Page 36 of The Curse of Ill-Gotten Gains
The tale that fell from Morland’s lips was a male variation of Regina’s experience. Notes were delivered either to his house or to White’s, and all the payment spots had clearly been chosen so as to be difficult if not impossible to monitor. When Barnaby commented on that point, Morland laughed cynically. “One of the earlier ones was at a race meet at Doncaster. I was told to leave the payment below a step in the stand just above the bookmakers’ stalls. With all the men milling about the bookmakers, it was impossible to see who picked up the packet.” He paused, then added, “I did try, several times, to see who collected the payments, but then I realized he’d hired one of those boys you find on London streets, willing to do any job—like pick up a parcel from a certain place—for a few pennies. Quick as flashes, they are. No chance of catching them, and odds are, even if one did, the boys themselves could tell you very little. After that, I gave up and just paid.” Glumly, he added, “It was easier that way.”
Stokes looked meaningfully at Penelope, and she cleared her throat and asked, “There’s a second letter beside your name.F.We were wondering whether that meant ‘fraud.’”
“No—well, yes.” Morland grimaced. “It means me playing my wife false. That’s how he put it.”
Gradually, Morland had regained his composure, and as the certainty of what they’d told him sank in, his ire was rising. His features setting in grim lines, he narrowed his eyes, then shook his head. “And it was Monty—bloody Monty Underhill—all along!” Then, his gaze fell on Penelope, and his color rose. “Your pardon, Mrs. Adair. But this news is…very hard to take in.”
Penelope inclined her head. “We appreciate that. And you should know that Monty wasn’t blackmailing only you.” She held up the black book. “He had quite a talent for learning other people’s secrets.”
“Apropos of that,” Stokes said, “we would ask that you keep the news that Underhill was a blackmailer to yourself.”
Barnaby added, “With any luck, we can solve this murder in a way that ensures your ‘secret’ never becomes known.”
Morland’s relief was palpable. “I won’t tell a soul.”
“In that case”—Barnaby rose, bringing Morland to his feet—“thank you for your honesty. You’ve been very helpful, and it’s unlikely we’ll need to speak with you again.”
Morland bowed to Penelope, nodded to Stokes, and allowed Barnaby to usher him from the room.
After closing the door behind his lordship, Barnaby returned to Penelope and Stokes. He halted by the empty chair and arched his brows at them. “He’s still a bit dazed, and he’s no actor.”
Penelope nodded. “He’s not the victim who turned on Monty.”
“Agreed,” Stokes said. “Not even Kemble could dissemble to that degree.” He looked at Penelope. “So who’s next?”
The answer was Miriam, Lady Kelly, Richard’s other aunt and Agatha’s younger sister.
Penelope didn’t know Lady Kelly as well as she knew Agatha; she rose and watched with interest as Barnaby welcomed Lady Kelly and guided her to the interviewee’s armchair.
Her ladyship was a smaller version of Agatha all around and rather sprightlier with it. She had the same blue eyes, but where Agatha’s were shrewd, Miriam’s were full of open curiosity and blatant interest. Iron-gray curls framed a sweet-featured round face, and her hands seemed rarely still, reminding Penelope of sparrows, forever flitting.
Combining what she knew of Agatha with what she could see in Miriam, Penelope suspected the younger sister was even more observant and wide-awake to everything happening around her, and Agatha was no slouch in that regard.
After Miriam settled, Penelope, Barnaby, and Stokes resumed their seats, and with Penelope once more in the central chair, she proceeded with their now-standard questions. As she’d hoped, while the gist of the answers was the same as those they’d received from Agatha, the details Miriam readily supplied were rather more fulsome.
“Oh, you see, we, our families—the Hurstbridges who hold the marquessate and our family—go back generations. We’ve always been close, at least in our memory. We’re neighbors, you see, or were, so we grew up knowing each other well, and Agatha and I were contemporaries of Gordon, the late marquess. So we’ve known Pamela and Susan since birth. Theirs, I mean. Of course, all that was before our papa became Viscount Seddington and we moved to Lincolnshire.”
“I see. And is that why you and Agatha chose this house party to attend?”
“Oh, my dear, we knew Pamela always holds such an event at this time of year, and with the Grange being in Surrey, it’s so easy to reach, and given it was Richard we intended to drag down, we knew Pamela would be happy to include us and him on the guest list. And she already knew Mrs. Hemmings and her daughters—their family lives nearer here—so it was all very easy to arrange. Pamela understood our need perfectly and was happy to assist.”
Miriam happily confirmed Agatha’s timing of their descent from their room. “It was almost nine when we left our room, which is just by the stairs, and the clocks struck the hour as we started down, but of course, with her hip, Agatha has to take steps more slowly now, so it would have been a few minutes later when we saw Monty go out of the front door, and then Mr. Nevin-Smythe went across the hall and nodded politely our way. His choice of attire might be a trifle flashy, but at least his manners are sound.”
She confirmed that she and Agatha had joined the other ladies and that Susan had left a little later. “I believe,” Miriam said, “that must have been closer to nine-thirty. It wasn’t as if Susan up and left the instant we settled to chat.”
As for her opinion of Monty Underhill, while Miriam painted the picture that seemed to be the society-wide view of a genial, kind-hearted, always pleasant gentleman, at the end of her description, she tipped her head in a birdlike way and stated, “But that can’t be all of him, can it?” Her bright gaze flitted from Barnaby to Penelope and on to Stokes. “In my experience, few totally innocent people have their skulls crushed in while strolling in their own orchard.”
Penelope hid a smile and posed their final question. “Are you aware of any situation that might have prompted someone to kill Monty?”
Miriam met her gaze and blithely declared, “None at all, my dear Mrs. Adair, but I will confess I’m all agog to learn what the reason was. I’m sure it will prove to be quite eye-opening. With someone as universally well-regarded as Monty, it would need to be something quite startling, don’t you think?”
Penelope refused to react and, instead, thanked her ladyship and, rising, helped her out of the deep armchair and accompanied her to the door.
After seeing Miriam out, Penelope exhaled, returned to the chairs, and laughed at the expressions on Barnaby’s and Stokes’s faces. Both looked distinctly drained.
Barnaby glanced at Stokes. “I have to admit this succession of interviews has been more demanding than I’d imagined.”
Stokes grunted, sat up, and looked hopefully at Penelope. “I vote we break for lunch.”
