Page 32 of The Meriwell Legacy
“Are, as is often the case in investigations such as this,” Stokes responded, “officially assisting Scotland Yard.”
Another gentleman standing by the fireplace frowned in puzzlement, but before anyone could ask anything more, Stokes focused on a portly gentleman with pinched features who was seated in one of the armchairs closest to the hearth. “Sir Godfrey Stonewall?”
Leaning heavily on his cane, the magistrate pushed to his feet. “Indeed, Inspector. And while I’m sure you understand that none of us here are pleased to see you, in the circumstances, it seemed best to ask Scotland Yard for assistance.”
Unperturbed, Stokes replied, “All murder investigations are, these days, reported to the Yard. As the representative of the commissioner, I have assumed all responsibility for this case and, henceforth, will report to London.” Before Sir Godfrey could decide whether to be huffy about being virtually dismissed, Stokes continued, “I understand you’ve made no advance in identifying the gentleman responsible for the murders.”
Sir Godfrey blinked. “Er…no. That is, I did wonder if it might be some itinerant in the case of Miss Johnson, but with Mrs. Cleary…” Sir Godfrey’s face fell into lines of grave concern. “Of course, there might be two murderers.”
“One hopes not.” Stokes formally inclined his head to Sir Godfrey. “If you have nothing more to tell me, sir, I believe we need delay you no longer. Thank you for making time to hold the fort here. The Yard appreciates your support. Perhaps as a last gesture, you might direct me to the owner of Mandeville Hall.”
Penelope compressed her lips to stifle a grin. Stokes had clearly been working on tact and charm.
“What? Oh—yes.” Sir Godfrey waved at the wan-looking gentleman in the chair opposite the one Sir Godfrey had vacated. “Mr. Percival Mandeville.”
Percy Mandeville rose to his feet and—wearily and warily—inclined his head to Stokes. “Inspector.”
Stokes nodded back, then looked at Sir Godfrey. “The Yard will inform you of the outcome of the investigation in due course.”
“Er…right. Yes, of course.” With no alternative offering, Sir Godfrey muttered a farewell to Percy and directed a general bow to the assembled company, then Sir Godfrey stumped to the door, which a footman opened for him.
Stokes watched Sir Godfrey leave; he waited until the door was shut before turning to address the Hall’s owner. “Mr. Mandeville. I’m sure I don’t need to stress how serious the crimes committed here are.” His gray gaze wintry, Stokes surveyed the guests seated on the sofas and chairs. “I understand Sir Godfrey has already informed you that no one is to quit the property until such time as the investigation allows it. That edict will remain in place. However, my men and I will endeavor to complete all the necessary interviews, searches, and other investigations as soon as possible. Depending on the outcome, I may be able to lift the injunction against leaving sooner rather than later.”
All the guests were hanging on Stokes’s every word.
Satisfied, he returned his gaze to Mandeville. “Regarding the crimes, the police surgeon has examined the bodies and confirmed that both ladies were, in fact, murdered. We are, therefore, seeking to identify a man—apparently a gentleman residing under this roof—who has already killed twice.” The bald statement of a fact the guests must already have deduced nevertheless sent a ripple of unease through the company.
“More,” Stokes relentlessly continued, “we believe Mrs. Cleary was murdered because Miss Johnson’s killer believed she might have recognized him—perhaps not then and there, but the prospect had arisen. Consequently, I urge any of you who have any inkling of who the murderer might be to speak with or send word of your suspicions to me, to the Adairs, or to my constables as soon as possible. Sharing any information you have is the best way to protect yourself from coming under attack from the murderer.”
Now the guests were looking sidelong at each other, which, Penelope knew, had been Stokes’s intention—to put them on guard and get them watching each other.
He made a production of looking at the clock on the mantelpiece. “As it’s already late and dinnertime is nigh, we will hold off commencing our formal interviews until tomorrow morning. Until then, you’re free to do as you wish, as long as you remain in the house or on the grounds. However, I will ask that you give your names and home addresses to my constable”—Stokes gestured to Philpott, standing just inside the door—“before leaving the room.”
Formally, Stokes inclined his head to the company, sweeping them with his steely gaze. “Thank you for your attention. I look forward to your cooperation in bringing this distressing episode to a speedy resolution.”
With a last nod to Percy Mandeville, Stokes turned and walked to join not Penelope and Barnaby but Carradale and Miss Whittaker. “If you would both remain for a moment,” Stokes said, his voice loud enough to be heard by those nearby, “I would like to question you further as to the finding of Miss Johnson’s body.”
Carradale met his eyes, then somewhat stiffly inclined his head. “As you wish, Inspector.”
Clearly, Carradale knew how to play a part.
Miss Whittaker noted Carradale’s distance and mimicked it; her expression aloof, she dipped her head the merest fraction in acquiescence.
Stokes turned and watched the other guests file out, all pausing at the door to give Philpott names and addresses as requested. None made any fuss. From all Stokes could see, no one appeared to be jibbing under his rein. Yet. He sighed and murmured, “I always live in hope that during such exchanges, the murderer will stand up and bluster and try to have me thrown out. I don’t suppose either of you noticed any unexpected reaction?”
Carradale softly humphed. “No. This lot have learned to be circumspect. I doubt you’ve much chance of surprising the murderer into giving himself away.”
“As for the ladies,” Miss Whittaker said, “they were all listening avidly, but at your suggestion of reporting anything they know, they all looked around at each other. None appeared to think the danger you alluded to applied to her.”
Stokes grunted.
The owner, Percy Mandeville, was the second last to leave. Stokes nodded at the gentleman who followed Percy out. “Is that the other Mandeville? Edward, the cousin?”
“Yes.” Carradale faintly frowned. “He seems to have elected himself Percy’s guardian.”
Morgan slipped into the room and closed the door. After consulting with Philpott, both constables crossed to join Stokes. Barnaby and Penelope also came up.
Stokes arched a hopeful brow at Morgan, but the baby-faced constable shook his head. “Nothing to report, sir. The staff are all properly rattled, but also properly tight-lipped.”
