Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

P enelope peered out of her carriage window at the house at the end of the drive. Sporting two stories with attics above, Meriwell Hall was a relatively newish structure, perhaps fifty or sixty years old. The style was Palladian, with brick walls rendered in cream stucco topped by a sound slate roof. Windows, tall and gleaming, were regimentally arranged across the width of the fa?ade, their stone surrounds and white-painted wood frames in good order.

From an oval-shaped gravel forecourt symmetrically placed before the house, a short flight of stone steps led to the semicircular porch before the tall front door.

To one accustomed to castles and large aristocratic mansions, Meriwell Hall was a modest home whose excellent order nevertheless testified to some degree of pride.

Woods, quite dense, enclosed the house on either side and to the rear, the dark-green canopies lightly rippling courtesy of a playful breeze.

As the carriage turned onto the forecourt and slowed, Penelope felt expectation rise. She looked at Stokes, seated opposite. His men—in this instance, the ever-reliable Sergeant O'Donnell and the baby-faced but experienced Constable Morgan—had traveled in the police coach that had lumbered along behind the Adair carriage. No one had been surprised that Stokes had opted to travel in greater comfort.

She glanced at Barnaby, seated beside her, and as he scanned the house, she saw in his blue eyes signs of the same interest and anticipation rising within her.

The carriage halted. Although she was eager to see what awaited them—to engage with their latest investigation—she refrained from leaping for the door. Both Stokes and Barnaby shot amused glances her way, but at her impatient wave, obligingly descended first, then Barnaby offered her his hand and assisted her down the steps.

As she was on the shorter side, she needed the help; falling down the carriage steps was not the way she would choose to start a new investigation.

She'd barely shaken her skirts straight when footsteps rang on the stone of the porch, and she, Barnaby, and Stokes looked up to see David Sanderson, accompanied by a young lady in a neat blue dress, descending the steps to meet them.

With dark-brown hair and kind brown eyes, David was tall and would have appeared lanky were it not for his broad shoulders. As always, he was exceedingly well if conservatively dressed in a dark suit, subdued waistcoat, and pristine linen.

The young lady was of average height, with shining blond-brown hair swept into a neat coil on the top of her head. The figure beneath the dress of navy-blue twill, which Penelope realized was a uniform of sorts, was curvaceous, and the lady's face and features were gentle and appealing.

Penelope beamed. "David!" She held out her hands, already insatiably curious as to who the young lady was. Was she a nurse or someone else?

"Penelope." David grasped her hands and bent to kiss the cheek she offered. He was a friend even more than he was their physician.

She released him to allow him to greet Barnaby and Stokes. David's and Stokes's professional paths had crossed before.

Then David turned to the young lady. "Allow me to present Miss Veronica Haskell."

After he made the introductions and they and Veronica shook hands, David explained that Veronica had taken a position in the household at his behest.

Immediately, Penelope asked, "Was his lordship or someone else in the family in poor health?"

"No, not at all." David exchanged a look with Miss Haskell—Veronica. "His lordship was in excellent health, and I have few reservations as to her ladyship's well-being. The truth is"—David met Penelope's eyes—"Lord Meriwell was concerned about the behavior of his granddaughter."

"In short," Veronica said, "he suspected she was a hysteric and had vetoed her coming-out this year. My role was to assess whether she was, in fact, suffering from true hysteria." She glanced at David. "Neither Dr. Sanderson nor her ladyship were convinced she was, and after observing Sophie for the past nine weeks, I can report that she merely craves attention. Having hysterics and creating dramatic scenes are simply tools she employs to achieve her goal."

"Ah." Penelope pushed up her spectacles. "I see."

Stokes was already jotting in his notebook. "So Lord Meriwell was Sophie's grandfather?"

David and Veronica agreed. David added, "Sophie is his lordship's only surviving grandchild. He and her ladyship lost their son, Robert, Sophie's father, some years ago."

"Right." Stokes continued scribbling. "And who else is here?" Stokes looked up and fixed David and Veronica with an interrogatory look. "Not the staff, but who else could possibly have murdered Lord Meriwell?"

