Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

S everal hours later, Barnaby walked with Penelope and Stokes through the wood toward Meriwell Hall.

The Angel Inn had proved perfect for their needs, with clean, comfortable rooms and a private parlor Barnaby had hired to give them privacy for later deliberations. Best of all, the woodland path they were currently following led directly from the rear corner of the inn's yard to the side lawn of Meriwell House.

After consuming an excellent luncheon, they were returning to the hall to commence their interview-cum-interrogations.

They reached the edge of the wood and stepped onto well-tended lawn. The side fa?ade of Meriwell House rose before them, with the green grass ending at a terrace that gave access to the side door. The house struck Barnaby as an edifice that was still growing into itself; the sharpness of its elegant lines had yet to be softened by the encroachment of the years.

As they continued toward the terrace, Stokes glanced to their left, at the stable tucked behind the house. "O'Donnell and Morgan will be back at it, seeing what they can winkle from the staff."

The experienced sergeant and constable had joined them at the inn and reported that, to that point, all they'd learned was that the late Lord Meriwell had been generally held to be a fair if occasionally demanding master. None of the staff had said anything to indicate the existence of household ructions.

Barnaby had followed Stokes's gaze. "In this case, I seriously doubt there will be any involvement of staff, not directly."

"But," Penelope stated, as usual effortlessly following his line of thought, "they might know if there's any tensions within the wider community. Busselton, after all, is the MP for the local area. There might be some motive there."

Stokes grunted agreement. "At the very least," he added, "O'Donnell and Morgan should be able to gain some idea of the atmosphere in the house immediately before and after the murder."

"As we've found again and again, staff see far more than their employers imagine," Barnaby said. "However, thus far, I've got the impression that Lord Meriwell dying as he did came as a complete surprise to everyone."

Stokes and Penelope nodded. They reached the terrace, stepped onto the flagstones, and crossed to the side door. Stokes opened it, waved Penelope and Barnaby through, and followed.

They found Jensen hovering in the front hall, waiting to conduct them to the library. "Her ladyship has given orders that the staff should endeavor to provide anything and everything you need."

"Excellent." Penelope smiled and waved him on.

Located down a short corridor leading away from the front hall, the library proved eminently suited to their needs in that, as well as the expected bookshelf-lined walls, the room boasted two separate seating arrangements. At one end of the room, a cozy setting of four large armchairs surrounded a low table before the hearth. In addition, a large mahogany desk was placed more centrally, directly opposite the door, with an admiral's chair behind it and two simple armchairs facing it. A pair of long windows behind the desk admitted steady afternoon light, perfect for illuminating the faces of anyone seated in front of the desk.

Under Penelope's direction, Jensen added two comfortable chairs on either side of the admiral's chair and removed one of the chairs before the desk.

"Perfect." Penelope surveyed the two settings. "One more relaxed, the other more formal. That will do very well."

Jensen inquired, but Stokes assured him they needed nothing more at that point, other than her ladyship's presence.

"We'd like to interview her first," Penelope explained. "Then she can rest for the remainder of the afternoon while we speak with everyone else."

Jensen bowed. "I will fetch her ladyship and, subsequently, will hold myself ready to inform whomever of the party you wish to speak with next."

Stokes nodded, and Jensen departed.

Penelope headed for the armchairs before the small fire. "Comfortable and reassuring for her ladyship, I think."

Barnaby and Stokes followed her lead. They selected seats, leaving vacant one of the chairs nearer the fire for her ladyship.

When the door opened, all three of them rose. Barnaby didn't think any of them were surprised to see Lady Meriwell enter on Lord Iffey's arm. His lordship appeared determined to tenderly escort her ladyship to her allotted seat, and the investigators drew back and allowed him to do so.

Lady Meriwell looked tired and wan, but gamely returned their encouraging smiles. To their collective relief, once Iffey had helped her settle in the commodious armchair, she looked up and patted his arm. "I'll be quite all right, Wallace. There's no need to fuss. These nice people are not going to eat me, and I really must insist that you allow them to speak with me alone. I expect it's a necessary requirement, and I do so want Angus's murderer caught without delay."

