Chapter 13

CHAPTER 13

W ith the rest of their company, including Curtis, O'Donnell, and Morgan, Penelope walked briskly back to Meriwell Hall.

The afternoon was well advanced; it was nearing four o'clock when they emerged onto the rear lawn and headed for the house.

Stokes dispatched Morgan to haunt the stable in case Stephen slipped through their net and made a dash for it; the Channel coast wasn't that far away. The rest of them gained the terrace and paused, surveying the foursome playing on the croquet lawn and the others sitting and watching the game from beneath the spreading branches of the nearby oaks.

David tipped his head toward the latter group. "Go," he said to Stokes, Barnaby, and Penelope. "Veronica, O'Donnell, Curtis, and I will set our stage."

"In the drawing room," Penelope instructed. "It's better suited to our purpose."

Veronica nodded and looked at David. "We'll set up there."

The group split, with David, Veronica, O'Donnell, and Curtis entering the house through the side door while Stokes, Barnaby, and Penelope descended to the lawn and strolled toward the figures reclining in the chairs beneath the oaks.

They'd agreed that to give their denouement every chance of success, they should request Lady Meriwell's permission and her assistance to gather all involved for their performance.

Penelope fought to keep her gaze from the croquet players, especially Stephen Meriwell. She and her co-investigators recognized the need to obscure their purpose and were focused on behaving as if they were about to admit defeat and retreat to the capital. Consequently, she, Barnaby, and Stokes had to affect a dispirited air. All three had played such charades before, pretending to be flummoxed even though they knew who their villain was, but all of them were very aware that this time, they were attempting to deceive a master of deception.

Stephen Meriwell was assuredly that; even now, as Penelope surreptitiously studied him from the corner of her eye, she couldn't detect any mark of his evil deeds in the fa?ade he displayed to the world.

The croquet game had been rather desultory and, today, involved Arthur and Persimone playing against Peregrine and Peter. The contest paused as Stokes, Barnaby, and Penelope approached, and all four players halted and straightened, resting their mallet heads on the grass, the better to discern what was afoot.

Wishpole and Lord Iffey were seated in cane armchairs to one side of the lawn and appeared to have been idly chatting; they broke off their exchange and gazed questioningly at Stokes, Barnaby, and Penelope as they drew near.

George Busselton and Stephen were standing a few yards beyond the cane armchairs in which Lady Meriwell and Mrs. Busselton were relaxing. Deploying his customary veil of genial respectability, Stephen had been chatting with his hoped-for father-in-law with an attitude of sophisticated confidence, but together with Busselton, Stephen fell silent the better to hear what Stokes, Barnaby, and Penelope had come to report.

Other than running a sharp eye over the three of them, Stephen showed no sign of excessive interest, and as Penelope, Barnaby, and Stokes were taking pains to appear dejected and the very opposite of hopeful or expectant, she felt passingly confident that Stephen's lack of nervousness, much less trepidation, was genuine; he had no idea they had him in their sights.

Excellent.

As they'd planned, they halted before the older ladies, and Barnaby stepped to the fore and bowed to Lady Meriwell. "Your ladyship." He nodded to Mrs. Busselton, then returned his gaze to Lady Meriwell and rather formally said, "Inspector Stokes, my wife, and I thought that, prior to us leaving for London, we should give you and the company here an accounting of where the investigation stands."

Her ladyship looked faintly troubled. "Oh, I see. You're leaving."

Penelope stepped in to reassure her, "The investigation will continue, but it seems we've exhausted the local information, and that being so, it's difficult to justify remaining at Meriwell Hall."

Iffey had got to his feet and came stumping up to stand behind her ladyship's chair. From under beetling brows, he scowled at Stokes. "Giving up, are you?"

Stokes managed to look believably irritated. "No, my lord. As Mrs. Adair intimated, the investigation will remain open, and further inquiries will be made, but at this time, we lack definitive proof as to who killed Lord Meriwell and Miss Meriwell." Stokes looked disgusted to have to admit that. "Consequently, we're unable to make an arrest at this time, but we sincerely hope that situation will change. The Metropolitan Police are not in the habit of giving up."

