The Murder at Mandeville Hall: The Casebook of Barnaby Adair: Volume 7 Read online

  “We think,” Constance said, “that in the corridor, she saw him perform the exact same action as he had when he left the shrubbery after strangling Glynis—settling his coat’s shoulders and sleeves in some distinctive way.”

  “But the most important actual fact,” Penelope stated, “is that given the timing of Rosa’s reaction and her relative height, then the man she reacted to had to have been one of the last to walk out of the billiard room.”

  “They—the men—were walking two and three abreast,” Constance said. “So say the last five or six. He had to have been one of them.”

  Stokes studied Constance’s and Penelope’s eager faces, then humphed. “As it happens, that’s much the same conclusion we reached after speaking with the footman who was in the corridor at that time, waiting to go into the billiard room.”

  “Although you’ve narrowed it down further,” Barnaby said. “We assumed it was a man toward the rear of the group, but from what you say, I agree he’s likely to have been one of the last five or six.”

  Alaric exchanged a look with Percy.

  Percy deflated. “I was at the head of the pack—and you were with me, weren’t you?”

  Alaric pulled a face. “I was.” He looked at Stokes. “And I have absolutely no idea who was at the rear.”

  Penelope exhaled, then arched a brow at Constance. “Do you think there’s any chance the ladies flanking Rosa—Mrs. Collard and Mrs. Finlayson—might have noticed which gentlemen were at the rear of the pack?”

  Alaric watched as Constance closed her eyes and—like Monty—appeared to consult a visual memory. After a moment, she shook her head, opened her eyes, and looked at Stokes. “I sincerely doubt those two ladies will be of any help. They were discussing some lily and how best to grow it, right up until the moment Rosa gasped. Once she did, we all looked at her.” Constance met Penelope’s gaze. “As I said, Rosa was staring straight ahead when she gasped, but by the time I noticed—by the time any of us got a clear look at her face—she’d looked down, and the revealing moment had passed.”

  “Did the men halt and look back?” Barnaby asked.

  Briefly, Constance closed her eyes, then opened them and said, “Yes. At least a few of them paused and glanced back, but it was just the usual cursory glance. The instant they saw us all gathering about, they presumably assumed we had everything in hand, and they faced forward and continued on. I’m afraid I didn’t focus on their faces—I just know they were there, looked back, then went on.”

  Stokes and Barnaby shared a long glance, then Stokes said, “If we don’t get a bead on this murderer by morning, we might have to sit all the gentlemen down, one by one, and ask them to say who was where as they left the billiard room.”

  “And,” Barnaby stated, his features hard, “who paused and looked back.” Grimly, he regarded the others. “That’s one of the few things we know about our murderer—like Lot’s wife, he absolutely has to be one of those who looked back.”

  Chapter 10

  All the investigators—among whom Constance now included herself, Alaric, and even Percy—had remained under the oak, discussing how best to address what were now their critical questions: Which gentleman had Rosa been staring at when she’d come over faint? Which gentleman had left the billiard room at the rear of the gentlemanly pack and then paused and looked back at Rosa?

  As Barnaby had pointed out, the trigger, as it were, for Rosa’s murder had to lie there. The murderer had to have seen with his own eyes that Rosa was a threat to him; that was why he’d killed her.

  Their first thought had been to round up the guests and, in whatever way, press ahead, but that impulse had swiftly been tempered by caution; if their actions tipped their hand to the murderer and he felt that they were closing in, he might well flee—or worse. Although what worse he might do, no one had defined. But of even greater concern was Stokes’s assessment that identifying the murderer as the man Rosa had stared at was, as evidence went, too flimsy to obtain a conviction. As Stokes had explained, “We need to know who he is, and then we need to build a case, either through his reactions to being accused or by finding solid evidence linking him to one or both murders.”

  Barnaby had looked around their circle and gravely stated, “In this case, identifying the murderer will only be the start of building a prosecutable case against him.”