The latter half of that statement left Iffey with little choice but to—albeit grumpily—withdraw. With a muted glower at Stokes, he added, "I'll be waiting just outside the door if you need me."

Stokes smiled. "By all means, do wait in the corridor, and we'll interview you next."

Penelope smiled brightly. "That will allow you to remain with and entertain her ladyship for the rest of the afternoon."

Patently unhappy but with no real choice, Iffey left.

Barnaby heard the door shut and resumed his seat, as did Penelope and Stokes.

Stokes began, "Thank you for speaking with us, your ladyship." He drew out his notebook and opened it. "I hope you won't mind if I take notes. It helps avoid having to ask people to repeat things."

"Of course." Her ladyship clasped her hands in her lap. Although her features looked tired and drawn, her gaze was clear as she looked at them expectantly. "I'm ready to help in any way I can."

Stokes nodded encouragingly. "If you could cast your mind back to the moment when Jensen came to summon the company to dinner last night. Can you tell us what you did, and what you saw and heard from that time to the instant when Jensen picked up the wine decanter?"

"Yes, of course." Lady Meriwell composed herself, then began, "I was speaking with Hermione Busselton and Wallace when Jensen arrived to announce that dinner was served. The three of us led the way." Her ladyship switched her gaze to Penelope. "We wished to keep the gathering informal, like a family dinner, you see?"

Penelope nodded. Noting that Stokes was jotting in his book, apparently content to let her lead, she asked, "Who came next?"

"Persimone and Stephen had been conversing with Sophie, and the three of them followed us. Then…" Her ladyship paused, clearly thinking back, then nodded and confidently went on, "The three younger men—Arthur, Peter, and Peregrine—fell in line, and George Busselton and Angus were the last through the dining room door."

"Thank you," Stokes said. "That's very clear."

"Can you tell us the seating around the table?" Barnaby asked.

"Well, starting on Angus's right, it was George, Arthur, Peter, then Wallace on my left. On my right was Persimone, with Stephen beside her, then Sophie, Peregrine, and Hermione on Angus's left."

"Thank you," Penelope said. "That gives us a clear view of who was where around the table."

"Speaking of the table," Barnaby said, "did you notice anything different or unexpected about the glasses?"

Her ladyship clearly thought back, then shook her head. "I can't say that I did. Everything seemed exactly as it should have been." She glanced at Penelope. "I always do a last-minute check as I walk in—it's a habit I got into long ago—so I'm certain that, at that point, nothing was out of place."

Penelope exchanged a swift glance with Stokes, and at his nod, refixed her attention on her ladyship. "We're sorry to ask this of you, Lady Meriwell, but if you could recount what happened after everyone was seated—purely what you saw and heard from your position at the other end of the table."

"I'll try." Lady Meriwell's hands were still clasped in her lap, and her fingers tightened and gripped. "Angus seemed…out of sorts. He was angry, although I have no idea why. He was glaring down the table toward Sophie, then Jensen poured the wine into Angus's glass, and he picked it up and took quite a swallow…"

Her voice faded, and briefly, she closed her eyes in transparent pain, but before they could react, she opened her eyes and said, "Angus choked. He gasped, I think twice, then he tried to reach out along the table, possibly toward Sophie. And then he collapsed."

Her tone made it abundantly clear that she had been deeply fond of her husband, and grief was her dominant emotion.

Stokes stirred, drawing her attention. "You said that Lord Meriwell was angry when he sat down to dinner. When did you become aware of his temper? At that point or earlier?"

"Oh, earlier. He was angry—I would even say furious—and trying to hide it from the moment he walked into the drawing room."

Barnaby asked, "In the drawing room, was his lordship's anger directed at anyone in particular?"

Lady Meriwell frowned. "Not that I saw, but he was doing his best to rein it in, you know, and he and I were chatting in different groups."

Gently, Penelope said, "You mentioned he was glaring down the table at Sophie."

"In her direction, yes." Lady Meriwell lightly grimaced. "I can't imagine what she might have done to occasion his ire this time, yet it seemed very real."

"I understand," Penelope probed, "that there was some tension between his lordship and Sophie regarding her going up to London for the Season."