David shared another look with Veronica, then rattled off a list of names.

"So," Stokes confirmed, "we have three nephews, Sophie, her ladyship, Lord Iffey, and four Busseltons." He closed his notebook and, pocketing it, inclined his head to David. "Thank you. And I can't tell you how grateful I am to have been called in so promptly. I take it you're sure it is, indeed, death by poison?"

David nodded. "No question about that, and the poison employed was almost certainly cyanide." He glanced at Veronica and smiled. "As for the promptness, that was due to Veronica's sharp eyes and experience." He looked back at Stokes. "In her note to me, she included her observations, and it was plain we were dealing with a poisoning."

"The cyanide was in the wine?" Barnaby asked.

"In his wine glass, we now suspect," David replied. "Although I haven't yet definitively tested it, I believe the wine in the decanter wasn't the source of the poison."

Penelope looked duly amazed. "So the poison was put into his glass?"

"It appears so," Veronica said, "especially as the wine glass went missing immediately—well, within half an hour—of his lordship dying."

"That seems a rather pointed clue." Barnaby arched his brows. "Has the glass turned up yet?"

"No," Veronica replied. "The staff have searched, but have yet to find it."

Stokes looked at the house. "Well, I think it's time we got this investigation under way." He glanced to where the police coach had halted. "One moment."

They waited—impatiently on Penelope's part—while Stokes conferred with his men, confirming that they were dealing with a death by poison and that they had a missing wine glass to find, then he dispatched the pair to chat with the staff, in the stables and elsewhere, to see what they could learn.

"Right, then." Stokes returned and waved toward the front door. "Let's have at it."

He led the way up the steps, across the porch, and through the open front door. The butler stood waiting beside the door, and Stokes introduced himself, Barnaby, and Penelope.

Penelope suppressed an understanding smile at the butler's poorly concealed surprise on discovering that two of the investigators dispatched by Scotland Yard were, in fact, aristocrats.

Stokes mentioned his men, then instructed the butler—Jensen—to ask the younger members of the family and the guests to assemble in the drawing room. "We'll address them after we've spoken with Lady Meriwell and viewed the body."

Jensen took the order in his stride. "Her ladyship is waiting in her sitting room, Inspector."

"Excellent." Stokes looked toward the stairs. "Dr. Sanderson and Miss Haskell will accompany us. They can show us the way."

Jensen bowed, and David and Veronica joined Stokes, Barnaby, and Penelope in heading for the stairs.

As they climbed, Penelope could hear the murmur of voices elsewhere in the house, but no one seemed out and about in the corridors.

David glanced at Stokes, then at Barnaby and Penelope. "I broke the news to her ladyship earlier, so she knows her husband was murdered, and I explained the legal process, so she's expecting you."

"Again, thank you," Stokes said. "It helps not to have to deal with the first shock."

"We're likely to find Lord Iffey with her ladyship," Veronica warned. "They're much of an age."

Barnaby frowned. "Iffey is an old friend of the family, I think you said?"

David nodded. "A school friend of Lord Meriwell's. A bachelor who, through the years, has remained close to the Meriwell family. He's very protective of her ladyship and has proved useful in helping her cope."

They reached the sitting room, and David tapped on the door. When a response came, he opened the door, stood back, and gestured for Penelope and the others to enter.

Penelope led the way into what was plainly her ladyship's private domain. The room was comfortably furnished, well lit, and had the feel of a space much used.

After one comprehensive glance taking in both room and occupants—an older lady and an older gentleman seated in armchairs angled beside a window—Penelope advanced with Barnaby beside her.

On reaching the elderly pair, both of whose countenances bore signs of grief, she and Barnaby introduced themselves and explained that they were attending as consultants at the commissioner's request. Barnaby introduced Stokes as the lead investigator whom he and Penelope would be supporting.

Stokes bowed over her ladyship's hand and exchanged a polite nod with his lordship. "In cases such as this, involving the aristocracy, the Yard has found the assistance of Mr. and Mrs. Adair to be invaluable all around."

