“So no one saw her slipping outside to the shrubbery?” Stokes asked.
The reply was a circle of shaking heads.
Barnaby stifled a sigh. So often in cases such as this, the staff were the investigators’ salvation; they’d almost grown to expect it. After a moment, he asked, “During Monday’s events—earlier in the day or through the evening—did any of you see any interaction, any argument or discussion, between Mrs. Cleary and Miss Johnson?”
The staff clearly dredged their memories, but again, to no avail.
Barnaby glanced at Stokes, who pulled a glum face in reply. Stokes consulted the notebook Morgan held open for him to read, then looked around the table. “That’s all the questions we have for the moment. If any of you remember anything to do with Miss Johnson or Mrs. Cleary that might mean something about their deaths—anything at all, no matter if you think it’s not important—please come and find one of us. Don’t think we won’t want to know.” He glanced around the table one last time, then pushed back his chair. He nodded to Carnaby. “Thank you for your time.”
Getting to her feet, Penelope added, “We know you must be terribly rushed with so many guests in the house.”
“Indeed, ma’am.” Carnaby glanced at his wife, then looked back at Penelope. “We wondered, ma’am, if you and your husband and the inspector would prefer a light luncheon in the small parlor. We’ve a cold collation ready to go out for the other guests”—footmen and maids were already streaming past with dishes suitably laden—“but we thought you might perhaps prefer the privacy.”
“Thank you, Carnaby.” Penelope bestowed her most graciously approving smile. “That will, indeed, suit us better.”
Pleased, the butler bowed. “If you will repair to the parlor, we’ll bring in the platters momentarily.”
Morgan indicated he would take his meal with the staff.
As she turned to follow Stokes, Penelope glanced at her sketch of the house, then paused and turned back. “Mrs. Carnaby.”
The housekeeper turned from testing a jelly. “Yes, ma’am?”
“After luncheon, I believe we’ll need to search the rooms of the deceased ladies. I have Mrs. Cleary’s room marked, and I assume Miss Johnson was sharing the room with Mrs. Macomber.”
“Oh no, ma’am. Miss Johnson specifically didn’t want to share her chaperon’s room. Quite put out about it, Mrs. Macomber was, but Miss Johnson held firm. Of course, the rooms had already been allocated, and the only other room in that wing with a spare bed was the one Mrs. Cleary preferred. Luckily, Mrs. Cleary said she didn’t mind sharing, so Miss Johnson was in with her.”
Penelope slowly blinked. They’d been searching for a connection between Glynis Johnson and Rosa Cleary, and there it was. A situation that would have allowed—nay, very likely encouraged—Glynis to share secrets with the more-experienced Rosa.
In a daze of whirling thoughts, Penelope thanked Mrs. Carnaby and followed Barnaby and Stokes, who had paused and looked back and had heard the exchange, to the small parlor.
Before they’d even had a chance to sit about the desk, which had been set with a cloth, plates, and cutlery, Philpott rejoined them. In a few short words, he confirmed that, according to several people’s testimony, neither Alaric nor Constance could have murdered Glynis Johnson—“Neither of them could have been here at that time”—and Alaric also could not have killed Rosa Cleary. “Not unless he walked here and back through the wood in the dead of night, and even then, his people are attentive. They likely would have heard him leaving or returning to his house.” Philpott shut his notebook.
Barnaby pulled a face. “That’s a small step forward, but it’s already lunchtime, and we’re still left with seven possible culprits on our suspect list.”
“Hmm. At this sort of house party, I would be surprised if more of the gentlemen didn’t have an alibi, but getting the ladies involved to come forth with those alibis…” Penelope sighed and shook her head.
Stokes frowned. “Mrs. Gibson came forward without too much prompting.”
“Ah,” Barnaby cynically said, “but she’s a widow.”
“Mrs. Gibson,” Penelope explained, “risked very little in alibiing Viscount Hammond. The other ladies, however, are all married. They are not going to—as they would see it—publicly admit to a liaison.”
Stokes humphed.
The door opened, and Philpott stepped aside to allow three maids to ferry in various platters. He looked at Stokes. “Shall I join Morgan, then?”
Stokes nodded. “Go and eat. We’ll want you both shortly.” He arched a brow at Penelope. “I understand we have a room to search.”
“Indeed, we do!” She felt much more enthused. The instant the maids finished laying out the platters and withdrew, she continued, “If Rosa and Glynis were sharing a room…well, that opens up all sorts of possibilities…” She paused, then grimaced. “Mainly as to why Rosa was killed. Still”—she was determined to remain optimistic—“there might well be something in the room that will cast light on what Glynis wore on that chain. Like a jeweler’s box.”
The three of them fell to. When they were served and eating, Barnaby glanced at Penelope. “Don’t get your hopes up—remember, the murderer has been back in that room at least once since he killed Glynis. After killing Rosa, he might well have searched—in fact, that might have been his primary reason for killing her. To clear the way to search.”
“Possibly.” Stubbornness glinted in Penelope’s eyes. “But I still say a search might turn up something—the murderer is a man, and men never know where to look. And even when they do, they often don’tsee.”
Barnaby exchanged a glance with Stokes, then both addressed themselves to their plates.
* * *