Her ladyship sighed. "Yes, there was. Sophie was set on going to London and making her come-out, but Angus had taken it into his head that she might be a hysteric and vetoed the plan—which, of course, put Sophie's back up with a vengeance. There were many heated words exchanged on that subject. Sadly, Sophie couldn't see that the way she reacted only piled fuel on the fire of Angus's concern."

"And," Penelope concluded, "that was why Lord Meriwell asked David Sanderson to arrange an evaluation of Sophie's mental state."

Her ladyship nodded. "Exactly."

Penelope glanced at Barnaby and Stokes, then went on, "Dr. Sanderson and Nurse Haskell have given us to understand that, based on their observations, they do not believe Sophie is a true hysteric."

Lady Meriwell shook her head, and a rueful smile curved her lips. "I'm not surprised. I often thought Sophie was more like Angus than he could bear to see. They both insisted on getting their own way—they just used different means. For Angus, it was trenchant argument. For Sophie, it's emotional, often-irrational outbursts. They clashed frequently, yet even so, Angus was fiercely fond of Sophie. She's his only surviving grandchild, and his drive to protect her was behind many of his attempted dictates."

Her ladyship paused, then sighed and went on, "Unfortunately, in the matter of her putative London Season, his protectiveness intertwined with his other great obsession—protecting the family name. He was deeply afraid that if she went into the ton and was seen as a hysteric, that would reflect not merely on her but even more on the family itself. On the Meriwell family as a whole."

Barnaby frowned slightly. "So protecting the family name from any social stigma was an abiding concern of his?"

Her ladyship nodded. "Indeed, it was. I called it an obsession, and it was of that order, but given the family's history, one can hardly be surprised. Angus's younger brother, Claude, was the epitome of the term ‘wastrel.' He was a profligate hedonist of the worst sort, a gamester, philanderer, and shyster who constantly expected the family to bail him out of the scrapes he continually landed himself in. Claude died in his forties, and sadly, Arthur and Peter seem intent on following in his footsteps." She paused, once again seemingly captured by memory, then in a quieter voice, continued, "In some respects, it was Angus's obsession with the family's standing that led to our estrangement from Robert, our son, and his wife, Elizabeth. Both felt strongly about improving the lives of others, and when Angus refused to countenance Robert pursuing good works of the kind he was passionate about here, in England, Robert and Eliza decided they would go to Africa and serve in the missions there."

Sadness drew down her features. "They died out there, leaving their children, Jacob and Sophie, to us to raise. Jacob was sixteen and in his last years at Winchester. He wanted—passionately—to work as an engineer, but of course, he was heir to the Meriwell title, and Angus had very different ideas. Sadly, Angus had learned nothing from his dealings with Robert and so drove Robert's son from this place, too. Jacob was determined to establish himself in business in a way that would benefit others, even if that meant becoming a factory owner, something Angus could simply not condone. Jacob left the Hall when he was nineteen, we believe to follow in his parents' footsteps."

When she fell silent, Penelope softly probed, "Where is Jacob now?"

Her ladyship heaved a deep, heartfelt sigh. "Angus told me Jacob had gone to Africa and, like his parents, was now dead."

The silence stretched, redolent with the abiding sorrow of an old woman whose family had, perhaps needlessly, torn itself apart.

Cataloguing her earlier words, Barnaby finally asked, "What of Stephen Meriwell? Was he a concern to Lord Meriwell, too?"

"Oh no." Animation returned to Lady Meriwell's features. "Stephen was the exact opposite of the rest of his branch of the family. Indeed, Stephen was and continues to be everything Angus wanted in a son." Raising her head, she met their gazes. "Stephen was Angus's great hope for the future of the Meriwells. With Robert and Jacob gone, Stephen will inherit the title and the entailed estate and will become the next Lord Meriwell. Angus was quite chuffed by the news of Stephen's intention to offer for Persimone Busselton's hand. Angus considered that an excellent match, as I believe anyone would."

Barnaby nodded. "I see." He glanced at Penelope and faintly arched a brow, but she fractionally shook her head. He glanced at Stokes and met the same response. None of them thought it prudent to ask her ladyship about her affair with Lord Iffey, at least at this point. Despite her determination to help them by providing clear answers to their questions, there was a fragility behind her fa?ade of which they were all aware.

