Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

L ady Meriwell welcomed Penelope and Veronica into her sitting room and, of her own volition, invited them to partake of afternoon tea with her and the ever-present Lord Iffey.

When Penelope and Veronica readily accepted, her ladyship dispatched Iffey to ring for a maid, saying, "I'm so glad you've come up to see me. I feel quite the failed hostess, but I just can't bring myself to face the Busseltons. I'm mortified that through no fault of theirs, their family has been caught up in our drama, and while they cannot have anything to do with either death, they are stuck here, with the rest of us, while your friend, the inspector, sorts this out."

"I'm sure the Busseltons understand." Penelope sank into the chair Lady Meriwell had waved her to, facing the sofa on which her ladyship was sitting. "The situation can hardly be taken to be any reflection on you."

Sinking onto an adjacent love seat, Veronica murmured supportively, and Iffey, returning from having requested tea for four, gruffly stated, "Just so. No one will be blaming you for anything, my dear."

Lady Meriwell smiled fondly at him as he resumed his seat on the sofa alongside her. "But Iffey, dear, you've been hiding up here with me all this time and avoiding the Busseltons as well, so you can hardly claim to know what they think."

Caught out, his lordship grumbled something along the lines of "stands to reason."

Intent on steering the conversation away from the Busseltons, Penelope ventured, "I wonder, your ladyship, if you could clarify for me how matters stood within the Meriwell family. The relationships between your late husband and his younger relatives are potentially pivotal to our case, and we understand that there were underlying tensions between his lordship and at least some of his nephews."

"Well, yes, one might say that." Lady Meriwell paused as if uncomfortable and debating what to say, then she glanced at Iffey. "I truly do want to be helpful, Mrs. Adair, but…" She gestured vaguely. "Family, you understand? It's hard to know what's appropriate in these rather strange circumstances."

It was an appeal, one to which Iffey—to Penelope's pleased surprise—responded with sound common sense. "After all that's happened, Clementina, and with both Angus and Sophie to see avenged, I can't imagine anyone would disapprove of you giving Mrs. Adair as accurate a grasp as possible of how things are—or were—within the family." Iffey looked at Penelope. "Very important to old Angus, you know—the Meriwell family."

Penelope nodded. "We realized that."

At mention of her late husband's obsession, her ladyship straightened, and her chin rose. "Indeed. Family was everything to Angus, most especially preserving the family name. Making sure the family was never brought into disrepute. I believe I explained to you that it was dealing with his younger brother, Claude, that started Angus down that path. For years, Angus lived in constant fear of Claude plunging the family into the mire."

Beside her, Iffey was nodding. "Even while he was at school. From his earliest years, Claude was a bad 'un."

The maid tapped and entered, bearing the tea tray, and they paused while Lady Meriwell dispensed cups, and they sipped and sampled the shortbread biscuits.

Penelope was relieved when her ladyship returned to the subject without prompting.

"And then there were the boys—Claude's sons." Lady Meriwell grimaced. "Their mother was gently bred, but a weak sort. Claude rode roughshod over her, poor dear, and she passed away when the boys were quite young—as I recall, Peter was still in leading strings. There was no family on her side, so naturally, from that time on, we—Angus and I—made an effort to have the boys spend time here, with us. To give them a proper family life, something Claude paid scant attention to. I know Angus hoped that, by taking a hand in guiding Claude's sons, he could ensure they didn't follow in their father's footsteps."

Iffey put in, "Angus was determined to shape his nephews into more worthy men than their father."

"And then," her ladyship continued, "Claude died."

"In a curricle race!" Iffey gave vent to a disgusted snort. "Reckless to the last."

"How old were his sons then?" Penelope asked.

