Thereafter, they proceeded as rapidly as they could through the guests, alternating between ladies and gentlemen. Most could corroborate at least a part of Glynis Johnson’s movements during Monday evening, and more tellingly, no one contradicted the information offered by anyone else.
Neither Fletcher nor Walker showed any hint of consciousness over Miss Johnson; if either was the murderer, he was an excellent actor, which—as Penelope later pointed out—was entirely possible. Both men remained high on the suspect list.
Penelope made a point of asking every guest—male and female—if they had any idea what bauble Miss Johnson had worn on the chain about her neck. Many hadn’t noticed the chain, and those who admitted doing so had no idea of what had been hanging on it.
When it came to where people were over the critical hours of Monday night, a surprising number claimed to have spent the night alone in their beds. The only gentlemen to be provided with alibis were Colonel Humphries, whose wife, Maude, swore he’d been snoring beside her the whole night, Mr. William Coke, whose wife, Margaret, gave much the same response as Maude Humphries, and Viscount Hammond, who—refreshingly—admitted to spending the night with Mrs. Gibson in her room, a claim Mrs. Gibson subsequently rather haughtily verified.
Of interest, Mr. Henry Wynne’s alibi proved to be unverifiable; he claimed to have been in his room with Mrs. Cleary. “We met at the rear corner of the side terrace and agreed to adjourn to my room—she was sharing a room, but I had a room to myself.” Almost glowering at having to explain, he grudgingly continued, “I went upstairs first, and she joined me about ten minutes later. She didn’t mention seeing the gentleman come out of the shrubbery, but we weren’t there to chat.”
Beyond that, Wynne could tell them nothing; as he pointed out, he hadn’t been interested in Miss Johnson, so he hadn’t been watching her.
In surprisingly good time, they reached the end of the interviews of those above stairs.
Stokes pushed back from the table and raised his voice. “Carradale. Miss Whittaker. Would you join us?”
The pair appeared and resumed the seats the interviewees had recently vacated. “No one lied that I could tell,” Carradale said.
“From what little I’ve gathered over the past days, no one said anything out of character. I detected nothing false,” Miss Whittaker offered.
Penelope frowned. “Do you mind, Miss Whittaker, if we switch to first names? It seems the time for formality between us is long past. My name is Penelope.”
Constance Whittaker inclined her head. “Please call me Constance.”
“Barnaby,” Barnaby said.
“Alaric,” Carradale responded. “But I’ve been Carradale to most for a very long time.”
Stokes grunted. “No one—not even my wife—calls me anything other than Stokes.”
Penelope grinned and caught Constance’s eye. “That’s true. He remains forever Stokes.”
Stokes stirred. “Now we’ve got the niceties out of the way, to the case.” He glanced at Alaric and Constance. “You two are formally suspects until we can speak with those staff members here, at Carradale Manor, and at the Tabard Inn who can verify your movements. Obviously, that’s purely a formality. However.” Stokes rapidly counted down a list in his notebook. “Now we’ve interviewed all the guests and eliminated a few, we still have eight gentlemen without alibis.”
“And,” Barnaby said, slouching in his chair and sliding his hands into his trouser pockets, “we still have no sighting of Glynis between the time the ladies retired upstairs and her being found dead the next morning. It seems remarkable that no one saw her.”
“That’s something we’ll need to push with the staff.” Stokes made another note in his book. “Someone had to have seen her.”
Barnaby shrugged. “Staff are often more observant than their masters.”
“So we can hope,” Stokes returned.
“We also have no information as to what Glynis was wearing on her chain—the object that might have caused her to be murdered,” Penelope said. “It’s possible a maid assisting Glynis might have glimpsed it, but we really need to speak with Mrs. Macomber.”
Constance nodded. “We’ll be told when she wakes.”
Silence fell, then Stokes tapped his notebook with the end of his pencil. “The thing that worries me most is that we’ve got no real hint of any strong motive. We can hypothesize and imagine what might have been, but as yet, with not one guest mentioning any altercation or even tension between Miss Johnson and anyone else, there’s precious few facts to follow.”
Barnaby drew his hands from his pockets and straightened. “I believe that’s our cue to get on with investigating.” He caught Stokes’s eye. “But before we adjourn to the servants’ hall, might I suggest that a report to those still corralled in the drawing room might be in order?”
Stokes arched a brow. “How so?”
“There’s no need to tell them we have a list of eight suspects. Given they already entertain erroneous views of how Scotland Yard and its investigations operate, why not simply say that the interviews are proceeding, but that there’s nothing of any moment to report at this point and, without actually stating it, reassure the murderer that we’re not closing in on him.” Barnaby’s expression hardened. “We want no more murders.”
Stokes grunted. “We aren’t closing in on him. But I take your point.” He shut his notebook and straightened. “I would rather he—whoever he is—believes he’s safe and need do nothing more.”
“Hmm. And making such a statement will give us an opportunity to observe how it’s received,” Penelope said. “Will anyone show, however fleetingly, relief—or even guilt?” She swung her gaze to Alaric and Constance. “Apropos of watching everyone at once, might I suggest that you two leave and make your way to the drawing room by a circuitous route? Perhaps via the gardens. It will be to our advantage to preserve for as long as possible the appearance of you not being allied with the investigators.”
Stokes glanced at the clock on a sideboard. “We can give you ten minutes.”