Penelope was quietly impressed by how much truth Stokes had crammed into those sentences while appearing to be defending their failure to identify the murderer.

Lady Meriwell had been looking back and forth between Stokes and Iffey. Now, she raised a hand. "Help me up, Iffey. Of course we wish to hear whatever the inspector and Mr. and Mrs. Adair have to tell us." Her ladyship gripped Iffey's arm and allowed him to assist her out of the chair, then she inclined her head graciously to Stokes, Barnaby, and Penelope. "I, for one, would like to hear what you have discovered so far." She glanced around. "If the others wish to be informed as well…"

Penelope could have kissed the older lady, for of course, all those present responded with alacrity to that invitation. How could they not? They were all equally curious.

Her ladyship read the answer to her implied question in the faces about her and in the way the players abandoned their mallets. She returned her gaze to Penelope. "In that case, I think the drawing room might be best, don't you, Mrs. Adair?"

Penelope inclined her head. "I expect everyone will feel more comfortable there."

She'd been prepared to steer the company that way, but her ladyship suggesting it was much better. Less likely to highlight that Penelope and her co-investigators were intent on controlling all aspects of the gathering.

Mrs. Busselton was quick to agree and gathered her brood with a single commanding glance; no doubt she was looking forward to her family being released and able to return to their home. Not that she had to encourage Persimone or Peregrine to fall in as the group set off across the lawn; the younger Busseltons were openly curious and eager to learn what the investigators were about to reveal, however humdrum that might be. The pair followed their mother, her ladyship, and Iffey, drawing Arthur and Peter Meriwell with them.

Stokes, Barnaby, and Penelope stood back and allowed the company to go before them. Wishpole came to join them. His wise gray eyes had seen more than most of the ways of men and police inspectors. Of all those present, he seemed most aware that Stokes, Barnaby, and Penelope were not as lacking in direction as they were striving to appear. But Wishpole merely nodded to them and paused beside Penelope, waving to Stephen and George Busselton to go ahead.

Busselton strolled behind his children and Arthur and Peter, with Stephen keeping pace alongside. Stephen was walking with his hands clasped behind his back, his head tilted deferentially toward Busselton, his posture indicating that he was paying close attention to the wisdom the elder Busselton was imparting. From the few words Penelope caught, the advice related to Stephen taking his seat in the House of Lords.

Jumping the gun a trifle, but if Stephen was thinking along such lines, it seemed likely he considered himself safe.

Once Stephen had passed, Penelope smiled intently and linked her arm in Wishpole's, and with Barnaby on her other side and Stokes flanking Wishpole, the four of them brought up the rear of the small procession.

They followed the others into the house and through the front hall to the drawing room.

Just before the drawing room door, Penelope slipped her arm from Wishpole's and urged him to go in, murmuring sotto voce, "David Sanderson will show you where to sit."

Briefly, Wishpole studied her, then glanced fleetingly at Stokes and Barnaby before facing forward and walking slowly into the room.

Through the doorway, Penelope scanned the disposition of the company, noting with approval that David and Veronica had adhered to the agreed arrangement. The fireplace lay directly opposite the door, and on the long sofa to its left sat three Busseltons—Mrs. Busselton, flanked by her children, with Peregrine closer to the hearth. Mr. Busselton sat in an armchair alongside the end of the sofa occupied by his daughter, and Wishpole had been guided to an armchair beside the MP.

To the right of the fireplace, opposite the sofa, Lady Meriwell and Lord Iffey sat on a love seat with Iffey nearer the hearth. On her ladyship's other side, three smaller armchairs had been arranged in a line, and the Meriwell nephews had been directed to those.

Penelope wasn't surprised to see that Stephen had claimed the position on her ladyship's left; she hid a satisfied smile.

