“This room is at the end of the gentlemen’s wing,” Alaric said. “And only my room and Edward’s are in the cross-wing—the family wing. Anyone approaching Percy’s door would be in full view of anyone in either corridor and even by someone at the head of the stairs. There’s a clear line of sight.”
“So it was difficult and risky,” Barnaby said, “yet he managed it.”
“But was he seen?” Penelope asked. “That’s the critical question.”
Constance looked at Alaric. “Am I right in thinking that to get to the main stairs, Edward would have to pass Percy’s door, but in doing so, he would be visible to others farther up the corridor?”
Alaric met her eyes, then nodded. “Yes.”
Stokes paused in his writing to look at Alaric. “So if Edward had come from his room with the letters in his pocket, he could have walked into the gentlemen’s corridor close by Percy’s door, looked up the corridor and checked if there was anyone to see him, and if there wasn’t, he could have slipped into Percy’s room unseen?”
“Yes, but why would he?” Penelope answered. “If Edward’s misguided motive in killing Glynis and subsequently Rosa was to protect the family name, then surely returning the letters to Percy runs counter to that.”
“Unless he was simply returning the letters to Percy as the safest option,” Barnaby said. “From the state of that drawer, he might have thought Percy wouldn’t look in there in the next few days, and Edward might have realized that burning anything in the grates at this time of year would be noticed. He had no way of knowing that we would learn of the letters and search.”
“That still puts Edward’s principal motive at risk,” Stokes said. “Better he hide the letters somewhere in the house where they’re unlikely to be found and dispose of them later.”
Penelope grimaced. “True.” After a second, she added, “And more, the person with the letters, presumably the murderer, doesn’t have to be Edward. Just because the letters placed in Percy’s drawer were all from Percy, that doesn’t mean there weren’t other letters—ones from the murderer—that he needs to get rid of.”
Stokes grunted. “We’re going around and around inventing possibilities. The truth is we know far too little of our possible suspects to find success by that route.”
Penelope sighed. “You’re right. And I don’t have my usual supporters to appeal to. Finding out about anyone is much easier in London.”
“Yes, but,” Barnaby insisted, “we can still advance our cause by asking around and seeing if we can get a bead on who put the letters in here. It’s a house party, and all the guests know they have a murderer in their midst. They’ll be keeping their eyes open for any unusual behavior.” Barnaby looked at the others. “We need to ask.” He glanced at Penelope and Constance. “And aside from the guests, surely there would have been maids scurrying about, making up beds and so on?”
Both ladies nodded. “Indeed, there should have been,” Constance said, “at least during some of those windows of opportunity.”
“All right.” Stokes was getting restless, no doubt conscious of time running out. “We need to act immediately, so let’s divide the obvious next tasks.” He looked at Constance and Penelope. “You ladies are best qualified to extract information from the maids and the housekeeper—we need to know whether any of them spotted one of the gentlemen in the upstairs corridors or even on the stairs during our stipulated times. Also, whether they’ve noticed any unexpected ashes in some grate.”
Stokes shifted his gaze to Barnaby and Percy. “Meanwhile, we’ll interview the male staff on the same topics.” Stokes looked at Alaric. “I don’t want to call my constables off their assignment watching the guests. They’re likely to be more use to us by keeping track of who is where at this moment.”
Alaric nodded. “I’ll let them know what’s going on, and while I’m downstairs, I’ll find Monty. In general, his talents are unimpressive, but Monty has one peculiar trait—he observes in remarkable detail and can usually remember everything. It’s how his memory works.”
Stokes arched his brows. “Is that so? Then by all means, see what he can recall of the gentlemen’s movements during the day.”
Barnaby had been consulting his fob watch. He tucked it back into his waistcoat pocket. “Time is ticking on. Let’s tackle our respective tasks and meet under the oak in an hour, at which time it’ll be close to five o’clock.”
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Chapter 9
Five minutes later, Constance and Penelope were seated in comfortable chairs in the housekeeper’s room. Mrs. Carnaby stood before her small fireplace, and the maids of the house were assembled in serried ranks before Constance and Penelope.
“Now, girls,” Mrs. Carnaby said. “Please listen carefully to these ladies, and if you have an answer to their questions, speak up.” To Constance and Penelope, Mrs. Carnaby added, “I know I speak for all the staff in saying that we hope this nasty murderer is clapped in irons by the inspector and soon!”
“We sympathize entirely,” Constance replied.
“Indeed.” Penelope focused on the maids. “Our first question may seem strange, but have any of you noticed any ashes in any grate—any suggestion of papers being burned?”
The maids looked at each other, then at the youngest, a girl of about fourteen. She looked mortified to have been singled out, and blushed, then vehemently shook her head.
“Mitzy—speak up,” Mrs. Carnaby instructed. “No ashes in any grate?”
“No, ma’am,” Mitzy whispered.
“Good.” Penelope bestowed a smile on the tweeny, then looked at the maids as a whole. “Now, to those of you whose duties took them upstairs this morning—did you see any gentleman slip into your master’s room?”
The reply was a general shaking of heads and an eventual “No, ma’am” from the senior maid.