Stokes closed his notebook and rose with a smile. "I believe that's all we need from you for now, ma'am." He half bowed. "Thank you for your assistance. We appreciate that discussing such matters would not have been easy."

Lady Meriwell waved away his thanks and, when Barnaby rose and offered his hand, gripped it and allowed him to help her to her feet. Then she planted her cane, drew herself up to her rather insignificant height, and fixed Stokes, Barnaby, and Penelope with a distinctly fierce look. "The one thing I would ask of you is that, regardless of who they are, you catch whoever did this. For all his faults, Angus was a good, sound man, and he did not deserve to die in the manner in which he did." She tapped her cane on the floor. "I will have justice for him. It's the least we can do."

Barnaby smothered a smile. Behind her ladyship's outward softness lay a spine of steel. He half bowed. "Indeed, ma'am. We will do our very best to find his murderer."

Her features eased. "I pray you will succeed."

With a general nod to Penelope and Stokes, she allowed Barnaby to escort her to the door.

Glancing back, he saw Penelope and Stokes confer, then move to the desk.

Barnaby handed Lady Meriwell into the care of her dresser, who had wisely been waiting in the corridor, and at a brisk nod from Stokes, invited Lord Iffey, also loitering in the passageway, to join them, distracting his lordship from hovering over her ladyship.

Iffey clearly felt torn, but at her ladyship's urging, he grudgingly surrendered and, when Barnaby stepped back, stumped into the library.

After shutting the door, Barnaby led his lordship to the armchair before the desk. While his lordship sat, Barnaby rounded the desk and sank into the chair on Stokes's right. Penelope was sitting on Stokes's left, upright and plainly attentive, with her dark gaze fixed on his lordship.

Initially, Stokes led Iffey over the same ground they'd covered with Lady Meriwell regarding the movement of the company into the dining room, the seating, and the actions prior to Lord Meriwell's collapse. His lordship's account did not materially differ from her ladyship's, although Iffey expanded on the conversation he and her ladyship had been having with Hermione Busselton as they'd entered the dining room.

"Very interested in hearing about the family," Iffey said, referring to Mrs. Busselton. "Understandable, I suppose, given the interest Stephen has shown in her gel."

"As to the Meriwells," Stokes said, "we gathered that you enjoyed a very long friendship with the late Lord Meriwell."

Iffey bobbed his white head. "We went back a long way, Angus and I. Winchester, you know. He and I were inseparable while there, and we never really broke the habit, what?"

Penelope somewhat diffidently ventured, "Her ladyship told us something of Meriwell family history by way of explaining his lordship's attitude to preserving the family's reputation in the face of the challenges posed by, among others, his two younger nephews. Can you add any details regarding any recent incidents his late lordship found disturbing?"

"Ah." Iffey nodded sagely. "I suspect you're alluding to Arthur's wanting the horse."

Barnaby blinked. "Horse?"

"Angus's gray hunter, a stallion. Excellent beast. Many have thought so, including, apparently, a long-time creditor of Arthur's. The cent-per-cent was putting the screws on Arthur, has been for months now, not for the money Arthur owed—which he couldn't repay regardless—but for the horse. Seemed that the lender had another client who was willing to pay far over the odds for that particular horse. Presumably to breed him, although who knows? Anyhow, there was no way Angus was going to part with that horse, and the last Angus told me—just two days ago—Arthur was getting desperate."

Barnaby clarified, "Yet regardless of that desperation, Lord Meriwell was not inclined to part with the horse."

"Not in the slightest. Angus might have been eighty, but he still enjoyed riding, and the gray was his favorite mount."

"I see." Stokes was jotting busily. "And what of Peter Meriwell?"

"Oh, that was plain old debts." Iffey waved dismissively. "Peter seems intent on following as diligently as he can in his father's footsteps. Claude's, that is. A bounder, he was, through and through. Died in a stupid curricle race years ago, much to virtually everyone's relief. I mean, what man of forty-plus years wagers his house on a curricle race?" Iffey snorted derisively.

"And Lord Meriwell was disinclined to assist Peter out of the mire?" Barnaby asked.

Iffey nodded. "Exactly. Angus said just the other day that he'd concluded that the only way to force Peter to pull up his socks was to hold firm and let him suffer whatever consequences befell him as a result of his profligacy."