  “But,” Penelope had said, “as long as we can be certain we know which gentleman he is by tomorrow morning, Stokes can hold him and prevent him from leaving, and then we’ll have time to build our case.”

  Evidently, bringing Glynis’s and Rosa’s murderer to justice all hinged on learning his identity beyond question by midmorning the next day.

  Consequently, despite the feeling that they were starting to find their way through the morass created by the house party—with at minimum four suspects, a large and rambling house, and people wandering here and there at will—an uncertain mood had enveloped them; the prospect of failure had hovered oppressively beneath the branches of the oak. As they’d debated their options for reducing their list of suspects to one, the knowledge that tomorrow morning was their last opportunity—that they had to succeed over just those few hours before the party broke up and everyone, including the murderer, left—had weighed on them all.

  Eventually, they’d realized the afternoon was waning. Alaric had checked his watch and discovered it was already six o’clock; despite nothing being decided regarding their next steps, together with Alaric and Percy, Constance had hurried back to the house to change for dinner. Heads together, still discussing potential ways to unmask the killer, Barnaby, Penelope, and Stokes had ambled off to the stable, ultimately to return to the Tabard Inn.

  As Constance held up her arms and allowed Pearl to slide her evening gown over her head and draw it down, she wracked her brains, going over all the happenings again in the hope of stumbling on some clue they’d missed.

  “You’ll be late if you don’t concentrate,” Pearl admonished as she wrestled closed the buttons down the back of the gown. “Woolgathering, you are. And you rushing up at the last minute to change.”

  “We’re on the hunt for this murderer.” Constance wriggled, settling the bodice, then reached for her pearl earrings. “We still don’t know who he is—and we need to know by tomorrow midmorning, before everyone leaves.”

  Pearl humphed. “You’re a lady—leave searching for murderers to those paid to do it.”

  Constance smiled. “Mrs. Adair is far more of a lady than I am, and she’s in the hunt up to her eyebrows.”

  Pearl’s only reply was another humph. She finished with the buttons and prodded Constance toward the dressing stool. Once Constance sat, Pearl started on her hair; the activities of the day had freed myriad curls from her originally neat chignon. Working swiftly, Pearl loosened the thick, wavy mass, brushed it out, then wound it up into a knot.

  Constance secured her string of pearls about her throat, then glanced about the room and belatedly realized the other occupant was absent. “Mrs. Macomber went down?”

  “Mmm.” Pearl had pins between her lips. She set them in place, anchoring the knot of Constance’s hair, then said, “I finally got her courage up, and she toddled off near half an hour ago. I saw that Mrs. Cripps take up with her, and the two settled into chatting, so I think she’ll be fine.”

  “Good. I was worried she’d take to life as a recluse.”

  “I think she considered it, but she likes a good chat, and recluses don’t get much of that.”

  “True.” The instant Pearl set the last pin in place, Constance shot up from the stool. She whirled, grabbed the evening reticule Pearl had left out for her, and headed for the door.

  Sliding the strings of the beaded reticule over one wrist, Constance strode up the corridor. The rooms she passed were silent, all the other guests already downstairs.

  She stepped into the wide hall where the corridors from the various wings converged before the head of the main stairs. She glan
ced to her left, down the corridor leading to the gentlemen’s rooms, and almost involuntarily slowed.

  They hadn’t searched for the chain and ring.

  She glanced at the stairs. Everyone else would be downstairs by now. She listened, straining her ears, but heard nothing; the rooms all about her were deserted.

  Swiftly, she debated. She couldn’t search every gentleman’s room, but she could search the rooms of the critical four.

  She’d seen Penelope’s sketch of the house; closing her eyes, Constance called it to mind. Edward’s room was the farthest away, around the corner at the end of the gentlemen’s wing and along the family wing. She’d start there.

  She didn’t have time to reassess; if she was to do this, it had to be done now.