"Oh yes." Her ladyship looked much relieved. "I can quite see that."

Stokes smiled encouragingly and went through the customary process of confirming that Lord Meriwell was believed to have been poisoned and that the purpose of the investigation was to determine who was responsible for bringing about his lordship's death.

"I do hope you can discover who did it quickly, Inspector." Her ladyship glanced at Lord Iffey, beside her. "I don't know if anyone's mentioned…"

"The Busseltons?" Penelope asked. When her ladyship and Lord Iffey looked at her and nodded, she smiled reassuringly. "We're aware of their presence in the household and will make all due effort not to make anyone's lives more difficult than absolutely necessary."

"Indeed," Stokes affirmed. "And in pursuit of that goal, it would be helpful, your ladyship, if we might say that we have your imprimatur to do whatever might be needful to bring his lordship's murderer to justice."

"Oh, most definitely, Inspector." Her ladyship's features firmed, and her nod included them all. "You may exercise whatever authority you require to catch my husband's murderer."

"Thank you, ma'am. In that case"—Stokes glanced at the others—"our first step will be to view the body, and Dr. Sanderson will assist us there. Subsequently, we'll speak with the assembled family and guests and arrange to interview them individually, along with all others who were in the house at the time of his lordship's death. That's standard procedure and, for many, will be a mere formality."

Lord Iffey huffed. "Daresay you'll want to speak with us, too."

Stokes inclined his head. "We'll speak with you both as well, most likely early this afternoon." He looked at Lady Meriwell. "It's preferable that we gather information as quickly as possible, while events are fresh in everyone's minds."

"Of course." Her ladyship glanced at Lord Iffey. "We—Iffey and I—will hold ourselves ready to assist as required."

Lord Iffey looked less eager, but dutifully nodded.

Stokes reiterated their thanks, and he, Penelope, and the others withdrew.

In the instant before she stepped out of the room, Penelope glanced back at the elderly pair. Lady Meriwell looked reassured and relieved. Lord Iffey also looked relieved, but in his case, unless Penelope missed her guess, he was relieved because her ladyship was, rather than on his own account.

As she joined the others in the corridor, a niggling suspicion was growing in her mind.

After closing the door behind them, Stokes paused and looked at Penelope, Barnaby, David, and Veronica. "Thoughts?"

Barnaby glanced at the others. "Is it just my antennae malfunctioning, or is there a connection of sorts between Iffey and her ladyship?"

Penelope huffed. "I was wondering the same thing. I would wager they're lovers." She looked at David and Veronica and arched her brows.

David faintly grinned. "I wondered whether you would pick it up." He glanced at Veronica. "I'm reliably informed that their long-standing affair is well known to the entire household."

Veronica nodded. "That said, the widely held opinion is that Lord Meriwell never realized."

Stokes grimaced. "Regardless of the household's belief, there's fodder for a motive there."

Barnaby exchanged a look with Penelope, then mildly suggested, "We need to look at the body." He arched a brow at Veronica. "Which way?"

She hesitated, then offered, "It might be best to take the servants' stair. This way."

With Penelope and Stokes, under the knowledgeable direction of Sanderson, Barnaby took due note of the small signs that remained on the body and indicated death by poison, specifically cyanide.

There really wasn't much to see beyond the bluish tint that barely lingered about the corpse's lips and the odd waxy cast to his skin.

Stokes stepped back from the table on which the body lay. "So Lord Meriwell might have been eighty, but he was hale and in good health and in no danger of succumbing to a heart attack or any other sort of seizure."

David nodded decisively. "Just so."

"And," Barnaby said, staring at the still face, "he was in sound command of his wits."

"Indubitably," David confirmed. "There was nothing whatever amiss with his intelligence and understanding."

Veronica murmured an agreement.

"Tell me again," Stokes said, drawing out his notebook, "why you conclude this death is due to cyanide."

David obliged, running through the telltale signs as Stokes jotted them down. "Most important of all is the distinctive odor of bitter almonds." He nodded at Veronica. "Veronica noted it within minutes of his lordship's death and had the smell confirmed by Jensen, the butler, and his lordship's valet, and one of the footmen."