Barnaby caught a pointed look from Penelope and duly ventured, "Her ladyship told us that preserving the family name and reputation was of prime importance to Lord Meriwell."

"Prime importance?" Iffey huffed. "It went much deeper than that. A fixation, certainly. Labeling it an addiction wouldn't be going too far. Indeed, for Angus, after being forced to deal with the ramifications of Claude's behavior for half his life, it became a consuming passion to ensure that absolutely no breath of scandal so much as brushed the Meriwell coattails."

"I see." Stokes fixed his steely gray gaze on Iffey. "And what would—or did—his lordship make of your liaison with Lady Meriwell?"

Iffey blushed painfully. "Here, I say. What… I mean… Dash it all," he blustered, "what sort of question is that?"

"A pertinent one," Stokes countered. "We have it on good authority that you and her ladyship have enjoyed a very close personal relationship for quite some time."

"In short," Penelope said, deeming it time to intervene, "you and she have been lovers for years. More than a decade. What we wish to know is what Lord Meriwell, with his overweening passion about his family's reputation, made of that."

Iffey blinked as if the question made no sense. "But, of course, he never knew."

"Never?" Barnaby arched a cynical brow. "Are you certain of that?"

But Iffey was regaining his composure. "As certain as I—and Clementina, too—can be." He paused, studying their skeptical expressions, then sighed and explained, "Angus never looked our way. He was so busy watching over the lives of everyone else—Sophie, Stephen, Arthur, and Peter, and indeed, even himself—that he'd lost all sight of Clemmie and me. We were merely fixtures in the background of his life—always there, reliable and steady, never any problem."

Iffey paused, looking inward, then more quietly said, "Even if Angus had suspected, to be perfectly frank, I'm not sure he would have cared. He and Clemmie were over long ago—before Robert and his wife left for Africa—and the one thing Angus would have been unswervingly certain of was that, no matter what occurred, neither Clemmie nor I would ever have caused even a whiff of scandal. So our liaison was never any threat to him—we would never have tarnished the family name—and at base, over the past decade and more, that, above all else, was the most important thing of all to Angus."

Barnaby, Penelope, and Stokes studied Iffey, but he was steadfast and sincere, and his demeanor declared that as he saw it, he'd told them nothing but the unvarnished truth.

Accepting that, Stokes slowly nodded. "Very well." He glanced at Barnaby and Penelope, and receiving no sign that either had further questions, Stokes refocused on Iffey. "Thank you for your candor. At this time, we have no further questions to put to you."

Iffey gruffly mumbled, "Good," and pushed to his feet.

With a nod to them all, he turned and stumped to the door, opened it, and left.

"Well," Penelope said, "between them, they've given us a fairly detailed understanding of what drove Angus Meriwell."

"And now, we need to determine what drove his killer." Barnaby looked at Stokes. "Who should we have in next?"

They settled on the nephews, commencing with the eldest, Stephen Meriwell.

Penelope watched as, with passable elegance, Stephen sank into the chair before the library desk, behind which she, Stokes, and Barnaby were sitting.

Stephen Meriwell was a pleasantly handsome man, not an Adonis like Barnaby nor as striking as Stokes, yet he was well built, with agreeable features, and exuded an aura of vitality without being overwhelming.

He appeared to be the sort of character who, in normal circumstances, would be easygoing, even charming, and his attire—a fashionable if conservative gray suit teamed with a dark waistcoat and highly polished boots—was expensive yet understated and projected an image that suggested a reliable, practical, steady personality.

As he settled his attention and his hazel gaze on Penelope, Stokes, and Barnaby, she could readily imagine Stephen being the golden-haired nephew, even though his hair was actually a pale light brown.

She glanced at Stokes; with a man like Stephen Meriwell, she preferred to watch and observe rather than question.

Stokes obligingly opened with their now-standard query of Stephen's memories of the company moving from the drawing room to the dining room.

Stephen answered readily, and his account mirrored the information from his aunt and Lord Iffey. When Barnaby asked, Stephen also confirmed the seating around the dining table.

Stokes nodded. "Once the company sat, what happened next? Please take your time and tell us everything you remember from that point on."