Lady Meriwell frowned. "I think…yes, Stephen was twelve, so Arthur must have been ten and Peter just eight years old. After that," she went on, "the boys were here whenever they weren't in school or staying with friends. This became their home. Our own son, Robert, was much older, of course, and he'd already married and left with Elizabeth, his wife, to do good works in Africa. That left Angus with Claude's three sons to bring up and mold into respectable gentlemen." Her ladyship sighed. "As matters panned out, while he succeeded in that with Stephen, Arthur and Peter seem to have reverted to type—meaning their father's type."

Iffey nodded. "Stephen was always a sound sort—he seemed to take after Angus more than Claude. Stephen's the sort you can always rely on to do the right thing, you know?"

Penelope nodded. "So Stephen and his lordship got along well, while with Arthur and Peter…" She left the implied question dangling.

With another snort, Iffey picked up her invitation. "Angus fought a losing battle with those two. They're Claude's sons through and through—feckless and uncaring of anyone but themselves."

Her ladyship's lips pinched, then she offered, "Once they'd gone on the town, Arthur and Peter never came here but that they wanted something—usually money—from Angus. In contrast, Stephen often came down just to spend a few days. He's always been a pleasant visitor, easy to please, and"—she glanced at Iffey—"I don't believe he ever asked Angus for so much as a penny."

"As far as I know, that's right," Iffey said. He glanced at Penelope from under his bushy eyebrows. "It's hardly surprising that Stephen is—was—Angus's favorite of the three. And with Robert gone"—he glanced swiftly at her ladyship—"and Jacob, too, then it'll be Stephen who steps into Angus's shoes, and by my reckoning, Angus would have been hugely relieved by that."

Her ladyship nodded. "At least he had one Meriwell male to take on the mantle of defender of the family name."

Iffey huffed. "At one point, Angus nurtured the hope that Sophie and Stephen might make a match of it—keeping any potential issue with Sophie within the family, so to speak—but that didn't go anywhere."

Penelope felt her eyes fly wide, but before she could voice any questions, her ladyship responded with a fatalistic air, "Well, it wasn't ever likely to go anywhere, was it?" Lady Meriwell shook her head. "I tried to explain to Angus that marrying her cousin Stephen simply didn't align with Sophie's great aim to take the ton by storm." She sighed, and her eyes filled with tears. "Poor darling." Her lip quivered. "Thanks to this foul murderer, she'll never see any ballrooms at all."

Abruptly, her ladyship swung her gaze to Penelope, and her eyes burned fiercely. "You must find who killed her—who took away her dreams, however silly and fantastical those were."

Holding her ladyship's gaze, Penelope inclined her head. "We will do our very best."

And she now had new facts and insights to ponder, including a heretofore unknown link between Stephen and Sophie.

In between talking, they'd finished the tea and biscuits and set down their cups and saucers. Penelope gathered Veronica with a glance, and they were about to stand when Penelope remembered her other reason for being there. She caught her ladyship's gaze. "We understand Sophie kept a detailed diary. We looked for it?—"

"Oh—I have it." Lady Meriwell hurried to explain, "I wanted a keepsake of my granddaughter, so I had Pinchwell fetch it for me." Her ladyship glanced at the door that, presumably, led to her bedroom. "I haven't had the heart to open it yet."

Penelope could barely believe her luck, but… "When did you send Pinchwell for it?"

Her ladyship blinked. "It was later that morning. After we found Sophie dead." She studied Penelope's face. "Was that all right? I hope it wasn't the wrong thing to do."

"No, no," Penelope reassured her. "As long as you have it, all's well. But I would like to borrow it for a few days, if I may? Knowing what young ladies entrust to their diaries, then reading what Sophie wrote in hers will give me a better idea of what sort of person she was and why she might have been killed."

"Yes, of course." Lady Meriwell looked at Veronica. "If I could trouble you to fetch it, dear? It's on the far bedside table."

Veronica nodded and went to the bedroom door.

Lady Meriwell returned her attention to Penelope. "If you would let me have it back before you leave?" She glanced at Iffey and smiled wanly. "Perhaps by then, I'll have mustered the strength to read it."

Veronica returned and handed a bound journal to Penelope.