Stokes nodded approvingly at Veronica. "Good thinking."

She lightly shrugged. "I knew any one of us observing such a thing would be challenged. We needed more witnesses, and there was no time to summon anyone else."

"Those witnesses are quite enough," Penelope assured her. "If the observation is ever questioned, their testimonies will satisfy a court."

"Very well. So we have a death by cyanide poisoning." Stokes looked at David. "Are you willing to act as surrogate for the police surgeon in this case?"

David nodded. "I am."

"Good." Stokes smiled wryly. "On behalf of Pemberton, who would definitely not appreciate being hauled down here to confirm your conclusion, I thank you. Now"—he glanced at his notebook, then looked at Veronica—"who witnessed the death?"

Veronica related what she knew and added what she'd learned of the manner of his lordship's death. "But of course, I wasn't there. That information comes from Jensen and Jeremy, the footman, who I spoke with after his lordship had died."

Barnaby asked, "At what point were you summoned to attend his lordship?"

In an admirably concise fashion, Veronica answered and, without further prompting, described the scene in the dining room as she had found it, then detailed her subsequent actions and those of the others of the household in removing his lordship upstairs. "I didn't get a chance to examine him until he was laid on his bed, and by then, he was dead."

"That was when you had the others confirm the smell?" Stokes asked.

"Yes, but after Stephen and Arthur left to break the news to the family." Veronica went on, "With poison confirmed, to help fix the facts in their minds, I got Jensen and Jeremy to tell Gorton and me everything they remembered of what had gone on. Then Jensen and I went down to send the message to David, but along the way, I thought of the wine glass and the wine decanter, and we went to the dining room, and that was when we discovered the glass had vanished. Jensen took the decanter to keep it safe, and I went on to the library and wrote my message to David, then took it back to Jensen, and we saw it off in the care of a groom."

She paused, clearly revisiting her memories, then continued, "When we got back to the front hall, Stephen stopped us and suggested we send for the doctor. He meant the local man, but I explained that we'd already sent for David, and Stephen accepted that. Then Sally—Sophie's maid—called me to attend her mistress upstairs, and Jensen went up, too, to warn Gorton and Jeremy not to say anything about his lordship being poisoned until David confirmed it."

Veronica looked at Stokes, Barnaby, and Penelope. "That's everything I saw and did during that period."

While Stokes continued scribbling, Penelope was plainly attempting to piece together a picture in her mind. "Did Jensen and Jeremy mention how the people entered the dining room?"

"Specifically," Barnaby amended, "the order in which they filed in."

Veronica thought, then shook her head. "Jensen said he'd summoned them and led the way back to the drawing room, but that's all I know."

"We'll ask Jensen." Stokes made a note in his little black book.

"Hmm. And we also need to know who Lord Meriwell was glaring at," Penelope said.

"Especially as, in gasping his last, he tried to point in the same direction," Barnaby added.

Veronica looked at Stokes, Barnaby, and Penelope. "It might be helpful for you to take a look at the dining room. It's unusually narrow—or rather, the sideboards lining the walls restrict the space around the table. Viewing the layout will help you understand where everyone was in relation to each other and to his lordship's wine glass."

"That's a good idea." Stokes glanced at David. "You're certain the poison wasn't in the wine itself?"

"As certain as I can be without testing the wine," David replied.

"And we do have the vanishing wine glass," Penelope pointed out. "I can't imagine why the murderer would think to spirit the glass away unless they thought to make it harder to be certain poison was used."

Barnaby accepted her reasoning. "If the poison was in the wine, then removing the glass makes no sense."

"Exactly." Penelope smiled at Stokes and David. "I believe we're on sound ground in concluding the poison was in the glass and not in the wine."

"Which," Stokes rumbled, once again busily scribbling in his notebook, "gives us a solid avenue to investigate."

"Namely," Barnaby elaborated, "how the poison got into the glass and who could have put it there."