  Quickly and quietly, she walked down the corridor. Nearing the corner around which she’d intended to turn, she saw that the door to Percy’s room—which faced directly up the corridor—was ajar.

  She halted and stared at the slightly open door.

  It was possible a maid or footman hadn’t closed it properly.

  She debated for a second more, then crept closer. She put out one hand and gently eased the door farther open. It swung noiselessly; she poked her head around and peered inside.

  And saw no one and nothing out of place.

  The tension that had gripped her abruptly drained away.

  Then she heard the scrape of a drawer.

  Someone was in Percy’s bedroom. Given the hour, it wouldn’t be him.

  Caution tugged at her, urging her to back away, but she couldn’t leave without knowing…

  Stealthily, she edged around the door. Holding her breath, she crept across the carpet; placing her slippered feet with care, she crossed the anteroom to where she could see past the dividing wall and into Percy’s bedroom.

  To the tallboy against the wall. The same tallboy in which they’d found Glynis’s letters in the top right-hand drawer.

  Edward Mandeville stood with that same drawer open, peering inside.

  The mirror sitting on top of the tallboy gave Constance a clear view of Edward’s face. He was frowning down at where the letters had been.

  From the fingers of his left hand, a gold chain hung, a lady’s ring dangling pendant-like on the chain.

  Constance’s lungs seized. She took a step back.

  Edward looked up—into the mirror. His eyes clashed with hers.

  For a split second, they both froze.

  Then Constance whirled and fled.

  She ripped open the door and raced into the corridor.

  Her full skirts tangled about her legs. She drew in a breath.

  Then Edward was on her. He slapped a hard palm across her lips, yanking her head up and back against his shoulder, smothering her scream. His other arm wrapped like a steel band around her waist, and despite her height and robust strength, Constance couldn’t escape.

  She tried kicking back at his legs and frantically squirming.

  Edward proved far stronger than she’d imagined. He held her easily.

  “You fool,” he hissed into her ear. “Now, it’ll have to be you, too.”

  Constance heaved forward, but he countered the movement. Then he started to drag her back down the west wing.

  Furious—and increasingly terrified—Constance fought every step of the way. One of her arms was clamped to her side, the other hampered by her reticule; she violently shook her wrist to make the reticule’s strings slip over her hand. Finally, the reticule fell, and she had one hand free.

  She tried to tug Edward’s hand from her lips. Unfortunately, being a practical lady, she kept her nails neat and short—they were useless for scratching and inflicting damage, at least damage enough to make Edward let go.

  She tried to reach up and back, hoping to find his face and his eyes, but he sensed the movement and jerked his head away from her clawing hand.

  Silently swearing, she lowered her hand and tried—equally futilely—to pry away the arm about her waist. If she could twist to the side, she might break his hold…

  With one hand clamped painfully across her face and the other clutching her waist, Edward grunted and tugged, wrestling to keep her moving. Despite her best efforts, step by step, he forced her feet to move in the direction he wished. To her relief, he didn’t make for Percy’s room but hauled her down the family wing.

  Wildly glancing around, she glimpsed the maw of the minor staircase for which Edward was making.

  He intended to take her out of the house before murdering her.

  Of course. If she—her body—wasn’t found for days, he could leave tomorrow and fly free.

  It was already late; the gong for dinner would soon sound. Alaric and Percy would be expecting her to appear. When she didn’t…

  Desperation lent her clarity. Alaric would come to find her; she had to leave a trail. Because of her size, Edward had to drag her; she was too heavy for him to lift, even to the extent of getting her feet off the ground. He had no way to straighten the runner the heels of her shoes had rucked up; glancing back, she saw the rippling and the drag marks left by her shoes—and dug her heels in even more.

  Edward growled, but didn’t halt.

  She realized he couldn’t risk freeing either hand to strike her into acquiescence if not insensibility. She wasn’t going to be as easy a victim as Glynis and Rosa had been.

  Constance hooked her heels into the runner with every step, leaving the long strip rumpled and askew—hopefully as obvious as a painted arrow.