David and Veronica occupied straight-backed chairs set a yard behind the love seat, the position intended to indicate that they were not directly involved in the performance that was about to ensue.

As Penelope had directed, the low table that normally filled the space between the sofa and the love seat had been removed, clearing the way for the three principal investigators to walk directly up the room to their chosen stage before the fireplace.

A low hum of conversation, laced with an element of speculation, blanketed the company.

Her gaze returning to Stephen, who, with his expression open and earnest, was speaking with his aunt, Penelope murmured, "He's definitely a cool customer."

From behind her, Stokes growled, "He genuinely seems entirely unconcerned."

"However," Barnaby countered, "we know he's a consummate actor." A soup?on of predatory expectation threaded through his voice. "It's going to be interesting to see how he reacts when we draw back the veil and reveal his true character."

We can only hope. Penelope drew in a deep breath and led the way into the room.

Stokes followed her up the long room to the fireplace, and Barnaby brought up the rear. As they'd arranged, Stokes took position at center stage, in front of the fireplace, facing down the room. Penelope flanked him on his left, standing closer to where David was sitting. If Stephen bolted for the long window to the terrace on that side of the fireplace, David would be there to block any escape.

In claiming his position on Stokes's right, Barnaby, too, had a long window to the terrace beyond him. As he settled facing the room, Jensen closed the double doors, and Barnaby allowed his gaze to, apparently idly, sweep over the company seated before them.

Arthur was gnawing at a fingernail and looking worried and distinctly wary.

Peter was constantly shifting position as if he couldn't find a comfortable pose.

Both appeared a great deal more guilty than Stephen, who calmly viewed the three principal investigators with an open, expectant expression.

Just waiting to hear what we're going to say before we go away.

Barnaby suppressed a snort and, with a comprehensive glance, took in the concerned expressions on Lady Meriwell's and Lord Iffey's faces. They were anxious over what might or might not be revealed and were prepared to be disappointed rather than being worried on their own accounts.

Judging by the elder Busseltons' expressions, they were patently hopeful that this gathering would be the last of its sort they would have to attend and that they would be free to leave shortly after its conclusion. In contrast, the younger Busseltons appeared keen to hear all the investigators deigned to share and were avidly curious as to what might transpire.

All in all, everyone was reacting exactly as Barnaby, Penelope, and Stokes had foreseen.

Barnaby glanced at Stokes.

Stokes caught his eye, fractionally dipped his head, then faced the room and stepped slightly forward, instantly capturing everyone's attention. "Thank you for your cooperation and your help to date with this case."

Other than Barnaby, Penelope, and Stokes, no one saw the drawing room doors open and O'Donnell and Curtis slip into the room. Silently, they shut the doors and took up positions on either side, with Curtis assuming a stance that, despite his civilian garb, declared him just another of Stokes's men.

"We have now confirmed," Stokes continued, "beyond all doubt, beyond all question, that both Lord Meriwell and Miss Sophie Meriwell were murdered. They were poisoned, and the details are as follows."

Succinctly, with a dry delivery that owed much to having long experience in reciting evidence in court, Stokes described how his lordship was poisoned with cyanide dropped by sleight of hand into his wine glass as the company gathered in the dining room.

That was more than most had known before, and palpable unease spread as the realization took hold that—without doubt or question—the murderer still sat among them.

Imperturbably, in the same even tone, Stokes continued, revealing that his lordship's wine glass had subsequently gone missing. Without naming names, he commented, "Given the movements of the company and the staff, only certain of those present could have hidden the glass, and its later retrieval from the broken-glass heap only reinforced our thoughts on who could be responsible. Specifically, who our murderer might be."

Stokes paused to sweep the company with his gaze, then went on, "When it came to Sophie Meriwell's murder, the mechanism was remarkably similar. She was given an overdose of high-strength laudanum that could only have been put into her mug of cocoa by someone she allowed into her room after the maid had delivered the nighttime drink. Again, a degree of sleight of hand had to have been employed. We are, consequently, confident that the murderer of both his lordship and his granddaughter are one and the same person." He paused, eyeing the now-rapt company. "We are looking for only one murderer."

