“So one would suppose,” Penelope said, rising excitement in her voice. “But if he’s burned them, we might still have a major clue.” She looked around the circle. “It’s late August, and it’s been unusually hot—no fires have been lit for weeks. There should be no ashes in any of the grates—I think we can rely on Mrs. Carnaby to have seen to that. So if ashes suddenly turned up in some grate, I’m sure the maids would have cleaned them up—but that should have stuck in their minds as odd. Who had burned what and why?”
Stokes nodded, Penelope’s eagerness infecting him. “That’s something we can check.”
Barnaby mused, “Against Alaric’s assumption the murderer would have disposed of the letters, sometimes murderers do unexpected things. He might have taken the letters for some other purpose.” Barnaby glanced around and lightly grimaced. “And no, I can’t at the moment think of what.”
“There’s also the possibility,” Constance said, “that Glynis herself took the letters from the hatbox and hid them somewhere else. She was sharing the room with Mrs. Cleary—perhaps, in light of having to keep the betrothal a secret, she decided to put the letters somewhere out of Rosa Cleary’s orbit.”
Stokes was busily jotting. He inclined his head. “That’s possible, too.” He looked up. “Regardless, the letters—or evidence of their disposal—is something we can search for. We could mount a search of all the gentlemen’s bedchambers. I can’t see a murderer using any of the reception rooms to dispose of incriminating evidence.”
“I could help with that.” Percy’s eyes shone with a fanatical light. “If anyone sees us searching, they won’t question it if I’m with you.”
To Constance, and she suspected the others, it was clear that Percy needed to be doing something to actively help find Glynis’s—his fiancée’s—murderer. Anything to assuage the guilt riding his shoulders, to soothe the cauldron of his emotions. The nervy energy that had him in its grip cried out for action.
Stokes saw it. He dipped his head in acceptance. “That will help. We can search for the letters or any sign of them and also for the ring and chain.” He grimaced. “Although that’s easier to conceal—he might even have decided it’s safer to keep that on him.”
Stokes closed his notebook, slipped it away, and drew out his watch. His expression darkened. Tucking the watch back, he glanced around. “There are several points we need to follow up. It’s already after three o’clock, and as we only have until tomorrow morning before this investigation starts to hit rocks, I suggest we split up. Penelope and Constance—if you’ll come with me, I need to interview Mrs. Macomber. After that, we should search the married couples’ rooms.”
“Meanwhile,” Barnaby said, “Percy, Alaric, and I will search the gentlemen’s rooms.” He nodded at Percy. “We’ll start with yours. Not that we expect to find anything, but we need to be thorough, and starting there will quash any protest.”
Stokes looked around the faces, then nodded. “Right, then. In this case, time is not on our side—we need to make the next hours count. Let’s get to it.”
The determination in his voice—and the sense of finally having something definite to pursue—resonated with them all.
* * *
Unfortunately, Stokes made Mrs. Macomber nervous. And when she grew nervous, she grew dithery—even more dithery than she generally was.
“I really don’t know anything about Glynis’s letters.” Mrs. Macomber attempted to look haughty, but the effect was more like a cornered rabbit. “I didn’t feel it was my place to pry. I was her chaperon. Mrs. Johnson herself was with us through virtually all of the Season. My role was merely to guide Glynis socially, and…and…”
The older lady’s eyes started to fill with tears…
Stokes looked at Constance with widening eyes.
Recognizing the danger, Constance briskly asked, “Do you think Glynis might have hidden her letters somewhere else?” Stokes retreated, stepping back from the armchair in which Mrs. Macomber sat swathed in shawls, and Constance went on, “She was sharing a room with Mrs. Cleary, and the hatbox was on the armoire, where Mrs. Cleary could have looked…”
Distracted from her incipient weeping, Mrs. Macomber looked puzzled. “Glynis didn’t mention any reservations about Mrs. Cleary. Indeed”—Mrs. Macomber fluffed up like an indignant chicken—“it was Glynis who refused to share a room with me—me, who was hired purely to support her!” Mrs. Macomber sniffed, and her spurt of energy faded. “All I know is that Glynis always put her precious, sentimental things in her hatbox.”
Constance inwardly sighed and looked at Penelope.
Penelope leaned forward and gently said, “We appreciate your help, Mrs. Macomber—any help you can give us. Can you tell us if the letters were tied up in some way?”
Mrs. Macomber nodded. “Yes, Mrs. Adair, they were. Glynis kept them neatly tied up with a canary-yellow ribbon. A pretty color on her, it was…”
“Although we understand you didn’t pry,” Constance carefully said, “do you happen to know if Glynis had received letters from any gentleman other than Mr. Mandeville?”
Mrs. Macomber frowned. “I can’t say that she did, but she might have. Mr. Mandeville hove on our horizon rather late in the Season, and Glynis was doing well attracting the attention of suitable gentlemen prior to his appearance, so”—Mrs. Macomber lightly shrugged—“it’s possible one of those gentlemen wrote to her, but as to whether she kept his letters or not, I’m sure I couldn’t say.”
“I spend each Season in town,” Penelope said, “so I’m acquainted—in a distant fashion—with most of those here. I can appreciate that it would have been quite a coup for Glynis to have attracted the attention of any of the available gentlemen presently at the Hall. Which of them showed interest?”
Constance sat back and admired a master; Penelope had hit just the right note to elicit confidences from a hired chaperon.
Mrs. Macomber leaned closer to Penelope and lowered her voice. “It’s depressing to speak of it now, of course, with poor Glynis gone—and in such a hideous fashion—but at one point, I had great hopes she would attach Mr. Henry Wynne, Mr. Guy Walker, or Mr. Robert Fletcher. All were vying for her smiles at that time.”
Mrs. Macomber’s expression lightened, as if she was looking back on a remembered near-triumph, then her face fell. “Of course, that was before Mr. Mandeville. Once he appeared, Glynis didn’t look at any other man.”
Constance and Stokes shared a glance.
Penelope patted Mrs. Macomber’s hand. “It is terribly sad. You came so close to seizing the prize.”