"Right." Stokes shut his book and looked at the rest of them. "Let's take a quick look at the dining room, then go and meet our suspects."

After they'd examined the dining room and noted the cramped conditions and what that would have meant for prospective diners entering the space and finding their places at the table, Penelope followed Stokes into the drawing room, eager to get her first look at their potential suspects.

Barnaby strolled in behind her, and David and Veronica slipped in last and lingered near the door, observing yet subtly removing themselves from the proceedings.

Their entrance brought all conversations to a halt. As Stokes, Penelope, and Barnaby advanced, everyone in the room shifted to face them.

Surprise flared on each and every countenance, and Penelope knew the cause. They'd expected a policeman; the ton's view of policemen was generally rather…lower class. Stokes didn't fit their preconceived notions; although not of the ton, he exuded the confidence of a man better born, grammar school educated, and his assurance had only grown with the years.

As for herself and Barnaby, they were wholly unanticipated. In her fashionable plum carriage dress, with her dark hair plaited and curled in a coronet about her head, even her thick-lensed spectacles could not disguise her quality, that innate attribute that accrued to those born to the nobility. It was a characteristic she and Barnaby shared, and in his subdued yet superbly elegant coat and trousers, it was impossible to mistake his station.

None of them were the "investigators" the company had expected to appear.

Taking advantage of the momentary hiatus, she rapidly counted heads, identifying who was whom as she did. The Meriwell nephews were presumably the three gentlemen with similar features who were standing in various poses about the room—one to each side of the fireplace while the third was poised behind the long sofa.

Each of the three had brown hair, but the hues ranged from almost blond to chestnut. Their builds were similar—solid rather than lean—and all three would qualify as middling tall, so shorter than Barnaby, Stokes, or Sanderson.

Sophie Meriwell had to be the pretty young woman draped languidly over the chaise longue. She had elfin features, and her long dark hair was gathered in a loose arrangement on the top of her head, with numerous tresses artfully bobbing about her ears and the elegant column of her throat. As surprise waned, her expression suggested she was entirely uncertain over what the next minutes might hold.

As per their request, the four Busseltons were also present. Standing in pride of place directly before the hearth, Mr. George Busselton, MP, was a man in his mid-fifties, of average height and build, with thinning brown hair, a neat beard, a developing paunch, and a regrettable liking for plaid waistcoats. His surprise left him frowning slightly, and judging by the anxious tightening about the corners of his lips, Penelope deduced that he was increasingly concerned over how the situation might impinge on his political career.

His wife, Hermione Busselton, was made of sterner stuff. Seated on the sofa, she presented as a formidable matron, large boned with substantial bosom and hips and a determinedly rigid spine. After the first flash of surprise, her face had cleared, and she appeared to be patiently waiting for whatever might occur next, prepared to meet any challenge, an uncompromising expression on her rather plain features. She was dressed in a well-tailored jacket and skirt of brown-and-moss-green tweed, eminently suitable for a country house visit, teamed with a single row of pearls about her throat. Her hair, worn in a bun at the back of her head, had been a rich brown, but was now graying.

Beside her sat a young lady, presumably the Busselton daughter. Physically, Persimone Busselton was a curious cross between her parents. She was as long boned as her mother, but not as hefty, and her features were finer, more like her father's. She was not in the very first blush of youth; Penelope guessed her to be twenty-two or -three. But there was intelligence lurking in her eyes and a quick alertness about her that, to Penelope at least, signaled genuine and significant curiosity.

Penelope noted that one of the Meriwells—most likely Stephen Meriwell—was standing directly behind Miss Busselton in what could be construed as a possessive and protective stance.

The last member of the company was the Busseltons' son. In his very early twenties, he was propped against the arm of the sofa beside his sister in what he no doubt imagined was a graceful pose. With mid-brown hair and pleasant features, he resembled his father in height and general build, but the open curiosity in his face had more in common with the expression in his sister's eyes.

Penelope observed all in mere instants, then Stokes introduced himself, then her and Barnaby, somewhat to the consternation of the company. None of those present had expected to face investigation by such a team, one that could not and would not be cowed by social rank or political consequence.

