Chapter 12

CHAPTER 12

P enelope had little appetite for the cold collation Jensen provided for the investigators in the library. Wishpole remained to take his luncheon with them, and she listened as the others chatted about inconsequential subjects while slaking their appetites.

They finished eating and pushed away their plates and were disaffectedly looking at each other, waiting for someone to suggest what they might do next, when Jensen returned with the footmen to clear the table.

Leaving Thomas and Jeremy to gather the crockery, Jensen paused by Penelope's chair. When, curious, she looked his way, he said, "If you would, ma'am, Mrs. Hutchinson would like a word."

Penelope blinked. "Yes, of course." What on earth the housekeeper would want with her, she couldn't imagine.

Before she could inquire, Jensen half bowed. "If you could come to Mrs. Hutchinson's sitting room, ma'am, I suspect that might be wisest."

Curiouser and curiouser. Penelope exchanged a mystified look with Barnaby and Stokes, then nodded to Jensen. He drew out her chair, and she rose and glanced at Veronica. "Perhaps Nurse Haskell could show me the way?"

Veronica all but leapt to her feet and joined Penelope as she made for the door.

Jensen held it for them.

Penelope noted his relieved expression and inwardly wondered all the more.

Veronica led the way past the green-baize-covered door to the housekeeper's room. She tapped on the door frame, then pushed the partially open door wide, ushered Penelope through, and followed.

At their entrance, Mrs. Hutchinson rose from the chair behind her small desk, and a maid—the upstairs maid, Jenny—leapt up from a stool on the housekeeper's right.

Both women bobbed curtsies, then Mrs. Hutchinson waved Penelope and Veronica to a pair of simple armchairs set facing the desk. "Thank you for coming, ma'am. Miss Haskell."

They sat, and Mrs. Hutchinson resumed her seat and waved Jenny to her perch.

Intrigued, Penelope prompted, "How can I help?"

Mrs. Hutchinson looked at Jenny. When the girl, eyes huge, looked helplessly back, Mrs. Hutchinson sighed and said, "Jenny works above stairs, and one of her duties is to change the sheets on the family's beds. She was busy doing that on Wednesday afternoon."

Penelope clarified, "The afternoon after Miss Sophie died?"

Mrs. Hutchinson's lips tightened, and she nodded. "Death or no death, we still had to change the sheets." When Penelope dipped her head in understanding, the housekeeper continued, "The linen closet on the first floor is off the gallery, across the stairwell from the corridor leading to the family's rooms, including Miss Sophie's chamber."

Mrs. Hutchinson looked at Jenny and, with a hint of exasperation, said, "There, now. You tell the rest."

Staring at Penelope, Jenny swallowed, gripped her hands tightly in her lap, and offered, "The door was open, and I was sorting through the sheets." She paused, then said, "I had to leave the door open, or I wouldn't have been able to see. It's right dim in that spot. I was there, in along the shelves of sheets and towels, when I heard a noise. Not close and not loud, but like a door closing. I'd thought as I was the only one up there, so I looked out, and I saw Mr. Stephen walk away from Miss Sophie's door."

Penelope considered that, then confirmed, "This was the afternoon following the morning when Miss Sophie was found dead."

Jenny nodded. "About three in the afternoon, ma'am. I always change the sheets on Wednesdays, you see, but what with the ruckus in the morning, I was running late."

"Yes, I see." Penelope knew that households of the ilk of Meriwell Hall's, managed by competent housekeepers like Mrs. Hutchinson, tended to run like clockwork. Regimentation was the only way to ensure all the work got done. "Could you see if Mr. Meriwell was carrying anything?" He couldn't have had the diary, because Pinchwell had removed it earlier in the day.

"He didn't have anything in his hands, ma'am." Jenny paused, then added, "And I didn't get the impression he'd put anything in his pockets, either." The maid met Penelope's gaze. "I could tell because he was walking up the corridor straight toward me, and the light from the cupola was beaming that way, onto him."

Penelope really didn't think Stephen was their murderer, yet still, she asked, "Did he see you?"

"Oh no, ma'am," Jenny assured her. "The linen closet's tucked away in the shadows, and of course, I didn't want to intrude on the family, so I stayed still, and I'm sure he didn't see me at all."

Penelope accepted that as most likely accurate. "Could you see his expression? Was the light good enough for that?"