She took it, holding it between both hands, and half bowed to Lady Meriwell. "Thank you. I'll make sure to return it before we leave."

Her ladyship inclined her head in farewell, and Lord Iffey rose and escorted Penelope and Veronica to the door.

"Wanted to ask," Iffey gruffly said as they paused before the door, "about when the bodies can be buried." He glanced back at her ladyship, now sitting on the sofa and staring at the window with sorrow clearly etched on her face. "The news has spread to the village, and the vicar called earlier. I put him off, saying Clemmie wasn't up to seeing him yet, but the funerals will have to be faced. So"—he refastened his gaze on Penelope's face—"when do you think the bodies might be released, heh?"

Penelope thought, then replied, "I can't say, but I will tell Stokes that her ladyship needs to know."

Iffey nodded. "Good enough."

With that, he opened the door and held it for them, and with her prize clutched between her hands, Penelope made for the library.

She could barely wait to show off their find to Barnaby and Stokes. "It was Pinchwell—Lady Meriwell's dresser—who took it."

"When?" Barnaby asked.

"Later on the morning that Sophie was found." Veronica took the chair beside David. "Her ladyship wanted the diary as a keepsake."

"So." Stokes leaned forward and fixed Penelope with his gaze. "What did you learn about Lord Meriwell's relationships with his nephews?"

Between them, Penelope and Veronica faithfully recounted all they'd learned from Lady Meriwell and Lord Iffey regarding Lord Meriwell and his nephews.

"Having his lordship there was actually quite helpful," Penelope said. "His memories of how his good friend Angus felt about his three nephews were, in some respects, more insightful than what her ladyship told us."

"Oh," Veronica said. "And his lordship asked—more or less on behalf of her ladyship—as to when the bodies will be released so the funerals can be arranged." Veronica caught Stokes's gaze. "Penelope told him you would let them know."

Stokes looked at David. "Any reason I can't release the bodies for burial?"

David shook his head. "I've examined both sufficiently well to write my report for the coroner."

"Right, then." Stokes rose. "No time like the present. I'll go up and tell her ladyship."

The others murmured encouragement, all except Penelope, who was already flicking through the first pages of the diary.

Smiling slightly, Stokes shook his head at her and headed for the door.

After studying his already-absorbed wife for several seconds, Barnaby remarked, "While we can see you're eager to read all that Sophie wrote, I feel compelled to point out that, as it wasn't the murderer who removed the diary, there's no reason to suppose that there will be anything incriminating within its pages."

Penelope stilled, then she looked up and met Barnaby's eyes. Her own slowly narrowed, then she humphed and returned her attention to the journal in her lap. "I'll read it regardless. You never know what I might find that sheds light, however obliquely, on this mare's nest of an investigation."

That evening, after enjoying a highly satisfactory dinner in the inn's private parlor with Barnaby, Stokes, David, and Veronica, then seeing the latter couple off on the woodland path to Meriwell Hall, Penelope settled in the chair by the fire in the parlor and gave her attention to Sophie's journal.

Barnaby and Stokes sat at the table and prepared to amuse themselves with a game of piquet, an older game they'd developed a liking for—something about pitting their wits against each other.

Penelope left them to it and dove into the diary.

She'd already discovered that, as most young ladies' diaries did, Sophie's current journal commenced on the first day of the year. In some respects, that was useful; it meant Penelope was plowing through only the last five months of Sophie's life. Nonetheless, as Sophie was a keen diarist, filling multiple pages every night, recounting the events of her daily life and touching on her hopes and dreams, there was plenty to digest, and moving forward through the months would take time.

Manfully, Penelope resisted the urge to leaf ahead and was soon glad she had. Starting from early in the new year, Sophie's entries detailed what, to Penelope's experienced understanding, appeared to be a subtle yet distinctly determined pursuit of Sophie by her cousin Stephen.

That, Penelope reasoned, must have been the outcome of Lord Meriwell's notion—no doubt shared with his favorite nephew, Stephen—that Stephen marrying Sophie would be an excellent idea.

