Page 41 of The Curse of Ill-Gotten Gains
“So you came to the library…” Barnaby prompted.
“But I didn’t remain here. Elliot, Morehouse, and Carrington had taken up residence and were deep in the news sheets, and I knew the older men who were still in the dining room would soon join them, and no one likes a chatterer, so I ambled around to the billiards room and started potting a few balls. After a time, Nevin-Smythe came in, and he and I played a game or two. We were chewing the fat when we heard Miss Hemmings scream. The sound was distant and faint, and at first, we weren’t sure what it signified, but then, we heard the ruckus and came out to see what was up.”
Barnaby asked, “At any time that morning before the scream, did you notice anyone else of the company outside?”
Griffith paused, then volunteered, “When I was in the billiards room, a little while after Nevin-Smythe joined me, I saw Lady Wincombe go walking rather determinedly across the rear lawn. Toward the east. From her expression, she seemed set on something, which I thought rather odd, but”—he grimaced—“she wasn’t heading anywhere near the orchard, so I suspect that’s of little use to you.”
“On the contrary,” Penelope assured him, “it helps us place Lady Wincombe during the critical period. With a company such as this, eliminating people is half the battle.”
Griffith all but preened.
“Now,” Barnaby said, “and we’re asking everyone this question, what was your view of Mr. Underhill?”
Predictably, Griffith gushed, but nothing he said deviated from the general consensus of a genial, pleasant, entirely unthreatening gentleman.
As for knowing of any reason why someone might have wanted to kill Underhill, Griffith declared, “No! I own to being utterly mystified and am simply agog to find out why. Well, the whole company is, aren’t they? Everyone knows there must have been some reason, and as no one has any inkling of what that might be, imaginations tend to run rampant, don’t they?”
Barnaby didn’t answer. He glanced at Penelope, who was still struggling to hide her amusement at Griffith’s histrionics, then looked briefly at Stokes, who was wearing his most stoic expression. Returning his attention to Griffith, Barnaby rose. “Thank you.” As Griffith rather uncertainly got to his feet, Barnaby waved him to the door.
As he reluctantly headed that way, Griffith looked over his shoulder and added, “If there’s anything else I can do to assist…”
“We’ll be sure to let you know,” Barnaby stated.
Once he’d shown Griffith out and shut the door, he returned to the cluster of armchairs.
“He might have been a touch excitable,” Stokes said, “but he was quite definite in what he remembered.”
“His recollection of details was strangely impressive.” Penelope rose. “I’ll call in our next interviewee.”
While they waited for Lady Carville to join them, Penelope shared what she knew of her ladyship. “She’s not unintelligent and has been comfortably married to Lord Carville for decades. He’s a Member of Parliament, and she’s known as a minor political hostess and has steered their son and two daughters into very suitable marriages. She’s widely regarded as an established matron of the ton, and there’s long been a suspicion that she’s Lord Morland’s lover and has been for years.”
“So,” Stokes said, “she’s the one Underhill was blackmailing Morland about?”
“Almost certainly.” Penelope’s lips thinned. “And Monty was also blackmailing her, presumably over the same liaison, but as with Morland, there must have been something else there for a more-or-less-known affair to be rendered blackmail-worthy. Something worth paying to keep hidden.”
A tap on the door heralded Lady Carville, and Penelope rose and went to welcome her ladyship and usher her to the armchair at the focal point of the investigators’ attention. Lady Carville was in her mid-forties, a well-preserved, well-turned-out matron with curly blond hair and an air of no nonsense about her.
Penelope resumed her seat and quickly led her ladyship through their opening questions.
Lady Carville confirmed that she’d arrived in her carriage at the Grange on Sunday afternoon. “As to why I’m here”—she shrugged—“I’ve known Pamela and Monty for an age, and she invited me, and it’s the sort of thing people like us do in summer, isn’t it?”
Penelope inclined her head. “And on Monday morning, when did you come downstairs?”
“I came down at just after eight o’clock with several other ladies. Many of the gentlemen had already breakfasted and left or were leaving the dining room. I remained there with the other ladies, chatting over the teacups, then when Pamela led most of the more-mature crew to the morning room, I diverted to the conservatory.” Lady Carville met Penelope’s eyes. “By then, I’d had a surfeit of chatter, and I have an interest in orchids, and Pamela has a few I have my eye on to add to my collection when next they’re divided. I spent some time inspecting them and was still admiring them when I heard what sounded like a distant scream, followed by people rushing outside, and I went out and joined the other ladies who, by then, were on the front lawn.”
“While you were in the conservatory,” Penelope asked, “did you see any of the company outside?”
“The only person I saw was Susan. She came out onto the terrace and went down the steps and across the lawn toward the rose garden. That was no great surprise—she’s fond of that rose garden, and like me, she can abide only so much chatter.”
“How did you find Monty Underhill?” Penelope asked. “You said you’d known him as well as Pamela for years. How would you describe him?”
Lady Carville shrugged. “He was a decent sort, usually very genial and oozing bonhomie. A steady, reliable gentleman, predictably conservative in his ways. Widely well-regarded and liked. I’ve never heard a word against him.”
Penelope glanced at Barnaby and Stokes. There’d been not the slightest hint in her ladyship’s tone and manner to suggest she knew that Monty had been her blackmailer. Penelope returned her gaze to Lady Carville, who was waiting with outward patience. “Do you know of any reason why anyone would want to kill Monty?”
Lady Carville’s face clouded. “No. None. And I must admit that fact troubles me on Pamela’s and the children’s accounts.” She sighed. “I’m sure I’m preaching to the choir in saying that where there’s smoke, there’s usually some sort of fire. Ergo, when a man is murdered, and so viciously, there has to be a reason. A real and powerful reason. Just because we don’t know what it is doesn’t mean it isn’t there.”
“So you don’t subscribe to the passing-vagrant theory?” Barnaby asked.