"Yes, ma'am. When he got to the end of the corridor and stepped into the gallery, the light from above fell full on his face."

"So how did he look?"

Jenny squinted, apparently imagining the sight and searching for words, then offered, "Puzzled. A bit worried-like." She focused on Penelope and added, "Like he couldn't figure something out and was anxious about it."

"I see." Penelope paused, but could think of nothing more to ask. She focused on Jenny, then glanced at Mrs. Hutchinson. "Thank you both. That might well help us. You were right to think that we'd want to know."

Both women smiled in relief.

Penelope glanced at Veronica.

Veronica met her gaze, and together they rose and, with gracious nods to the housekeeper and maid, left the pair to their day and headed back to the library.

With Veronica on her heels, Penelope reentered the library to find four faces turning their way, each sporting an expression of hope mingling with curiosity.

She sighed, went forward, and dropped into her now-usual armchair. "Jenny, the upstairs maid, saw Stephen leaving Sophie's room on the afternoon Sophie died. He was empty-handed and looked puzzled."

"In Jenny's words," Veronica added as she sank into the chair beside David, "‘he looked as if he couldn't figure something out and was anxious about it.'"

Barnaby arched his brows. "Had he been looking for the diary? Or something else?"

Penelope frowned. "If he'd been after some keepsake, then I can't imagine why he would have looked puzzled. There were plenty of little knickknacks there, pieces that might serve as mementos."

Stokes inclined his head. "So it seems more likely that he'd been looking for the diary and couldn't think where it might have gone."

"Or," Penelope added, "who might have taken it. You would imagine he would have known of Sophie's habit. Perhaps he wondered what she'd written about his pursuit of her. He wouldn't want the Busseltons to learn about that."

"True," Barnaby said. "And by all accounts, of the three nephews, he'd spent more time with Sophie."

Wishpole looked faintly confused. "What's this about Stephen pursuing Sophie?"

Barnaby explained that Lord Meriwell had encouraged a match between Sophie and Stephen. "Thinking to keep Sophie's behavior within the family, so to speak."

"And from what Sophie wrote in her diary," Penelope said, "Stephen was diligent in endeavoring to win her to his—or rather his uncle's—cause, but Sophie declined. She had other ideas about finding a husband."

"Ah." Wishpole nodded. "That does sound like the sort of scheme his lordship would have hatched, and he'd mentioned how set Sophie was on taking the ton by storm." His expression grew somber. "Poor girl."

Wishpole's ensuing glumness was infectious; they all seemed to slump dejectedly in their chairs.

Penelope looked around the circle and sighed. "It seems quite unfair that while clues like Stephen looking for the diary, the suicide letter that wasn't, the vial of cyanide, and the missing glass are now falling into our laps, none of them point anywhere useful, much less definitively. I mean"—she gestured—"it's not as if we're imagining Stephen as our murderer."

Stokes grunted. "Arthur or Peter. Theoretically, Stephen is still a suspect, but my money's on one of the younger pair."

"Unless," Barnaby said, "there's something major we've yet to stumble on, Stephen has by far the weakest motive. He might stand to inherit a reasonable sum of money and, ultimately, might inherit the title and entailed estate—and now Sophie's portion as well—yet there's zero evidence that he actually needs those things, much less that he needs them desperately enough to murder to get them."

Penelope grimaced. "And as for Stephen's standing, financial and character-wise, we have the testimony of Lord Meriwell himself. His lordship would never have encouraged a match with Sophie if he didn't know Stephen to be a sound and decent man."

"Plus," Veronica pointed out, "we have Mr. Busselton willing to countenance an offer for his daughter's hand."

Penelope nodded. "Even though, regarding Stephen, Mrs. Busselton, Persimone, and Peregrine are still on the fence, none have raised any factual objection." She paused, then observed, "I have to say that, for myself, in all we've seen while here, I haven't noticed any behavior on Stephen's part that would make me question his honesty or integrity."

Veronica offered, "He's always seemed the steady, reliable, sensible, even staid nephew."

Wishpole concurred. "My experience is that Stephen is the conservative sort, while the other two are unpredictable and wild."

Barnaby glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. "Meanwhile, we're running out of time. It's already two o'clock."

Stokes, too, glanced at the clock, then growled. "If O'Donnell doesn't bring us news from Curtis soon, I'm going to be very displeased."