Judging by the expressions Barnaby saw as he glanced around the gathering, the steady recitation of fact following fact had succeeded in drawing everyone in, capturing all in a net of unwilling fascination. The two who had died had been people they knew, and the manner and method of their deaths held a certain macabre attraction.

An attraction Stokes fed by moving on to outline possible motives for the murders, which, unsurprising to anyone, centered on inheritances expected from his lordship's will. A recounting of the bare facts made Arthur and Peter squirm, but Stephen looked, if anything, mildly amused by his brothers' discomfort.

Indeed, Barnaby thought, Stephen looked distinctly smug.

Stokes progressed to recounting their clues, which made the younger Busseltons sit up even straighter. Mention of the man who had called at the house prior to the Busseltons' arrival caused Stephen to blink, his expression blanking, but that was a reaction his brothers shared. Stokes explained how the man's visit had precipitated his lordship's ire on that fateful evening—that, they'd all noticed at the time—and then stated that they'd been forced to send to London for further information regarding the unknown man in an attempt to discover what he had disclosed to Lord Meriwell.

The expression on Stephen's face was almost bland, but his eyes were shifting, his brow faintly furrowing as he wondered who else knew of his misdeeds—who else knew enough to be a threat to him and, without doubt, how he could silence them.

Stokes returned to the missing glass and its discovery in the broken-glass heap, plus the discovery of the vial that had contained the cyanide in the bushes bordering the family wing. "Increasingly, we grew sure that the murderer is a member of the family. Everything points to someone who knows this house well and who stands to gain from his lordship's will."

With his gaze resting on the three nephews, Stokes listed again the legacies each would receive due to his lordship's death. Both Arthur and Peter had paled and were doing excellent imitations of rabbits trapped before a fox, but Stephen remained outwardly undisturbed; he knew everyone there thought he was well-to-do and didn't really need the money his lordship had left him.

As far as anyone knew, he was certainly not desperate for his legacy in the way Arthur and Peter demonstrably and provably were. Indeed, neither Arthur nor Peter protested the obvious conclusion Stokes was leading the company to draw, namely that one of them was the murderer.

Watching the nephews closely, Penelope hoped Stokes knew better than to press too hard; both Arthur and Peter were as tense as bowstrings. They—the investigators—didn't need the pair to break and throw their careful plans into disarray.

In contrast, Stokes's direction had reassured Stephen. He was starting to relax again.

He was almost smiling when, without warning, Stokes shifted their line of attack to the business in Seven Dials.

Stephen's features blanked, and he visibly stilled.

Stokes explained how his lordship had been overheard telling Stephen that his lordship wanted to speak with him privately about the business in Seven Dials. "Stephen denied any knowledge of such a business, and it was suggested by several sources that the business might have links to Arthur or Peter, but both denied it, convincingly so."

Stokes looked at the younger pair.

Penelope could almost see their burgeoning relief.

Stokes went on, "No one seemed to know to what the phrase ‘the business in Seven Dials' referred. Mr. Wishpole had never heard of it. It wasn't and never had been a part of or connected to the Meriwell estate. The reference was a puzzle that took time and the assistance of members of Mr. Adair's information network in London to solve."

Penelope saw Stephen stiffen. His expression grew discernibly wary.

"The first piece of news to reach us was inconclusive," Stokes said, and Stephen's tension eased a fraction. "But," Stokes continued, "the information led us to the man Lord Meriwell had hired to look into the matter. We learned that, most likely through friends he met at his club in London, Lord Meriwell had heard a rumor linking a Meriwell with a most unsavory business in Seven Dials. Subsequently, his lordship hired a man known as the most-discreet inquiry agent in London to ferret out the truth and, if a Meriwell was, in fact, involved in that business, to identify which Meriwell it was."