Stokes was an old hand at pretending not to notice the discomfort they generated, much less acknowledge its cause. In his deep voice, he informed those gathered that they had just come from speaking with Lady Meriwell and Lord Iffey. "We are now in a position to inform you that Lord Meriwell did not die from natural causes. He was murdered, via poison, specifically cyanide administered via his wine glass."

Stokes paused, and Penelope and Barnaby were observing closely, but from the general lack of reaction, the company had suspected something of the sort.

"Consequently," Stokes resumed, "everyone present at Meriwell Hall over the past twenty-four hours must remain until such time as we can justifiably release you as free of all suspicion. To that end, Mr. and Mrs. Adair and I will be conducting individual interviews with each of you, commencing immediately after luncheon." He paused to draw out his little black book. "Now, if each of you will give me your full name."

While one after another, everyone obliged and Stokes wrote down the names, Penelope continued to observe. She was pleased to note that she'd guessed all the identities correctly. The only new information she gleaned was to distinguish Arthur Meriwell as the nephew with mid-brown hair, while the youngest, Peter, had a head of chestnut brown.

Her only additional observation of note was that with the exception of Mrs. Busselton and her children, everyone was, to some extent, uncertain and uneasy over what they—the investigators—might uncover.

In Penelope's eyes, that was interesting.

When Stokes finished his name taking, George Busselton shifted and asked, "How long will we be required to remain here?"

Stokes considered the man for a silent moment, then mildly observed, "I understood that you and your family were expecting to stay for several days, if not a week."

Mrs. Busselton frowned. "Yes, but…" She met Stokes's gaze. "Quite obviously, matters have changed."

Stokes inclined his head. "Indeed. And you may rest assured that we intend to do all possible to resolve this matter expeditiously."

Abruptly, Arthur straightened from his slouch. "Catch the poisoner, you mean?"

Stokes looked at him, then dipped his head. "Yes. That is what I meant."

To say that Arthur looked peevishly uncomfortable would be understating the reality.

Curiously, at least to Penelope, the exchange had noticeably heightened the tension in the room. The junior Busseltons were the only ones who remained untouched by the spreading unease; even their mother had now succumbed.

George Busselton, Peter Meriwell, and Arthur were all frowning, while Stephen Meriwell had remained somewhat stoic throughout, as if he'd accepted that the law would progress in its own way regardless of what he thought and felt and that there was really no benefit in attempting to influence the process. As for Sophie Meriwell, she was plainly attempting to decide how best to react to Stokes, Barnaby, and Penelope; she was seriously unsure as to what tactics would work with them.

Penelope hoped Sophie was clever enough to realize that any descent into hysterics would result in her receiving a slap—from either of the Busselton ladies or from Penelope herself.

When there were no further comments, Stokes turned to Jensen, who had hovered by the door. "Where do you suggest would be most suitable for myself and the Adairs to conduct interviews?"

They settled on the library, then Stokes informed the assembled company that the investigative team would be putting up nearby. "We'll return prior to two o'clock to commence the interviews. Please hold yourselves ready to be called."

With a general nod, Stokes turned for the door. Penelope and Barnaby preceded him from the room, and David and Veronica followed.

Stokes waited until Jensen quit the drawing room and closed the door before fixing his gaze on David and the butler. "It might be wise to keep an eye out in case any of our suspects tries to bolt. I don't expect that, but one never knows."

Jensen nodded. "I'll have a word with the stablemen."

Barnaby looked at Jensen. "Do you have any suggestions of a place nearby where we and also the inspector's men might get rooms?"

Penelope added, "We prefer to put up elsewhere."

Jensen was transparently relieved that the household wouldn't be called on to house them as well as their current guests. "I can recommend the Angel Inn. It's quite close—walking distance if you take the path through the wood—and my widowed cousin is the innkeeper there. Mention my name, and she'll see you right."

Barnaby's smile was entirely sincere. "Thank you. That sounds perfect. We'll try there and see if it suits."