As if summoned by his superior's words, O'Donnell arrived in the library less than ten minutes later.

The sergeant stuck his head around the door and, spotting them, came in and carefully closed the door behind him.

Noting O'Donnell's eager expression as he crossed toward them, expectation gripped Barnaby, and together with his co-investigators, he sat up, alert and waiting to hear what the sergeant had to report.

O'Donnell halted before the armchairs and dipped his head respectfully to the company, then fixed his gaze on Stokes. "The gent you sent me to speak with wasn't of a mind to entrust what he had to say to me. Instead, he's come himself and is waiting at the inn."

Barnaby exchanged a surprised glance with Stokes and Penelope. For Curtis to put aside whatever he was doing in London and come into Surrey purely to give them information…that had to mean something.

Seeing the questions in their faces, O'Donnell added, "He didn't want to come to the house in case someone here recognized him. He said that was something you wouldn't want, so he's waiting at the inn." O'Donnell added, "Once I told him about the murders, I didn't need to say anything more to convince him to help us, but he says you need to hear what he knows directly from him—just as it was with Lord Meriwell himself."

Barnaby met Stokes's eyes, then Penelope's. None of them knew what to make of that.

Stokes gestured. "If he insists…" He rose, and the rest of them quickly got to their feet, except for Wishpole.

Noting the attitude of straining at the leash that seemed to have infected them all, Barnaby warned, "We can't race off. We need to look like we're just strolling back to the inn."

Stokes nodded. "I don't understand why Curtis is playing least in sight, but he's wily enough to have good reason. We don't want to tip our murderer off and send him running."

"Not when we're finally about to learn which of the nephews he is." Penelope summoned an airy and completely false smile, walked to Veronica, and linked her arm with hers. "We'll lead the way. Just a gentle stroll through the wood."

Barnaby grinned and, with David, fell in behind the ladies.

Stokes paused beside Wishpole. "If you would, sir, it would be helpful to have someone remain within sight of our suspects while we hare off to learn our murderer's identity."

Wishpole met Stokes's gray gaze and smiled faintly. "I will repair to wherever the bulk of the company are and keep an eye on proceedings."

Stokes grinned, inclined his head, and strode after the others.

Of course, once Penelope and Veronica reached the wood and the trees' shadows enveloped them, they increased their pace and were striding briskly by the time they got to the inn.

Nevertheless, they walked calmly through the door as if they were merely returning to their temporary residence.

With his palm at the back of Penelope's waist, Barnaby nudged her toward their private parlor, and smoothly, she steered Veronica in that direction.

He paused just inside the door, allowing Stokes and David to amble past him, then he scanned those in the inn's taproom and spotted Curtis nursing a pint of ale at a table in one corner.

Curtis had, of course, seen them and was watching Barnaby.

Without making any show of it, he tipped his head toward the parlor, then turned and followed the others.

He entered the parlor behind David and held the door open, and seconds later, Curtis walked in, carrying his signature low-crowned hat as well as his half-full glass of ale.

Stokes had diverted to give orders for drinks at the bar, and he followed the experienced inquiry agent into the room.

Barnaby shut the door and waved toward the table, to which David had pulled up an extra chair. "Curtis, you know my wife, myself, and Stokes. This is Dr. David Sanderson and Miss Veronica Haskell."

David reached across the table and offered Curtis his hand. "I'm the Meriwell family's physician."

Curtis gripped and shook and arched his brows. "Quite some way from Harley Street."

David smiled. "In my line of work, I'm often called to country houses, and this was a true emergency."

"So it seems." Curtis exchanged polite and faintly curious nods with Veronica.

David glanced at her and explained, "Miss Haskell is a nurse. She'd accepted a position here at my instigation, which is how she came to be mixed up in this strange affair."

"Ah." Curtis set down his glass and pulled out the chair beside Penelope. "Strange, indeed." He sat, set his hat on the table, waited while Stokes and Barnaby claimed seats, then said, "This is probably the strangest case I've come across in all my years."

A tap on the door heralded the serving girl with a tray of glasses and two jugs, one of ale, the other of cider. The company remained silent while she placed the tray on the table, and when Barnaby assured her they needed nothing more, she bobbed and left.

The instant the door closed, as one, the investigators focused on Curtis.

