A sidelong glance at Miss Whittaker—at the frown in her eyes—suggested she thought the same.
Alaric gestured to the drawing room. “If you’re ready…?”
She drew in another fortifying breath, then nodded and, with a determined stride, led the way.
A footman hurried to open the door, and Alaric followed her—into a scene of mild panic and general chaos. A cacophony of chatter and shrill exclamations engulfed them, and they halted.
No one noticed their entrance, all too busy hypothesizing and frightening themselves with wild speculation. For several moments, Alaric and Miss Whittaker stood silently just inside the door.
Eventually, Alaric glanced at Miss Whittaker and confirmed that she was surveying the company just as he had, but in her case, through cold and, he suspected, very clear eyes.
No doubt she, like he, had leapt to the conclusion that Glynis’s murderer was, most likely, in the room.
Gradually, the babel of voices grew more distinct, allowing various comments and observations to be distinguished. Several ladies were claiming to have been friends of the deceased, while the gentlemen were unanimous in praising Glynis’s character. Nothing said was untrue, yet…
Half a minute later, Miss Whittaker put her finger firmly on the anomaly. Her voice low, for Alaric’s ears alone, she murmured, “I wasn’t aware Glynis was such close friends with all these people.”
Cynically, he replied, “She wasn’t—at best, they were recent acquaintances. I got the impression she hadn’t met the majority of those here prior to arriving two days ago.”
“Then why…?”
“Because they’re not sure how to behave, and most are overdoing things.” When she sniffed disparagingly, he added in a mild tone, “You have to allow for the fact that most if not all of those here have not previously been confronted by the violent death of an acquaintance—a member of a house party they are attending.”
After a second, she cut a sharp glance his way; sensing it, he met her eyes, then arched a brow. “Have you?” she asked. “Been confronted by the violent death of an acquaintance?”
He returned his gaze to the assembled company. “Not as such, but I have had to comfort a friend whose mother met a ghastly end, so I have that experience to guide me.”
Just then, Edward, standing to one side of the fireplace, beside the chair in which Percy had slumped, noticed Alaric and Miss Whittaker. Edward dropped a hand on Percy’s shoulder, gripped, and lightly shook his cousin. When Percy blinked and looked up, Edward tipped his head, directing Percy’s gaze to Alaric and Miss Whittaker, and said something—presumably pointing out to Percy that it was time to address the immediate issue.
Alaric had noted that Percy had been staring blankly—blindly—across the room. He hadn’t been contributing to the dramatic exchanges; indeed, he’d seemed deaf to the clamor around him.
Now, instead of rising and taking charge, Percy spoke to Edward and waved—clearly inviting his cousin to do what needed to be done.
Edward straightened, then patently ready to assume command, moved to stand squarely in front of the fireplace. Facing the room, he raised his voice. “If I could have everyone’s attention?”
Gradually, the conversations quieted until, finally, absolute silence held sway. Everyone had turned to look at Edward.
He cleared his throat, glanced at Alaric and Miss Whittaker, then said, “I believe the correct procedure is that we should summon the local magistrate.”
A wave of comments ensued. Edward listened and waited, but ultimately, no one disagreed.
As the voices faded, Alaric spoke. “I’m sure Sir Godfrey Stonewall will do his best, but I believe that under the new system, any suspicious death is supposed to be reported to Scotland Yard.”
Horror filled the faces turned his way, then the protests began.
“What a horrible suggestion, Carradale.” Prue Collard shuddered.
“You can’t possibly be serious!” William Coke sounded close to choking.
“I say, no call for such extremes,” Fletcher said.
“I’ve heard the inspectors are overzealous individuals who treat everyone—absolutely everyone—as if they’re the basest criminal,” Henry Wynne reported.
“Stuff and nonsense!” punctuated by a cane hitting the floor came from Mrs. Fitzherbert. “I’m surprised at you, Carradale.”
As the refusals to countenance calling in Scotland Yard continued, Alaric inwardly sighed. One would have been forgiven for imagining he’d suggested bringing in the newshounds; indeed, judging by the tenor of some of the protests, the newshounds would have been preferable to the clodhopping, flat-footed, bumbling denizens of the fabled Scotland Yard—the descendants of Peel’s Bow Street runners.
Miss Whittaker frowned at him. “You’re not arguing.”