From what Sophie had written, she'd actively considered the proposition of becoming Stephen's wife, weighing up the pros and cons with a maturity with which Penelope hadn't previously credited her but which, the further Penelope read, Sophie had, indeed, possessed. In the end, after much deliberation, Sophie had elected to place her trust in love; she'd been determined to make her mark in London and search out a gentleman who could command her affections, and she was very clear in her own mind that she was not in love with Stephen. Or he, with her.

Sophie's decision embodied a straightforward wish for her future, one Penelope could only applaud. Reading further, she found herself wishing Sophie hadn't died, for the diary brought to life a sensible and pragmatic young woman who had lurked behind her melodramatic exterior.

Increasingly, Penelope concluded that Sophie's flirting with hysteria had been—as Lady Meriwell had stated—merely Sophie's way of getting what she wanted, especially when battling her grandfather's arguments and his notions of how she should live her life.

Penelope found herself sympathizing with the murdered girl.

And growing increasingly determined to see Sophie's murderer hang.

Engrossed, she continued reading through Sophie's descriptions of a series of attempts she had made to communicate her decision that she saw no future for herself with Stephen, culminating in a last bid for utter and unassailable clarity, when she'd written Stephen a letter clearly, concisely, and reasonably stating her position and putting a definitive end to any hopes he—no doubt supported by Lord Meriwell—had continued to entertain.

Penelope sighed and turned the page—and nearly dropped the diary.

She seized it with both hands, then flipped back a page, then forward again, feeling her eyes widen as she realized what she was seeing. "Good Lord!"

Barnaby and Stokes glanced sharply her way. Both took in her expression and swung to face her.

"What is it?" Barnaby demanded.

Almost bouncing with elation, Penelope surged to her feet, holding the diary, opened to the critical page, before her. "I knew there was something odd about that supposed suicide note." She crossed to the table and triumphantly laid the opened diary between the men. "And here it is." She jabbed a finger at the page, and both men leaned closer to read.

Barnaby realized the implication first. "Stephen was wooing Sophie?"

"Yes! Didn't we mention…" Her words trailed off as she realized they hadn't. Quickly, she explained, "Iffey mentioned it this afternoon. It seems that, earlier this year, Lord Meriwell had formed the notion that it would be a good idea for Stephen to marry Sophie, thus keeping her odd behavior within the family, so to speak. According to Sophie's diary, Stephen was willing, and Sophie didn't immediately refuse. She considered his suit quite carefully and surprisingly sensibly before deciding that such a match wouldn't suit her. Of course, egged on no doubt by his lordship and presumably seeking to please, Stephen persisted, although I would say he didn't apply any undue pressure. Not of any sort."

She paused, then said, "From what Sophie has written of Stephen's behavior, I would say that he, too, wasn't truly enamored of Lord Meriwell's scheme. However, Stephen persisted to the point that Sophie believed she needed to put her refusal to him in writing, which she did."

Penelope pointed to the open diary. "And voila! Before you, gentlemen, is a draft of the letter she subsequently sent Stephen, and you will note that the words that would have appeared as a single, last line in her missive read, ‘I'm so very sorry.' And she signed the letter ‘Sophie.'"

Stokes was nodding. "Her suicide note was the last page of the letter she sent Stephen."

"Yes!" Penelope said. "Exactly!"

"Well," Stokes said as he closed the diary, "at least we now know where the damned thing comes from and that it isn't a suicide note at all, which confirms our belief that Sophie was murdered. Unfortunately"—he raised his gaze to Penelope's face—"even if the letter was sent to Stephen, that doesn't necessarily mean that he was the one who left it by Sophie's bed."

Penelope nodded. "I would wager both Arthur and Peter—no matter that they don't get along with Stephen—call at his lodgings from time to time, even if only to see if they can extract some cash."

