Page 48 of The Curse of Ill-Gotten Gains
“Did you notice if any of the company left the house? Did you see anyone walking outside?” Penelope asked.
Mrs. Waterhouse shook her head. “No—well, except for Susan. She went out to stroll in the rose garden. She didn’t seem to want company, and I was comfortable with the other ladies, so I didn’t offer to accompany her.”
Penelope nodded. “What was your view of Monty Underhill?”
“Oh, he was everything that was amiable.” Mrs. Waterhouse’s fluttering hands came into play. “Sucha pleasant gentleman. He was quite unexceptionable and so very easygoing. Nothing was ever amiss with him. In all honesty, I cannot fathom why anyone would want to kill him.” She looked perturbed, then glanced at Penelope and leaned toward her again. “I admit I’m rather concerned, Mrs. Adair, as to whether this murder will reflect badly on the Underhills and, by association, cast a shadow over Alison and dim her hopes.”
Smiling with faint cynicism, Penelope rose and reassured Mrs. Waterhouse, “By the time the ton returns to London, I suspect that any sensation generated by this murder will have faded from the collective memory.”
“Oh. Yes.” Mrs. Waterhouse rose. “We must, indeed, hope for that.”
Penelope showed Mrs. Waterhouse to the door, then asked the footman to fetch Mr. Cordingley.
On returning to Stokes and Barnaby, Penelope sank into her armchair and observed, “Note that Mrs. Waterhouse’s concern is driven by a suspicion that there is, indeed, some real and potentially sensational reason behind Monty’s death.”
Stokes nodded. “So what do we know about Cordingley?”
“He’s somewhere around thirty, an eligible enough bachelor.” Penelope looked inquiringly at Barnaby. “But other than that…”
Barnaby shook his head. “I’ve seen him at ton events, but I know very little about him.”
When Cordingley entered, Barnaby rose, greeted him with a friendly smile, and ushered Cordingley to the central armchair. Cordingley was a trifle taller than average, although not as tall as Barnaby or Stokes, and possessed even if unremarkable features set in a pleasant face under a mop of shiny brown hair.
Once Cordingley sat, Barnaby resumed his seat and mildly inquired, “When did you arrive at the Grange?”
“I drove down on Sunday,” Cordingley answered readily. Glancing at Penelope and Stokes, he seemed more curious about them and not nervous in any way. “I confess I started a trifle late and got here about five.” As if sensing they’d seen his interest, he grinned. “I was hounded by my mother and aunts to come down here and cast my eye over the field, as it were. They’re set on finding me a bride, but I’m only thirty-one. I’m really not interested in getting married just yet.” He tipped his head, his smile engaging. “So, you see, I’m keen to learn all I can about the murder—all the sensational details—so I can report to them how coming down here brought me close to some violent killer and resulted in me being interviewed by Scotland Yard!” His grinwas infectious as he looked at Penelope. “That should buy me a little time, don’t you think?”
Penelope tried but failed to hide her smile. “That’s…certainly an inventive use for news of a murder.”
Stokes cleared his throat, and Barnaby duly asked, “Shifting to Monday morning, when did you come downstairs?”
“Oh, early, to beat the ladies. It was just after seven when I left my room, and I more or less followed Percival down.”
“And after you rose from the table?”
“I left with several others—Percival, Carrington, and Morehouse. Oh, and Elliot. Percival and I went straight upstairs to our rooms. Percival said he had letters to write, and I wanted to continue reading a book I brought and had started the previous evening. The other three headed in here.”
“What was the book?” Penelope asked.
“It’s a fascinating tale of an adventurer’s travels through Egypt and Mesopotamia.” Cordingley sensed a kindred spirit, and his eyes lit. “It’s by a fellow named Cannington. Have you heard of it?”
Penelope nodded and cast a swift glance at Stokes, confirming the book was real. “His journey makes quite a story.”
“However”—Barnaby cut in before Penelope and Cordingley could head off on that tangent—“to continue with our questions, at any time after leaving the dining room, did you see anyone leave the house or notice anyone walking outside?”
Cordingley nodded. “The chair in my room is by the window, and I happened to look out and saw Lady Wincombe walking across the rear lawn, toward the east. She seemed quite intent on getting somewhere.” He paused, then added, “Earlier, I heard voices—male voices, I think of Vincent and his friends—on the terrace, but I was deep in the book at that point and didn’t look out, so I don’t know if they went farther than that.”
Stokes nodded as he jotted. “Thank you. That helps.”
“On the subject of our late host,” Barnaby said, “what did you make of him?”
Cordingley paused, then shrugged. “He seemed a good sort. Jovial. Easy to get along with. Truth to tell, I didn’t know him that well—hadn’t really met him other than to be introduced before—and I hadn’t paid all that much attention to him over the time before he met his end.”
“So you have no idea why he might have been killed?” Barnaby asked.
Cordingley shook his head. “None at all, I’m sorry to say.” His insouciant grin returned. “I am, however, keen to learn what it was that got Monty murdered, not least so that I can wave it as a warning to make my mother and aunts desist from their matchmaking.”
Barnaby glanced at Stokes, but he shook his head. He returned his gaze to Cordingley and smiled easily. “Thank you.” Barnaby rose, bringing the younger man to his feet, and after Cordingley had bowed to Penelope and nodded respectfully to Stokes, showed him firmly out of the room.