Entirely unnecessarily, Stokes informed him, "We're agog to hear what you can tell us about the House of Dreams."

Curtis snorted and reached for his ale. "More like the House of Nightmares."

He waited, sipping and eyeing them as Barnaby poured two glasses of cider for the ladies and David filled three glasses from the jug of ale.

Once everyone was supplied, Curtis looked at Penelope and Veronica and, in his deep voice, rumbled, "My apologies, ladies, but the business of the House of Dreams is highly unsavory."

Penelope inclined her head, acknowledging the warning. "Don't mind our ears. We need to learn what this is about more than we need to preserve any rosy-eyed view of the world."

Veronica murmured, "Indeed."

Curtis studied Penelope for a moment, then looked into his glass. "Think of the worst debauchery you can imagine, then think of something worse. Significantly worse. Something skin-crawlingly bad. What goes on in the House of Dreams is about the lowest ebb of humanity I can think of or care to know exists. That's what the House of Dreams dishes up to those brainless enough and wealthy enough to be lured through its doors."

"Lured?" Barnaby frowned.

Curtis nodded. "By invitation only, because, unsurprisingly, the owners don't make the bulk of their quite spectacular profits from payments for the entertainment they offer. They rake in the money from what enjoying that entertainment exposes the idiot punters to."

Stokes's eyes widened in understanding. "Blackmail."

Curtis's expression grew grim. "That's their real game."

"So," Penelope said, "one of the Meriwells was foolish enough to accept the lure and is now being blackmailed."

Curtis met her gaze levelly. "Don't get ahead of me." He paused, then said, "I'd better tell this tale from the start. If I don't, you'll just get confused."

"Starting at the beginning is usually wise," Barnaby drily observed.

Curtis grunted, paused to marshal his thoughts, took another sip of his ale, then commenced. "Lord Meriwell contacted me about four weeks ago. He came to my office in the City. Turned up out of the blue and hired me to verify the truth of a rumor that had come to his ears, namely that a member of his family—he assumed one of his nephews—was frequenting a place known as the House of Dreams in Seven Dials. If the rumor proved true, he wanted me to ascertain the identity of the nephew involved."

The heavy-set inquiry agent shrugged. "Seemed straightforward enough."

"And?" Stokes prompted.

"It took quite a lot of exceedingly careful digging," Curtis went on. "More than I'd expected, truth be told. I had to first learn who to speak with, then find those people and discover how to get them to talk. It took me and my crew weeks, which is not the norm for inquiries of that sort. The layers of secrecy surrounding the House of Dreams and its operations are numerous and extensive. However, eventually, we had verification enough, solid enough, to satisfy his lordship's request. We could say absolutely that the rumor was true—that a Meriwell was frequenting the House of Dreams—and we knew his identity."

Curtis grimaced and tugged one ear lobe. "The thing was, the information went further than I'd anticipated, and a good bit deeper than I knew his lordship was expecting. It turned out that the Meriwell involved was not frequenting the place as a punter. Instead, he's one of the founding joint-owners, and more, he's the owner primarily involved in luring the most profitable punters through their doors."

For the first time in a long while, Penelope was truly shocked. "A Meriwell—one of his lordship's nephews—was acting as a…a shill ?" She couldn't keep the scandalized tone from her voice; she was sincerely horrified. "For a place as awful as that?"

Curtis's expression showed he understood her reaction; indeed, that he shared it. "Exactly. And once I learned that, I knew I had to be very sure—incontrovertibly certain—when I reported to his lordship as to which nephew it was."

"It was only one of them?" Stokes asked.

Curtis nodded. "But in this case, one was more than horror enough." He paused, then went on, "I decided to do the surveillance personally so I'd be able to tell his lordship that I'd seen who it was with my own eyes. I knew he'd find it difficult to accept—knew that I'd need every piece of rock-solid evidence I could lay my hands on."

He glanced at Barnaby and Stokes, and both nodded in understanding.

Curtis continued, "By then, I had more than enough solid documented evidence about the place and the business and how it was run and about the other four joint-owners. They were easy enough to get information on—they're crooks to their eyeballs, and I know how crooks work, and I know who they deal with. The Meriwell involved was a harder nut to crack. If he has a bank account, I've yet to find it. He always seemed to deal in cash, so there was no discernible, provable connection between himself and the ongoing business. I daresay his name appears on certain deeds and agreements with the other joint-owners—in fact, given this Meriwell's current situation, such documents have to exist—but they are guarded too well for even me and the more light-fingered of my crew to access."