"Indeed," Stokes said. "So either could have found the letter and taken it?—"

"And"—Penelope wrinkled her nose in disgust—"used the last page to implicate Stephen." Her shoulders sagged, and she grimaced ferociously. "Damn it! We still can't tell which of them is our murderer!"

Over breakfast the next morning, Barnaby, Penelope, and Stokes reviewed what they felt they could legitimately define as fact backed by actual solid evidence.

Barnaby pointed out, "Despite that the so-called suicide note being part of a letter to Stephen fails to distinguish between the Meriwell nephews, it does, fairly definitely, rule out Iffey as a suspect."

Penelope crunched her toast and, after swallowing, said, "I seriously doubt that Stephen would entertain Iffey in his rooms, and I can't see Iffey calling on Stephen out of the blue."

Stokes wasn't quite so convinced. "While I can imagine a scenario that might have moved Iffey to call on Stephen at his home, I admit that's a long shot. It's far more likely that one of the other two filched the letter. It seems like just the sort of thing they might do, thinking to gain some advantage later."

Barnaby inclined his head. "There's certainly no love lost between the three."

Stokes sipped his coffee, then lowered the mug and looked from Penelope to Barnaby. "So are we in agreement that, as the case now stands, the evidence points decisively toward one of the three nephews being our murderer?"

Barnaby and Penelope nodded.

Then Penelope tipped her head. "Regarding the antagonism between the three, I got the impression that the feeling is higher—of a different order—between Stephen and the other two. I wouldn't say Arthur and Peter are friends, but they're not as set against each other as each seems against Stephen."

Barnaby inclined his head. "I concur, but I'm not sure that observation gets us any further, at least not at this point."

Penelope grimaced.

Stokes straightened. "As we're still waiting on word from London, I suggest we see what more we can learn about our three prime suspects—and yes, I agree that Arthur and Peter are the more serious contenders." He looked at Penelope. "You learned about their earlier years from Iffey and her ladyship, but we need to know more about them as adults."

Penelope frowned. "I stayed up reading Sophie's diary all the way through. Sadly, she didn't comment much about her cousins."

"We don't even know where in London they live," Barnaby pointed out. "That might be revealing." He looked at Stokes. "We should ask Wishpole—he's almost certain to know."

"Good idea." Stokes jotted in his notebook. "And we should also see what else he knows of the three—or at least what else he will tell us. We might be able to get a better handle on how pressing their motives might be."

"Or whether there are any other motives we've yet to learn about," Penelope added, "and whether any are especially compelling in terms of the murderer acting when he did."

"We should also ask about the terms of the will," Barnaby said, "and how the bequests change now that Sophie—previously the major beneficiary—is also dead."

Stokes pushed back his chair and rose, bringing Barnaby and Penelope to their feet. Stokes met their eyes. "We need to make some decisive headway soon. I've agreed to release the bodies tomorrow, and after that, I can't see that our presence here is likely to get us any further."

They returned to Meriwell Hall to find David and Veronica waiting for them in the library.

After they'd claimed their usual armchairs, Penelope shared what she'd learned from the diary, then handed the journal to Veronica and asked her to return it to Lady Meriwell with Penelope's thanks.

"But isn't it evidence?" Veronica glanced at Stokes.

"Of a sort," Stokes conceded. "But if the diary's safely with her ladyship, we'll know where to lay our hands on it if we need it. And sadly, as Penelope said, the existence of that entry suggesting that the suicide note was the last page of a letter to Stephen Meriwell doesn't help in distinguishing which of the three nephews left it beside Sophie's bed."

Veronica grimaced, but nodded. "I'll go up and see her ladyship later."

David added, "We've already checked in with Lady Meriwell this morning. She said she's hoping to talk to the local vicar today, about arranging a joint funeral for Lord Meriwell and Sophie."

Penelope observed, "That will be a sad day for this household."

"It will be especially hard on her ladyship," Veronica said. "She asked, and I've agreed to stay on, at least until the funerals are over."