At the edge of her vision, Penelope saw Curtis's lips curve slightly at that "most-discreet" description. However, the focus of her attention remained on Stephen, who now looked a trifle wild-eyed.

Stokes didn't give Stephen time to regroup. "We learned from Curtis, of the Curtis Inquiry Agency, that the ‘business in Seven Dials' that his lordship had hired the firm to investigate was called the House of Dreams." Stokes glanced at the Busselton ladies and tipped his head their way. "For our purposes, we only need to note that the House of Dreams was a brothel that catered to the worst of human nature and, more, that the principal source of profit for the business was not the so-called entertainment it offered but extortion and blackmail of those unwary enough to be lured through its doors." Stokes didn't pause but hammered his points home. "The agency discovered that the rumor his lordship had heard was accurate. Further, that a Meriwell was a joint-owner of the business and, indeed, had been one of its founders and that the business has been operational for at least ten years."

Stephen's eyes had flared, and he'd gone preternaturally still.

Relentlessly, Stokes continued, "It took Curtis and his associates some time to be sure of the identity of the Meriwell involved, but once they were, Curtis realized that to convince his lordship of the truth, incontrovertible evidence would be needed."

The entire company were hanging on Stokes's words, waiting for the revelation that had to be coming.

Stokes glanced at Arthur and Peter, who appeared as puzzled and intrigued as anyone. "Curtis watched the House of Dreams for a week and saw the Meriwell involved lead young, wealthy, inexperienced gentlemen through its doors. Essentially, he saw the Meriwell involved deliver up young men to the never-ending blackmail practiced by the five owners of the place." Stokes drew in a breath and switched his gaze to Stephen's now-white face. "The Meriwell Curtis saw was Stephen."

Stephen reared back as if struck. "No." His gaze darted around the room, then locked on George Busselton, and Stephen attempted a reassuring smile. "This is nonsense." Stephen looked at Stokes. "Everyone knows?—"

"That you're the reliable, steady, respectable Meriwell nephew?" Stokes's expression was harsh. "We know that's what you led everyone to believe, the charade you played and played exceedingly well, but that persona was and is a fa?ade."

Arthur and Peter had swiveled to stare at Stephen as if they'd never truly seen him before.

"Curtis knew that your uncle, Lord Meriwell, would have trouble accepting the truth, and when Curtis came to make his report, he came prepared not just with the evidence of his own eyes but with documentary proof of your involvement in the business. By the time Curtis left, more than an hour later, your uncle believed him, and what's more, Curtis carried a letter that he delivered to Mr. Wishpole in which his lordship stated that he required Wishpole's immediate attendance in order to change his will." Stokes held Stephen's gaze. "Lord Meriwell was about to disown you, Stephen. You might not have known that, but in telling you he wished to speak with you privately about ‘the business in Seven Dials,' your uncle sealed his fate."

His expression cold and accusatory, Barnaby stepped forward, drawing Stephen's attention. "You'd come prepared with a vial of cyanide and a bottle of high-strength laudanum because you'd already decided to use the opportunity of visiting here with the Busseltons, the family into which you intended to marry, to murder both your uncle and his granddaughter. What better cover?" Barnaby spread his hands in appeal to the company. "Who would imagine a man intent on convincing an MP and his wife to allow him to marry their daughter would cold-bloodedly commit murder—twice—during the visit?"

Barnaby trapped Stephen's dark and narrowing gaze. "The reason you had to act now, more or less immediately, was that your four joint-owners are insisting that you pay them for your share of the business, essentially repaying an intra-business loan they'd extended to you when the House of Dreams was first established. But you don't have the money. They gave you an ultimatum, a date by which you had to pay up or convince them that you could and shortly would. To do that, you needed not just your inheritance from your uncle but also Sophie's portion as well."

Her arms folded, Penelope stated, "You had to kill them both. So you did. First his lordship, and then you killed Sophie and used the last page of a letter she'd sent you, gently and considerately declining your offer of marriage, to make it appear that she'd killed his lordship and then, driven by guilt, committed suicide." Penelope stared into Stephen's ashen face. "That was utterly despicable."

