Page 14 of The Curse of Ill-Gotten Gains
Stokes’s grammar-school diction and his ease in this rather formal setting further reassured her ladyship. She inclined her head graciously and waved Stokes to an armchair.
“Firstly,” Penelope said, keen not to let the reins of the interview slip, “allow us to offer our condolences on your recent loss.” While uttering that and several similar anodyne phrases, she noted that, although all three Underhills showed signs of being blindsided by the murder, still appearing shocked and stunned, there was not a tear to be seen between them, and as yet, none of the three were pretending to be overcome with grief.
Grief might yet come, but this, Penelope felt, was their current true emotional state. They hadn’t started to shape their reactions to what they thought they should show. Safe in Pamela’s private parlor, presumably, they saw no need.
Quietly, Stokes added his condolences and those of the Commissioner as well. “Allow me to assure you that we have every intention of identifying and taking up the perpetrator as soon as may be.”
Judging by her demeanor, Pamela—well known for being extremely starchy—was softening somewhat, clearly mollified by the apparent attention being paid to her family.
Penelope seized the moment to say, “Purely by way of confirmation, you are the elder daughter of the late Marquess of Skeldon, and your husband was one of the Hertfordshire Underhills.”
Pamela nodded. “That’s correct.”
“And your son, Vincent”—Penelope indicated the young man in the armchair—“and your daughter, Cecilia, are your and Mr. Underhill’s only children.”
Pamela glanced at Vincent, then looked at Cecilia, seated beside her. She squeezed Cecilia’s hand and attempted a faint, encouraging smile. “Indeed.” Pamela paused, then faintly frowning, added, “It’s really so…inconsiderateof Monty to get himself killed, and on the very first morning of my house party.” Pamela looked at Penelope. “As I’m sure you will understand, Mrs. Adair, we had such hopes…”
Cecilia shifted and patted her mother’s hand. “It’s all right, Mama. I’ve plenty of time.”
Cecilia’s soft words did not noticeably impinge on Pamela, who continued to look rather peeved.
“Perhaps,” Penelope said, “you could tell us whether the family has a house in London and how much of the year you spend there.” When Pamela turned her gathering frown on Penelope, she explained, “We need to get some sense of what Monty’s life was like in order to understand what might have led to his murder.”
Pamela’s frown only deepened. “Well, we hire a house, one in Mayfair, every Season, but other than that, we live here.”
Vincent stirred. “We also spend weeks at a time at Wyndham Castle.”
Pamela nodded. “Yes. Of course. We visit there regularly. My cousin, the marquess, is a widower and likes to gather the family around him.”
“And,” Penelope pressed, “there were no particular tensions or arguments with others that you know of?”
“For instance,” Barnaby put in, “any imagined social slight or any difficulties with tenant farmers. Any disagreement with anyone at all.”
“No. None.” Pamela’s declaration was absolute. Penelope noted that neither Cecilia nor Vincent showed any hint of disagreeing or of having a different view.
Barnaby stated, “I know Monty was a member of White’s.” He looked at Vincent. “Did he belong to any other club?”
Vincent shook his head. “Not that I’m aware of.”
“Was he fond of any particular pursuit?” Barnaby asked. “Horses, carriages, racing, guns?”
“He and I ride—rode—to hounds, with the local hunt.” Vincent drew in a tight breath, as if the verb change had suddenly brought home to him that his father was dead.
“So,” Stokes murmured, “would it be correct to say that each year, Mr. Underhill spent about four to five months in London, engaging in the usual gentlemanly social pursuits, then perhaps a month or more at Wyndham Castle and the rest of his time here? I assume he was involved with running the estate.”
“Well, yes. That is what he did with his time.” Pamela looked at Stokes, then, plainly puzzled, shifted her gaze to Penelope and Barnaby. “But I don’t understand why how and where Monty spent his time is at all relevant. He was out in the orchard. Goodness knows why, but surely, in the circumstances, it must have been some passing itinerant—a gypsy or some such person—who saw him there and killed him.”
Declining to point out the illogicality of that statement, Penelope inclined her head. “Even so, surely, you and yourfamily will expect us to investigate every possible cause. The Commissioner will certainly expect us to do so.”
Pamela looked as if she couldn’t quite understand what Penelope meant.
Seizing the moment to change tacks, she ventured, “It’s widely known that your marriage was one of convenience. How did that come about?”
Pamela blinked. Penelope was counting on Pamela’s reputation of having little reservation about anything she said, on any subject, to carry the moment.
“Well.” Pamela shrugged. “The simple truth is I lacked for suitors, and Monty, like all the Underhills, lacked funds, so when he offered for my hand, my parents suggested I accept, and as Monty wasn’t a difficult sort to rub along with, it suited me to do so.” She met Penelope’s gaze and candidly declared, “I never had reason to regret that decision. Monty and I…worked well together. I suppose you could say our goals, while not exactly the same, aligned well. There was never any drama, which we both appreciated.”
All of that fitted with Penelope’s understanding of the Underhills’ marriage. All practicality and no passion.