David glanced at Veronica, then diffidently said, "I'm afraid I need to return to London this evening. I can't put off my other patients any longer. As it is, I've been lucky none of my currently expecting ladies are approaching their confinements."

Stokes sighed. "I can only hope that we'll have some news from Curtis during the day—some clue that will point definitively to our murderer."

"As the evidence now stands," Barnaby reiterated, "we have nothing that distinguishes which of the three nephews is our murderer. All we can state is that, almost certainly, one of them is the villain of this piece."

"We thought to ask Wishpole," Penelope said, reminding Stokes and Barnaby of their agreed next step, "about what he knows of the three—where they live and his opinions of their characters—and also for an explanation of how the bequests and inheritances now stand."

Barnaby nodded. "In light of Sophie's murder, we need to know how those have changed." He looked at David. "I take it Wishpole is still here?"

David and Veronica nodded. "I believe," Veronica said, "that he intends to remain until after the funerals."

"No doubt he'll read the will to the beneficiaries after the wake," Stokes said. "No sense in him traveling back to London only to return within a few days."

"Especially not at his age," Penelope added.

"From what I gathered," David said, "like us, he's hoping to see the murderer exposed, caught, and justice done. He was Lord Meriwell's solicitor for decades and feels the losses as much as anyone."

"That's reassuring." Stokes rose. "It gives him good reason to allow us to pick his brains."

Stokes tugged the bellpull, and when Jensen arrived, sent him to ask Wishpole to join them.

When the door closed behind Jensen, Penelope looked at David and Veronica. "How are the Busseltons faring?"

With a wry smile, David reported, "The younger two continue to be avidly curious about the investigative process. They've been asking leading questions of me and Veronica whenever they get the chance."

"Meaning," Veronica put in with a smile, "whenever they find us out of sight of their parents."

"Indeed." David's smile widened. "The elder Busseltons' attitude has firmed into what I would describe as bracing themselves for whatever might come, even though neither has any idea of what that might be."

"Both are concerned," Veronica went on, "understandably so, at the prospect that ‘whatever might come' will bring adverse repercussions for their family, purely by association—by them being here when the murders occurred."

Penelope grimaced. "One can hardly discount such anxiety." She paused, then observed, "Protecting family, especially a family's good name, has been something of a theme in this case."

Barnaby inclined his head. "Lord Meriwell's devotion to protecting the family name is almost certainly what got him killed."

Stokes nodded. "Because of the killer's certain knowledge that his lordship would act, strongly and decisively, against whoever is behind the looming family scandal." He looked at the others. "Meaning the scandal this business in Seven Dials—the House of Dreams—apparently represents."

The door opened, and Jensen ushered Wishpole in.

They all rose, and while Barnaby and Stokes fetched another armchair to enlarge their circle, Penelope and Veronica greeted Wishpole with welcoming smiles and urged him to the chair closest to the fire.

The elderly yet still determinedly dapper solicitor returned their smiles with a rather wan smile of his own and, leaning heavily on his cane, allowed Penelope to assist him into the comfortable chair.

The investigators resumed their seats, and once Wishpole had settled, Barnaby commenced with "I believe we can rely on your discretion over what we're about to reveal."

Wishpole's eyes widened, and his brows rose. "Of course, sir. That goes without saying."

Barnaby inclined his head in acceptance, paused to marshal his thoughts, then said, "Information has come to light that indicates that the murderer of both Lord Meriwell and Sophie Meriwell is one of his lordship's nephews. As of this moment, the evidence we have does not allow us to identify which of the three is our villain, but we're expecting to receive information from London shortly that will be, we hope, definitive and conclusive. In the meantime, while we await that critical information, we thought to widen our knowledge of the three men and hoped to pick your brain regarding what you know of them."

"For instance," Stokes said, "do you know where they live?"

Wishpole nodded. "Stephen maintains lodgings in Jermyn Street. Arthur has rooms in James Street, off Haymarket, while Peter has rooms in an establishment on Chandos Street, north of the Strand."