Stephen couldn't seem to drag his gaze from Penelope's dark eyes, but slowly, he shook his head. He swallowed and croaked, "No. You have it all wrong." The words freed him, and wildly, he looked at the Busseltons. "You know I'm not like that."

But George and Hermione Busselton were staring at Stephen in abject horror as if he was their most hideous nightmare made flesh.

"At the dining table that first evening," Barnaby went on, "it was you at whom his lordship was glaring. It was you to whom Sophie sent the letter, part of which you used to bolster the case that she'd committed suicide. And it was you she allowed into her room on the night she died. While she was writing in her diary, you tipped a large dose of high-strength laudanum into her cocoa, knowing that, with her previous experience of the drug, she was unlikely to balk at the more bitter taste."

"More," Penelope said, "the next day, you remembered the diary, and uncertain about what Sophie might have written, you returned to her room that afternoon to remove it. But it had already vanished. Unbeknown to you, her ladyship had taken possession of the diary as a keepsake, but she loaned it to me, and I read it cover to cover."

Penelope leaned a touch closer, staring into Stephen's face, her own a mask of loathing. "You were right to worry. Among other revelations, Sophie had written a draft of the letter she sent to you declining your offer of marriage—another way you'd thought to achieve sufficient funds to pacify your creditors. The note you left by her bed was the last page of that letter. In it, she apologizes so sweetly—not for murdering your uncle, as you thought to make us all believe, but for any hurt she might have visited on your feelings."

Penelope flung up her hand, appealing to the universe. "She was just a young girl on the cusp of her life, and you cold-bloodedly sacrificed her to save your own financial skin!"

"And for that," Stokes intoned, "and all your other crimes, you will hang."

"You don't know what you're saying." Stephen started to rise, his gaze scanning the room for any avenue of escape.

Penelope adjusted her spectacles and recrossed her arms. "We do, actually."

Stephen stared at her and, shaking his head, stepped back, around his chair.

"And," Stokes pressed, his expression harshly determined, "we now have enough hard facts to prove it."

Stephen broke, but not toward the door or windows. He swung around and lunged at Veronica, hauling her out of the chair and onto her feet. With one arm around her waist, he anchored her in front of him.

Both Stokes and David leapt forward, but Stephen raised a hand, and a knife gleamed in his fist. "Stay back!"

Everyone was now on their feet. The Busseltons huddled in front of the sofa, while Lady Meriwell clung to Lord Iffey, and Wishpole hovered beside them.

Arthur and Peter had sprung up and swung to face Stephen. Their faces were grim, but no more than anyone else did they know what to do for the best.

"Don't be stupid," Stokes said, drawing Stephen's wild-eyed attention. "Put the knife down and let Miss Haskell go."

From the corner of her eye, Penelope saw David, who was standing facing Veronica and plainly restraining himself from attacking Stephen, catch Veronica's shocked gaze and mouth, "Faint."

Barely moving her head, Veronica nodded.

"Let me tell you how this is going to go." Stephen was holding the knife extended before him and waving it from side to side. "You're all going to stay here and allow me and Nurse Haskell to go to the stable. Once they give me a horse, I'll leave her there. Unharmed. Once I'm on a horse, I'll be away. The coast is close enough. I'll take myself off, and none of you will ever see me again." He swung the knife back and forth. "All right?"

"No, you blithering idiot!" Iffey roared. "It's damned well not all right!"

Stephen startled.

Veronica seized the moment and "fainted," letting her dead weight slip and slide through Stephen's restraining arm.

Trying to juggle her dragged him off balance.

Stokes launched himself over the love seat at Stephen.

David lunged for Stephen as well.

Desperately backpedaling, Stephen let Veronica go.

David changed trajectory and, leaving Stephen to Stokes, swooped on Veronica, hauled her up against him, and drew her away from the action.