He glanced at Stokes. "You'll need warrants, a squad of experienced men, and a safe-cracker to get hold of them, but they'll be there, somewhere."

Grimly, Stokes nodded.

Curtis went on, "The one piece of the jigsaw I was lacking was irrefutable evidence—something seen with my own eyes—that would identify which Meriwell it was. I couldn't risk going into the place myself—too likely someone there would recognize me—and besides, I wasn't about to serve myself up as prey to the likes of the joint-owners." He paused, then head tipping, went on, "In the end, it actually wasn't all that difficult. I set up as an old codger sleeping rough in the alley across the lane from the House of Dreams. The man—our Meriwell—was so overweeningly confident, he was totally unaware that he was being watched as he ushered his latest prey through the doors of the House of Dreams."

Curtis paused, then added, "I watched for six nights and saw him take three different young gentlemen inside, each time patently playing the role of experienced elder introducing a less-experienced man into the ways of the world. And every morning, by the time I quit my post just before dawn, although Meriwell had left the place, the newcomer he'd brought in the evening before hadn't."

Stokes grimaced. "I see."

Barnaby stirred. "So which Meriwell was it?"

Stokes straightened. "Arthur or Peter?"

Curtis gazed at them. "That was it, you see. It wasn't either of the younger pair. The Meriwell involved in the House of Dreams is Stephen Meriwell."

"Oh." Penelope felt as if all the pieces of the puzzle—the clues they'd gathered—whirled kaleidoscope-like around her head, then stopped and fell into her brain, forming a completely new pattern. "That's why you needed to be so sure. And that's where he gets his funds from." She looked at Stokes and Barnaby. "We never heard from what business Stephen derives his income, which has to be at least reasonable given his clothes and his lodgings."

The others were staring and gaping at Curtis and, now, at her.

She looked at Curtis. "I want to say you're joking, but I know you aren't." She adjusted her spectacles and declared, "The pieces all fit, far too well to be anything but the truth."

Curtis dipped his head to her. "On the evidence, Stephen Meriwell is a past master at pulling the wool over people's eyes. That's why he excels in his role of shill for the House of Dreams—young gentlemen from wealthy, well-born families meet him and think he's just like them, only a few years older and wiser. He knows the ropes—the ropes they'd like to learn—and they swallow the stories and assurances he feeds them, and then he reels them in, and they follow him through the doors of the House of Dreams. By the time they wake up and learn the truth about him, it's too late. They're caught on the House's hook and can never dare tell anyone what he's truly like, much less what he's doing."

Curtis looked at Stokes. "The House of Dreams has been a blight on London society for the past ten years, and it's been able to remain undisturbed by the authorities because of the people it has in its clutches. Too many young men from the best families."

Stokes returned Curtis's regard, his own gray eyes steely. "Earlier, you said you had evidence to implicate the four other joint-owners and that Meriwell was also a joint-owner."

Curtis nodded. "Stephen Meriwell was one of the founding five joint-owners. He might even have been the instigator behind the scheme. He and the four others—I can give you their names later, as they're all underworld ‘businessmen' you'll be happy to get your teeth into—established the House of Dreams. From the first, it was designed to be exclusive and to generate most of its profits from blackmail. However, Stephen himself had no money, which is why he needed the other four to bankroll the business. The other four contributed their share as well as a quarter each of Stephen's share—each share was a fifth each, so not inconsiderable, even in Seven Dials. I was told that the agreement struck was that Stephen would contribute his services in luring lucrative punters through the doors for ten years, and after that time, he would repay the other four for the monies they'd effectively loaned him, but on the basis of repaying them in total a fifth of the current value of the business."

Barnaby's eyes widened. "Ah. I take it that the business, having grown steadily through the years, is now worth much more than it was at the beginning."

Curtis smiled thinly. "Just so." He looked at the others. "The ten years was up late last year. The other four served Stephen with notices of monies due. I've been told they were quite taken aback when he told them he didn't have the wherewithal to pay them. They knew how much profit he'd taken from the business —they shared the profits equally, after all—and they didn't understand and couldn't believe that all that cash had gone."