Stokes was busily jotting, so Barnaby asked, "If possible, can you give us your opinion of the characters of the three men?"

Wishpole thought, then wrinkled his nose. "As I will most likely find myself acting for at least two of them, I would really rather not say."

Regardless, his dryly contemptuous tone conveyed his general opinion.

Penelope asked, "Is it possible for you to tell us whether any of the three are, to your knowledge, under duress of any kind? Are they subject to any pressure that might push them to murder?"

Wishpole frowned. "I fear I am not well acquainted with any of the three. And what little I do know of their…pressures—for instance, Arthur wanting his lordship's horse and Peter being in debt—I learned from Lord Meriwell rather than directly and so have no actual knowledge of the matters."

The investigators shared resigned looks, then Barnaby said, "Turning from the personal, we wished to ask if you could explain in more detail the legacies that will accrue to each of the three men under his lordship's will."

"And," Penelope added, "whether and in what way Sophie's subsequent death has changed any of those inheritances."

Wishpole studied them for several silent seconds, his gaze passing over their faces before fastening on the empty hearth. The slight frown that knitted his lined brow stated he was thinking, most likely weighing up their request against his duty to the family.

None of them spoke or even twitched. They waited, hoping…

Eventually, Wishpole raised his gaze from the hearth and fixed it on Barnaby and Stokes. "As is customary, his lordship's last testament will be read to the family after the funeral. However, from my knowledge of the family and my consequent deductions, I have arrived at much the same conclusion as you, and I'm concerned that the villain might find some way to slip free of the law's net. As you have confirmed, the evidence is sparse and, sadly, unspecific. Given Lord Meriwell's instruction that I arrive here prepared to legally alter his will, I can only conclude that he was intent on seeing the villain of this piece struck out and deprived of any inheritance. As my first and dominant duty remains to his lordship and, beyond him, to her ladyship and the principal heir, then I believe that, at this time and in this situation, it's appropriate that I assist you by explaining as much as legal restraint allows."

Stokes inclined his head. "Thank you, sir."

Everyone else looked encouraging.

Wishpole drew breath and admitted, "Like you, on the basis of what I know as fact, I cannot distinguish which of the three—Stephen, Arthur, or Peter—is the murderer. I might have opinions based on observations of the three men's characters, but they are not facts. So"—Wishpole blew out a breath—"let me start by telling you how matters stood before Miss Sophie's untimely death."

Penelope kept her gaze firmly fixed on Wishpole's face. For a legal eagle, his face was unusually expressive; it was easy to discern what he disliked or disapproved of and equally easy to gauge what had gained his approbation.

Wishpole continued, "Under Lord Meriwell's will, all three nephews stood to gain to a greater or lesser degree. First, Arthur Meriwell has been left the stallion that I understand he's been hounding his lordship over for the past few years. Peter Meriwell will receive an amount sufficient to meet what his lordship believed was the sum of Peter's immediate debts. Stephen Meriwell has been left a somewhat larger amount. Most of Lord Meriwell's unentailed wealth—which includes this house and the estate that supports it and all monies in the Funds—go to Lady Meriwell during her lifetime, and otherwise, had Miss Sophie lived, to her. Sophie was by far and away the largest beneficiary."

Puzzled by what seemed to be a glaring omission, Penelope asked, "What about the title and the entailed estate? From what I gathered from the Busseltons, Stephen expects to inherit those."

Wishpole sat back and steepled his fingers before his face. "I believe Stephen and many others expect that he will ultimately inherit both, but first, he will need to establish that Jacob Meriwell, Robert Meriwell's son and Lord Meriwell's grandson, is deceased. I am aware that the family believe that to be the case, but beliefs are not facts, and the court will insist on proof of that claim. Stephen will have to produce substantive proof of Jacob's death or else move to have Jacob formally declared dead and then wait for a rather large number of years to pass before petitioning the courts to grant the inheritance."