Stephen took a moment to think, then with a faint frown forming, ventured, "From the instant he sat, my uncle was glaring down the table." He paused, then transparently reluctantly, added, "I think he was glaring at Sophie, who was seated on my right."

Barnaby asked, "Why do you think Lord Meriwell was glaring at his granddaughter?"

"I really couldn't say," Stephen promptly replied.

"But if you were pressed to guess?" Barnaby persisted.

Stephen hesitated, then sighed and said, "I suppose it was something to do with some action of Sophie's in retaliation for my uncle vetoing her London Season this year. She'd been so looking forward to it, and Sophie doesn't like being thwarted in any way, much less over something she'd set her heart on." He smiled a touch fondly. "She has great ambitions to take the ton by storm."

"I see." Stokes was scribbling in his notebook. Without looking up, he asked, "Do you know of any other irritants in your uncle's life? Any other sources of anger and ire?"

Stephen huffed. "My brothers might not be good for much, but one could always rely on them to get under Uncle Angus's skin."

"How so?" Barnaby inquired.

As if mildly uncomfortable to be telling tales about his brothers, Stephen shifted, but complied. "Arthur's progressed from straightforward debts to somehow needing a horse my uncle owns—a hunter, a stallion—in order to appease some creditor. Arthur's been pestering Uncle Angus for months to let him have the beast, but sadly for Arthur, the stallion is my uncle's favorite mount. Of course, that hasn't stopped Arthur from continuing his campaign to wear Uncle Angus down."

When Stephen fell silent, Stokes prompted, "And your younger brother, Peter?"

Stephen sighed. "Peter is forever in debt. He's been at low ebb for at least a year, and although I haven't heard about any recent pleadings, Peter more or less never appears here without pressuring my uncle for another handout. As Uncle Angus is"—he paused, then amended—"was no fool, he'd decided to cease sending good money after bad."

Stokes scribbled, then raised his gaze to Stephen's face. "To return to the action about the dining table. We have everyone in their chairs, and Lord Meriwell is glaring at Sophie. What happened next?"

Stephen paused, plainly bringing the scene into focus in his mind. "Jensen picked up the decanter from the sideboard, unstoppered it, and poured the wine into Uncle Angus's glass. As Jensen straightened, my uncle picked up the glass and took a good swallow. Then he choked. He gasped and lifted his free hand as if to point down the table, but he never actually did so. He gasped again, quite appallingly, and collapsed, falling forward onto his plate."

"And then?" Barnaby quietly asked.

"There was a stunned silence. I suppose everyone was shocked speechless. Then Jensen whirled and set the decanter back on the sideboard, Sophie screamed, and I pushed back my chair, rose, and rushed up the table. Arthur rose, too, and he reached my uncle just before me. Peter followed Arthur, but it was Arthur and me on either side of my uncle, trying to lift him and help him—trying to get some idea of what was wrong." Stephen's expression clouded as his memories rolled on. "But there was nothing—nothing obvious we could do to help."

He paused, then without prompting, went on, "Arthur suggested we move Uncle Angus upstairs so he would be more comfortable, and I agreed. Then Gorton—my uncle's valet—arrived, along with that nurse, Miss Haskell, and we had more than enough people trying to help."

"Was your uncle breathing at that point?" Stokes matter-of-factly asked.

Stephen frowned. "I'm really not sure. I think we all hoped he was in the throes of some seizure or such and would recover if given the chance. But I'm no medic, and I can't actually say if he was alive at that moment."

Stokes nodded in understanding and studied his notes. "So you and your brothers carried his lordship up to his room?"

"Me and Arthur, with Jensen and one of the footmen—Jeremy, if memory serves—and Gorton assisting. Nurse Haskell followed."

"Your brother Peter?" Barnaby asked.

"I told Peter to help my aunt and the guests. I suggested they go to the drawing room, as it was inconceivable that anyone would want to eat after that. I said I would come down and report as soon as we knew more about my uncle's condition."

"So," Stokes said, "you, Arthur, Gorton, Jensen, Jeremy, and Nurse Haskell carried his lordship upstairs to his room and, I assume, laid him on his bed?"