Stokes had seized Stephen's wrist, grappling for the knife.

Abruptly, Stephen let go of the knife and, gritting his teeth, shoved Stokes, now off balance, back into Barnaby.

Stephen swung and raced for the door.

Curtis was standing on one side of the double doors, and O'Donnell was on the other.

Both squared up, ready to seize Stephen.

The doors were flung wide.

Jensen marched in and announced, "Lord Meriwell."

For a second, everyone froze—Stokes, Barnaby, Stephen, Arthur, Peter, and all—their minds scrambling to make sense of that announcement.

Then a tall, lean, dark-haired man stepped into the room and halted, a faint frown forming on his face as he looked around, patently trying to make sense of what was happening.

In the same instant, staring at him, everyone realized who he was; his features were unmistakable.

Driven by desperation, Stephen recovered first and surged toward the door.

"Stop him!" Stokes yelled.

Jensen stepped into Stephen's path, but Stephen seized the butler and ruthlessly flung him aside.

Curtis and O'Donnell were still blocked by the doors.

The only man between Stephen Meriwell and the front hall was the newcomer—Jacob, Lord Meriwell.

What happened next was so swift and smooth, Penelope barely believed her eyes.

Jacob saw Stephen barreling toward him. He stepped to the side, out of Stephen's path, then at just the right moment, Jacob extended one booted foot, tripping Stephen, then Jacob pivoted and pushed Stephen on—into the door frame.

Stephen's head connected with a solid thunk . Slowly, he slid to the floor and stayed there.

O'Donnell and Curtis had, by then, managed to push their way around the doors.

Curtis looked down at Stephen and nodded approvingly. "Nice move."

O'Donnell sighed and reached down to haul Stephen up. Obligingly, Curtis seized Stephen's other arm, and they hoisted Stephen, groggy but at least partially conscious, to hang between them.

Stokes stalked up with a pair of handcuffs, and in short order, Stephen's wrists were secured.

Stokes stated, "Stephen Meriwell, I'm arresting you for the murder of your uncle, Lord Meriwell, and his granddaughter, Miss Sophie Meriwell. You will be taken to London and thrown into a cell and will shortly be charged with both murders."

Stokes paused, but Stephen didn't even try to raise his head. Stokes nodded to O'Donnell. "Take him to the stable. Morgan will be there, waiting. The pair of you can take the coach and ferry our murderer to the Yard."

O'Donnell shook Stephen like a doll. "It'll be our pleasure, guv."

With Barnaby, Penelope walked up as Curtis caught Stokes's gaze. "I'll be off, too." Curtis nodded to Barnaby and Penelope. "No doubt I'll see you sometime in town."

They nodded back. "Thank you for your help." Penelope looped her arm with Barnaby's. "We appreciate it."

Stokes turned to Curtis. "I'll call on you to get a copy of the report you made to Lord Meriwell."

Curtis grunted. "No need to call. I'll send a copy around." With a wave, he followed O'Donnell, who was dragging Stephen Meriwell into the front hall.

Stokes swung to face the tall, dark-haired man who had so efficiently captured the fleeing murderer.

To Penelope's eyes, Jacob—assuming that was who he truly was—was significantly more handsome than his male relatives. However, he was now frowning and looking from Stokes to Barnaby and Penelope as if about to demand to be told who they were and what they thought they were doing.

Before he could speak, Wishpole came up, a huge smile wreathing his face. "Jacob, my boy. It does my old eyes such good to see you." Wishpole glanced at Stokes, Barnaby, and Penelope. "And before you ask, yes, this gentleman is, indeed, Jacob Meriwell, the late Lord Meriwell's only surviving grandchild."

Jacob's frown deepened, and he looked at Stokes. "Only surviving. Did I hear you correctly? Did Stephen murder Sophie?"

Wishpole replied, "Sadly, yes. That was after I sent for you, informing you of your grandfather's death. His death, too, I regret to say, proved to have been at Stephen's hands."