  Then they were at the stairs, and Edward all but pushed her down them.

  Fear clutched at Constance’s throat; with Edward’s weight behind her, she couldn’t stop her feet from descending.

  * * *

  Alaric and Percy had no idea who was at the rear of the gentlemen when, as a group, they’d quit the billiard room, but it was possible that Monty, with his habit of noting every little fact regardless of consequence, knew the answer.

  Monty might even know who Rosa had stared at.

  Sadly, it was equally possible that Monty had been just behind Alaric and had noticed no more than he.

  Consequently, Alaric hadn’t mentioned to the others the possibility that Monty might know, not wanting to get their hopes up only to dash them.

  Especially given the somewhat fraught tension that had prevailed under the old oak.

  Over the day, they’d followed several promising leads, and every one had fizzled out and left them with, at best, only a tantalizing snippet more of information regarding the murderer.

  The pre-dinner gathering in the drawing room dragged on interminably. Alaric kept one eye on the door, waiting for Constance to appear. He’d intended to have her with him when he questioned Monty; however, she was taking her time. Admittedly, they’d been late going upstairs to change.

  He was also watching Monty, who, as usual, was surrounded by others and chatting animatedly.

  Alaric glanced at the clock. Dinner would soon be served, and he couldn’t question Monty at the table.

  Then Monty smiled and stepped back from the knot of guests with whom he’d been conversing; he paused by the wall, presumably catching his mental breath before joining the next group of guests.

  Alaric glanced once more at the doorway—still empty—then walked to Percy’s side, dipped his head, and murmured, “We need to speak with Monty.”

  Percy glanced at him, met his eyes, then rapidly made his excuses to Mrs. Finlayson and the colonel and followed Alaric as he cut across the room and cornered Monty.

  Monty regarded Alaric warily. “What now?”

  “A simple question,” Alaric said as Percy joined him, halting by his side so that Monty was largely screened from the company. “On the night Rosa was murdered, when we—all the gentlemen—left the billiard room and headed for the drawing room, where in the scrum were you?”

  Monty’s brows rose. “You and Percy here were in the lead. I brought up the rear.”

  Than
k God.

  Alaric’s heart leapt. He tried not to let himself hope too much—not yet. “Who was with you at the rear of the column?”

  “Edward, Henry, Guy, and Robert.”

  All four of their principal suspects; Alaric felt his burgeoning hopes start to deflate.

  “I don’t suppose,” Percy asked, “that you saw whether Rosa stared at a particular man before she came over faint.”

  Monty shot Percy a supercilious look. “Of course I did. It was Edward. No idea why she should turn so green at the sight—he’s not bad looking, all in all, and he was turned out well enough—but she took one long gawp, then looked quite bilious.”

  “Edward?” Alaric fought to keep his voice down. “You’re sure?”

  Monty frowned as if offended. “Of course I’m sure. I was standing next to him.”

  “Good God!” Percy breathed.

  Alaric swung around and scanned the guests. After a second, Percy copied him.

  “Edward’s not yet down, if that’s who you’re after,” Monty informed them.

  “He must have done a bunk.” Percy sounded faintly panicked.

  “Why?” Monty asked.

  “Because he’s the murderer,” Percy hissed. “My God, I can barely believe it!”

  Alaric was silent. Premonition stroked his nape with icy fingertips, and with increasing desperation, he scanned the guests again… “No. He hasn’t left yet—Constance isn’t here, either.”

  He didn’t want to put the two circumstances together and make them one, but every instinct he possessed was screaming that was the case.

  “I have to find Edward.” Abruptly, he started for the door.

  He had a terrible fear that when he found Edward, he’d find Constance as well.

  Alaric forged a path through the guests, dimly aware of the surprise on many faces as he passed without the slightest hint of a smile. He strode into the hall. A swift glance back showed Percy hurrying after him and Monty—insatiably curious—trotting behind.