Still studying Stokes’s unrevealing face, Charlie frowned. “Here, I say, this is truly serious, isn’t it? I mean, Sedbury is Rattenby’s heir, so there’s bound to be a huge ruckus over his murder even if no one’s all that surprised.”
That was the second time Charlie had referred to people not being surprised to learn of Sedbury’s murder. Before Stokes could ask for clarification, Charlie straightened and went on, “Perhaps involving Barnaby and Penelope might be wise. I’ve heard that you’re now working with them on a more formal basis, and clearly, this case qualifies as one in which their input would help.”
With a quick smile, Stokes shut his notebook. “I agree.” He paused, then added, “I need to get permission from the commissioner to bring them in as consultants.” He met Charlie’s gaze. “While I head back to the Yard for that, why don’t you go to Albemarle Street? At this hour, Barnaby and Penelope should both be at home, and you can bring them up to date with what I’ve told you and your recent interactions with the man.” Stokespaused, then rose and added, “And you can ask for their help in ensuring you’re not taken up for the crime.”
“Here, I say!” Charlie got to his feet. “I’m not truly a suspect, am I?”
Stokes smiled more definitely, headed for the door, and didn’t reply.
Behind him, Charlie huffed, then followed him into the hall. Stokes quit the house, leaving Charlie shrugging on his coat and instructing Garvey to fetch his hat.
Barnaby sat on one of the sofas in the garden parlor and laughed at the sight of his wife and two sons rolling on the rug before the hearth while the family’s new addition—a puppy named Roger—gamboled about the three, yipping and darting in to playfully tug on any available clothing.
The puppy had been a gift from Barnaby’s father, the Earl of Cothelstone. Roger was a spaniel puppy of prestigious lineage, a product of the earl’s kennels, which were renowned for producing excellent gun dogs. Barnaby was looking forward to taking Roger, once he was old enough, out with the pack when they visited Cothelstone.
Meanwhile, Roger was proving an excellent source of distraction for the entire household; the pup had quickly ingratiated himself with Mostyn, their majordomo, and, of course, Cook.
A smile wreathing his face, Barnaby watched Penelope encourage their younger son, Pip, just eight months old, to sit up so he could grip the end of the rope that Roger had between his jaws and tug.
Pip tugged, then chortled happily when Roger obligingly tugged back. Meanwhile, Oliver, now nearly four years old, gathered up and made a pile of the soft toys the boys had donated to the puppy.
Barnaby felt a definite inner glow as he watched the three most important people in his life laugh and have fun. He and Penelope had vowed to make a conscious effort to spend at least a little time each day with the boys—just him, her, and their sons.
And now, the puppy. Barnaby seriously doubted Oliver and Pip would willingly be parted from the small black-and-white dog, and as young children and pets went, that was how things ought to be.
Today, they’d come to the parlor directly after breakfast and had been there for more than half an hour. Focusing on Penelope, he caught her eye and asked, “What are you planning on doing today?”
She glanced at the boys, then left them to their game of tug and swung to face Barnaby. “I have that translation for the museum in Sheffield. It’s only half done, and I suppose I should get back to it while I can. That said, there’s no rush.” From behind her spectacles, she opened her eyes wide at him. “You?”
He confessed, “I have to admit I’m at loose ends.”
“Good gracious!” the wife of his heart riposted. “How hasthatcome about?”
He grinned. “I’m not quite sure.”
Their banter was interrupted by the pealing of the new front doorbell.
Barnaby blinked, then met Penelope’s gaze. As the pealing continued in what could only be termed an agitated manner, he arched his brows in surprise.
Even the boys and the dog registered the implication and stopped their game to look at the door in expectation.
Distantly, Barnaby caught the sound of voices—Mostyn’s and another male’s—then footsteps approached in rapid and determined fashion.
Penelope caught Barnaby’s gaze and tipped her head toward the bellpull. “Hettie?”
Barnaby was already rising; Hettie was the boys’ nursemaid. “An excellent idea.”
He tugged the bellpull, then turned as the door opened and Mostyn ushered Charlie Hastings into the room.
One look at his old friend, and Barnaby could tell he was seriously unsettled.
Penelope was every bit as observant as Barnaby. She got to her feet and, with a welcoming smile, went forward to take Charlie’s hands. “Charlie—how lovely to see you. Do come in.”
Charlie grasped her fingers and half bowed over them, mumbling his thanks for the welcome and, with a glance at Barnaby, added that he was relieved to find them at home.
If Barnaby and Penelope had needed any further hint that something was drastically wrong, that “relieved” provided it.
Penelope turned and beamed at the boys. “We were just playing with these two.” She bent and hoisted Pip to her hip. “Oliver—come and make your bow to Uncle Charlie.”