"Because they don't live within the ton," Barnaby wryly put in.

Curtis dipped his head. "Exactly. Stephen had squandered the lot. So instead, he asked for the ‘loan,' as it were, to be extended for another ten years."

"They refused." Penelope's eyes gleamed. "Of course they did—they'd be getting nervous about dealing with someone that profligate. And so they told Stephen he had to find the money, and that was why he tried to court first Sophie and, when that didn't work, Persimone Busselton."

"I don't know about any courtships," Curtis said, "but from different sources entirely, I know that three of the four other joint-owners were counting on that cash. They need Stephen to pay them, and they need that to happen soon, and they've told him as much and made it very plain."

"So," Stokes said, "Stephen's time has run out, and he has to find cash—a significant amount of cash—soon."

Curtis nodded. "More cash, all at once, than he's likely ever contemplated, and he's been given a month to come up with his dues. Either pay up or, in three of the four cases, prove that he'll be able to pay by the end of the year."

"That's why he came prepared with the poisons," Penelope said. "Not just one poison but two poisons. The cyanide for his uncle, to be followed by high-strength laudanum for Sophie." She looked around the table. "Stephen was always going to murder both Lord Meriwell and Sophie. He needed money—or the promise of it—and he needed much more than his lordship was planning to leave him."

His lips grimly set, Barnaby nodded. "He needed Sophie's portion as well."

"And," Stokes put in, "most likely, he's assuming that, with Jacob Meriwell presumed dead, he'll be able to skip through the legal hoops and claim everything."

"More," Barnaby said, "he won't even need to actually clear those hoops to lay his hands on the money he requires. With Lord Meriwell dead, and Sophie as well, and Jacob Meriwell presumed to be so, moneylenders will be lining up to loan Stephen money on the basis of his expectations."

"I hesitate to point this out," David said, "but surely we now have to question whether Jacob Meriwell actually went to Africa at all. Was he Stephen's first victim?"

The others stared at him as that sank in.

Aghast, Veronica raised her hands to her face. "This is simply horrible ." She met David's eyes. "Can you imagine what his lordship must have felt, learning that the one nephew he thought he could count on was…well, even more dreadful than his father?"

Barnaby nodded. "That Stephen posed even more of a threat to the family name than Claude ever had."

Penelope huffed and crossed her arms. " I'm still struggling to get my brain around the fact that it's Stephen who's the villain. His lordship must have been staggered by the news."

Curtis nodded. "He was. It took me over an hour to convince him, but once I had, he grew angry and determined."

"He gave you that letter for Wishpole," Barnaby said.

"Yes. And by the time I left," Curtis said, "he was absolutely determined to put an end to Mr. Stephen Meriwell and the House of Dreams. If I understood his lordship correctly, disowning Stephen was just the first step. I believe he would have summoned the authorities—turned Stephen in—as a way to throw up a social bulwark of sorts to protect the rest of the family."

Stokes nodded. "That could have been his plan, and I daresay it might have worked to stem the backlash against the family."

"Hmm." Penelope, too, nodded. "In that regard, the fact that the Busseltons had also been hoodwinked would have worked in his lordship's favor. It wasn't just the Meriwell family Stephen had tricked."

Stokes pulled out his notebook—in deference to Curtis, until then left in his pocket—and looked at Curtis. "This House of Dreams. What's the address?"

Curtis rattled it off. Stokes wrote down the information, then closed his notebook. "Once we're squared away here, I'll arrange to have a squad of the Met's best pay a visit."

Barnaby refocused on Curtis. "During your meeting with his lordship, was there a particular piece of evidence that convinced him it was Stephen and not Arthur or Peter?"

"Aye," Curtis said. "In part, it was seeing Stephen with my own eyes and being able to describe him. I'd never met the man—or his brothers—but the family resemblance was clear enough, and when I described the man who lured young gentlemen into the House of Dreams as having lighter-colored, not quite blond, pale-brown hair, I could see his lordship started to believe. But the final nail in Stephen's coffin was these." Curtis pulled out a small stack of papers from his pocket.