Jacob exhaled. "I should never have stayed away so long."

To Stokes, Barnaby, and Penelope, Wishpole explained, "I always knew where Jacob was. He was nineteen when he left here, but even at that age, he wasn't irresponsible enough to simply disappear. He always kept me apprised of his address, and I notified him immediately after I learned of his lordship's death. However, I wasn't sure how long it would take him to respond or even if he would come."

Jacob sent Wishpole a look of fond exasperation. "I'm only near Doncaster. Of course I came."

Thinking to nip any developing guilt in the bud, Penelope said, "Incidentally, it is in no way on your head that Stephen acted as he did. Had you returned to Meriwell Hall earlier, you might simply have become another of his victims. To his admittedly warped mind, he had no other recourse. He needed the Meriwell wealth and was determined to have it."

Stokes nodded and caught Jacob's eye. "She's right. Your presence might have changed the order of things, but you wouldn't have prevented what happened."

Lady Meriwell swept up and, without any by-your-leave, tugged Jacob to face her. Her gaze fairly devoured his features. "My God! It truly is you. Oh, my dear boy!" And with that, she launched herself into his arms and promptly burst into tears.

Wisely leaving Jacob, assisted by Wishpole and Iffey, who stumped up, to deal with her ladyship and her exclamations, Penelope, Barnaby, and Stokes turned toward David and Veronica, only to find the elder Busseltons putting themselves firmly in their path.

George Busselton seized Stokes's hand and shook it vigorously. "Thank you, Inspector! You did excellent work there." Smiling broadly, Busselton released Stokes and offered Barnaby his hand. "I'm deeply impressed, Mr. Adair." He dipped his head Penelope's way. "And Mrs. Adair, too—your contribution was decisive. That was a terrible riddle there. Solving it is quite the feather in your caps."

Hermione Busselton graciously inclined her head to the three of them and boldly stated what her husband had either not yet seen or not been willing to put into words. "Through your actions in exposing Stephen Meriwell, you've saved our family from making what would have been a disastrous mistake." She sent a sharp look at her spouse. "Had Persimone or I been more easily pleased, we might even now be allied with a man—I will never again call him a gentleman—who would have squandered Persimone's portion and then come to us to bail him out under threat of making his situation and our apparent complicity in it public, and I shudder, simply shudder , to think of how he might eventually have led Peregrine astray." She shook her head. "Truly, it doesn't bear thinking about."

As it was obvious that Mrs. Busselton had already thought through all the potential ramifications and, indeed, foreseen them accurately, Penelope felt that all that was required was to smile and graciously accept the couple's heartfelt thanks.

She and Barnaby left Stokes speaking with Mr. Busselton regarding the funding of the police and continued toward Veronica and David, who had drawn back to stand near one of the long windows.

On the way, they glanced at the knot of people who had formed around Jacob Meriwell. Not only his grandmother—who looked unlikely to let go of Jacob's arm anytime soon—and Iffey and Wishpole were clustered about him but also Arthur, Peter, Persimone, and Peregrine, all avidly listening to what, Penelope assumed, was an accounting of how Jacob had spent his recent years.

Penelope studied the group, then leaned closer to Barnaby and whispered, "From the look in Persimone's eyes, Jacob Meriwell is much more her style than Stephen ever was."

Barnaby huffed. "Matchmaking? Even here?"

Looking to where Veronica and David had their heads together, for all the world giving the impression—to those with eyes to see—of hoping to hear wedding bells in their immediate future, Penelope smiled and lightly shrugged. "Why not? Murder and mayhem have a habit of focusing the mind on what's most important in life."

Barnaby thought, then inclined his head. "I have to admit there's wisdom in that."

Penelope grinned. Despite all the frustrations along the way, now that they'd come to the end of this case, she was, she discovered, peculiarly satisfied with the way matters had fallen out. This hadn't been their first successful denouement, but at that moment, she was willing to accord it the title of "most rewarding."