
“Was murdered by someone else,” Stokes calmly cut in. “His lordship just happened to be in the house—his home—at the time.”
Mallard frowned darkly at his blotter, then glanced at Stokes. “I know Scotland Yard sent down an inspector at the time, but I heard it was his first big case, and perhaps he got it wrong, and it was his lordship as killed his wife the whole time.” Almost challengingly, Mallard went on, “He killed then, and he’s killed now. First his late wife and now, Viola Huntingdon.”
His expression impassive, Stokes regarded Mallard levelly. “Superintending Constable Mallard, I would advise you to be very careful about making such wild accusations. As it happens, I was the investigating officer Scotland Yard sent to Glossup Hall five years ago, and I made no mistake in charging Ambrose Calvin with the murder of Catherine Glossup. Aside from all else, he confessed before a small army of witnesses, including”—Stokes glanced at Penelope and Barnaby—“Mrs. Adair’s sister and brother-in-law and three of Mr. Adair’s close friends, all of whom attended the same house party.”
Barnaby thought Mallard looked like he’d swallowed a frog and didn’t know if he was allowed to cough.
Smoothly, Stokes went on, “Now, where can I find the medical examiner—Mr. Carter, was it?”
Apparently struck dumb, Mallard nodded, then rather uncertainly pushed to his feet. He cleared his throat and gruffly said, “I’ll show you to Carter’s office.”
They all rose and followed Mallard into the corridor. He led them up a flight of stairs and along a corridor to a door close to the corridor’s end. He tapped perfunctorily on the panel, opened the door, glanced inside, then announced, “Inspector Stokes of Scotland Yard and his two consultants would like a word about the Huntingdon case.”
With that, Mallard stepped back, and Penelope led the way into the office. Barnaby followed, and Stokes walked in behind him. As Stokes passed Mallard, Barnaby heard Stokes say, “That will be all for the moment, Mallard.”
A cool dismissal, and while Mallard’s features pinched, he accepted the unstated rebuke with a dip of his head and, reaching into the office, drew the door closed.
In Barnaby’s eyes, Mallard definitely deserved the reprimand for his investigative blindness. While the case against Henry would never have prospered in court, being charged with murder would have been Henry’s worst nightmare.
Penelope bustled eagerly into the medical examiner’s office. She was keen to hear what facts he had to impart. After listening to Mallard’s conjecturing for the past half hour, she was looking forward to getting her teeth into cold, hard evidence.
The man who rose from behind the desk to greet them was a surprisingly chipper individual. Carter was short, neat, and round, with a round cheery face and rotund torso. He had pale-brown hair and twinkling hazel eyes and appeared to be every bit as curious about them as Penelope was about his findings.
He smiled at her and Barnaby and half bowed, then held out his hand to Stokes. “Inspector. I’m Carter, medical examiner for the district.”
Stokes introduced Barnaby and Penelope, and with a “Very pleased to meet you,” Carter waved them to three chairs lined up before the desk. “I’d heard you were with Mallard and hoped you would stop by. It’s quite a case, evidence wise.” Carter resumed his seat and confided, “Mallard’s generally a sound man, but in this instance, I fear he’s picked the wrong bone to chew on.”
Penelope pounced. “You don’t think his lordship strangled Miss Huntingdon?”
“Well,” Carter temporized, “based on what we know to this point, strictly speaking, it’s possible he might have, but given the evidence I have to hand, it’s difficult to see why he would have.”
Stokes settled his notebook on his knee. “So what can you tell us?”
“Right, well, I went with Mallard to the scene—he’s good like that, taking us along if we’re here when he’s called.” Carter paused to marshal his facts. “The deceased was lying on her back in the parlor, a yard or so away from the hearth, the fire in which had burned to ash some considerable time before. The hearth was cold, as was the parlor, which allowed me to narrow the time of death despite the lengthy period between death and my examination of the corpse.” Carter broke off and directed an apologetic look at Penelope. “I do hope my use of such terms won’t offend you, Mrs. Adair.”
Penelope smiled reassuringly. “I’ve attended several murder scenes in my time, Mr. Carter. Trust me when I say it would take a great deal more than properly used words to upset me.”
Barnaby hid a grin.Improperly used words were forever a source of considerable offence to his wife.