He handed them to Stokes. "I kept these as insurance. Don't ask me how I came by them, but as you can see, they're invoices of sorts for supplies to the House of Dreams, and Stephen's signed them as having received the goods. He doesn't normally do that, but he must have been left in charge of the place for a few months. The invoices are several years old and were stuffed in a drawer in his bureau. He'd probably forgotten they were there." Curtis tipped his head at the papers. "Once his lordship saw those, that was it. He believed completely and utterly. And as I said, he started to get angry."

Having received the invoices from Stokes and glanced over them, Barnaby passed them to Penelope. She studied them, then shook her head and handed them to David. "I know we kept Stephen on our list of suspects, but that was more because we couldn't cross him off, not because we actually thought it might be him!" She pulled a face at Barnaby. "I feel so wrong-footed!"

He gave her a rueful look, then switched his attention to Curtis. "Other than giving you the letter for Wishpole, did Lord Meriwell tell you anything more of his plans regarding Stephen?"

"Only that he intended to disown him, and that would be just the beginning." Curtis grimaced. "His lordship was out for blood, it seemed." He paused, then added, "I think that once he started to believe, too many things fell into place—like where Stephen got his money from through all these years. His lordship muttered that he'd always wondered about that, but of course, being a gentleman, had never asked."

Curtis looked at Barnaby. "When I left Lord Meriwell, he was rather grimly silent. He'd given me the letter for Wishpole, and like I said, I think he was working out more pieces of the puzzle by the minute. Just as I reached the door, he mumbled something that sounded like ‘Good Lord! So that's why he wants to offer for her!'"

"Oh my goodness, yes!" Penelope's eyes widened. She looked at the others. "The man is an absolute fiend . He wants to marry Persimone Busselton so he can get his hands on her dowry, but that would merely be his first step. Later, he could—and assuredly would have—let George Busselton, MP, know what ‘business' Stephen, by then Busselton's son-in-law, was engaged in, what business paid the bills of the house he by then would have been sharing with Persimone, his wife."

"George Busselton would have paid and paid and paid," Stokes said, "to keep such a scandal out of the newspapers."

"To keep his son, Peregrine, free of the taint." Barnaby felt equally horror-struck as he met Penelope's eyes. "That's diabolical. Persimone's dowry, and George's position, and Hermione's as well, and then there's Peregrine! It's a never-ending cascade of blackmail."

Stokes growled, "There's no doubt at all that Stephen Meriwell is exceedingly clever in choosing his victims."

Curtis nodded. "That's what made him such an excellent shill. He has a remarkable talent for appearing to be a sincerely sound and solidly respectable gentleman. By the time his victims realize the truth of him, it's too late to escape his clutches."

"True evil," David said. "It's as if he has no bounds."

"It's what Veronica said earlier," Penelope said. "Stephen is far worse than Claude ever was."

Barnaby shifted. "Stephen is Claude with much greater ambition."

They all sat and pondered, then Stokes shifted, grimaced, and finally, raised his gaze and looked around the table. "Be that as it may—and it seriously pains me to say this—even with Curtis's evidence linking Stephen to the House of Dreams, when it comes to his lordship's murder and to Sophie's murder, we have no incontrovertible evidence that it was Stephen who committed the deeds. Yes, he could have poisoned both—we've established that much—but so could Arthur and Peter. We know that Stephen killed his uncle, and with his lordship mentioning the House of Dreams to Stephen when he arrived, Stephen had good reason to act immediately and end his uncle's life."

"And with that murder accomplished," Barnaby said, his tone coldly judgmental, "he moved to his next victim and murdered Sophie, too, using her character against her in order to paint her death as a suicide driven by guilt over her killing his lordship."

David's lip curled. "The depths to which Stephen has sunk—deliberately and willingly—are almost beyond comprehension."

Penelope stirred, then looked around the table. "We now know, with absolute certainty, who our murderer is. So"—her eyes bright, she challenged everyone there—"how are we going to bring the fiend to justice?"

Slowly, Stokes shook his head. "I honestly don't know." He glanced inquiringly at Penelope with the air of one hoping she might have an answer.

She smiled intently and, surprisingly mildly, suggested he call for a tea tray. "We need sustenance to feed our brains."

The tea tray was duly ordered and arrived. They ate, drank, and discussed.

As Penelope had expected, after every option was thoroughly explored, they all agreed that, in this strange and difficult situation, there was really only one way forward.

"Right, then." She pushed her spectacles higher on her nose and announced, "We have to stage a denouement and pray he panics and gives himself away."