Mildly, Wishpole met Stokes's gaze. "To my certain knowledge, no formal declaration of the assumed death of Jacob Meriwell has yet been made."

Barnaby was frowning. "Are you saying that Jacob's death was never confirmed? That there's no actual evidence of it?"

"Just so." Wishpole paused, then added, "I am aware that Lord Meriwell led others to believe that his grandson had followed his parents to Africa and, subsequently, died there, but if there ever was any actual evidence to support that assertion, I have never seen it, and his lordship has—again, to my certain knowledge—never presented any such evidence of Jacob's death to any court."

"So essentially," David said, "there is no death certificate for Jacob Meriwell."

When Wishpole nodded, David explained to the others, "That means that legally, he's still alive."

"Indeed." After a moment, Wishpole continued, "And to clarify, the physical estate tied to the title of Lord Meriwell, Baron Meriwell of Alderley, is a ruined castle in a barren field in the Midlands, along with twenty acres of surrounding land. As inheritances go, the title is worth more socially than the entailed estate is worth financially."

Frowns deepened as they wrapped their minds around those facts.

"I see," Stokes eventually said. "So as things stand, Stephen might be in line for the title, but to actually inherit it, he will have to provide proof to the court that his second cousin, Jacob, is actually dead."

"Correct." Wishpole looked at Penelope. "Now, to the point you raised, dear lady, about how Sophie's death alters the inheritances, there is, effectively, no change to the direct bequests to her ladyship and the three nephews. However, as to Sophie's portion, which is the bulk of the unentailed estate beyond its use by Lady Meriwell during her lifetime, that will revert to Lord Meriwell's senior direct descendant, meaning whoever legally claims the title."

David confirmed, "The unentailed estate doesn't get split between the nephews?"

"No. It does not." Wishpole paused, then added, "That might have provided a significant motive for any of the three, of course, but no. The bequests and inheritances will not play out in that way."

"So," Barnaby summed up, "as matters stand now, post Sophie's death, the title, entailed estate, and the bulk of the unentailed estate go to…"

Wishpole filled in, "Jacob Meriwell if he's alive or Stephen Meriwell if Jacob is proved dead."

Stokes was almost scowling. "So you're saying that neither Arthur nor Peter benefit from Sophie's death, but Stephen potentially might."

"And by quite a significant amount," Barnaby said.

Wishpole looked from one to the other, then nodded. "That's the situation in a nutshell."

Penelope pulled a rueful face. "While it's tempting to conclude that given Stephen stands to gain so much, he must be the murderer, we cannot discount that, despite benefiting significantly less from his lordship's death, Arthur or Peter could have been sufficiently desperate to kill his lordship for their inheritance—for the horse or the money to pay off pressing debts. And then they killed Sophie purely as a way to cover their tracks." She paused, and her brows rose. "And perhaps they used Sophie's letter to Stephen in the hope that Stephen would be taken up for both crimes."

Suddenly struck, she looked at Wishpole. "If Stephen was convicted of his lordship's and Sophie's murders and Jacob Meriwell is proved to be dead, who inherits the majority of the Meriwell estate then?"

Wishpole blinked at her, then slowly replied, "Arthur."

The five investigators exchanged a questioning—speculating—glance.

"That," Stokes said, "is convoluted, but it just might fit."

After a moment, Barnaby said, "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe we can now feel confident that Lord Meriwell discovering the association of one of his nephews with the House of Dreams in Seven Dials, combined with that nephew's certain knowledge that his lordship would act to disown the guilty party, was what prompted the guilty nephew to murder his lordship."

The others around the circle, including Wishpole, nodded.

"However," Barnaby went on, "as of yet, we cannot tell if Sophie's murder was purely an attempt to provide the authorities with a convenient scapegoat or if it was also motivated by a desire to gain more financially from the Meriwell estate."

They all thought that through, then Stokes groaned and fell back in his chair. "All of which means that we still can't tell which of the three nephews is the murderer."