"Yes. That's right. Once we had, we stepped back and let Nurse Haskell examine him." Stephen's expression darkened. "She pronounced him dead."

"I see," Stokes said. "That must have been a shock."

Stephen frowned. "It was, yet he was eighty years old. We—Arthur and I, and I think the rest of the men—assumed it was a heart attack." Stephen's expression didn't lighten. "On that basis, Arthur and I went downstairs and broke the news to my aunt and the guests."

Stephen looked at Stokes, then at Barnaby. "It wasn't until the next day that we heard any mention of poison." His tone suggested some degree of uncertainty as to whether the poisoning was truly real or not.

Stokes evenly said, "Once she was able to examine the body, Nurse Haskell suspected poison, and the others remaining in the room at that time, once the symptoms were pointed out, concurred, but of course, they had to wait for Dr. Sanderson to confirm their suspicions."

When Stephen, looking troubled, merely nodded, Stokes arched a brow at Penelope. She shook her head; she had no further questions for Stephen Meriwell, at least not at that time.

When Barnaby, too, shook his head at Stokes, Stokes informed Stephen, "That's all our questions for you to this point, Mr. Meriwell. You may go, and if you would send in your brother Arthur? I understand he should be waiting in the corridor."

With a ready nod, Stephen rose, walked to the door, and opened it. To someone in the corridor beyond, he said, "You're next."

Holding the door, Stephen stood back, and Arthur came in.

Arthur was fractionally shorter than Stephen and more heavily built. His hair was mid brown, several shades darker than Stephen's, and his features were less fine than his brother's, fleshier, with a larger nose and a more florid complexion. His brown suit was nondescript, passable for a gentleman but neither of top quality nor in the latest style.

Penelope was watching as Arthur paused just inside the doorway, and the look he and Stephen exchanged was nothing short of mutually venomous. Obviously, there was no love lost between the brothers—those two, at least.

Arthur shifted his gaze to her, Barnaby, and Stokes, seated behind the desk, then came forward to take the chair before it as Stephen went out and closed the door.

She listened as Stokes put Arthur through his paces.

Arthur's recollection of the movements of the company as they went into dinner did not differ from those interviewed previously, but his memory was somewhat less complete; he wasn't sure of the movements of others, and it seemed he hadn't paid much attention to anyone bar himself.

While Arthur confirmed that his uncle had been glaring down the table at someone seated on the opposite side, he declined to venture an opinion as to at whom his lordship's glare had been directed.

"But it could have been Sophie?" Stokes pressed.

Arthur shrugged. "Possibly." Then he grimaced and added, "More likely her than the golden boy—meaning Stephen. But as I said, I can't be certain. I was merely glad that my uncle wasn't glaring at me." He shifted. "Or for that matter, at Peter. He was sitting beside me."

"I see." Stokes made a show of consulting his notebook. "We understand that you've been petitioning your uncle for a particular horse." Stokes met Arthur's gaze. "Why do you need that horse?"

Penelope hid a smile. Stokes hadn't asked Arthur whether that was true nor made any sort of mild inquiry. The direct and uncompromising question left Arthur with little option but to tell Stokes what he actually wanted to know.

After a minute of frowning, Arthur reluctantly came to the same conclusion. He shot Stokes a disaffected look. "If you must know, I owe a sum— not an insurmountable sum—to a certain man who has an associate with a keen interest in breeding hunters. My uncle owns a stallion that is highly regarded and likely to prove excellent for breeding. Being eighty and no longer riding to hounds, my uncle doesn't actually require the horse—not that particular horse—and I've been attempting to persuade him to give me the beast in lieu of any future inheritance from the Meriwell estate." Arthur raised his hands, palms up. "It would be an excellent deal for all concerned, including my uncle, but he simply wouldn't listen." Arthur subsided, then muttered, "Or at least he hadn't listened yet. I was still hoping to convince him…"

Barnaby asked, "To whom is your creditor hoping to trade the horse?"

Arthur's expression grew almost surly, but eventually, he replied, "Croxton."

Even Penelope knew Croxton was one of the wealthiest ex-moneylenders, one who, they'd heard, was making a bid to turn himself into a legitimate businessman. Croxton lusting after a breeding stallion previously owned by a lord who rode to hounds fitted the picture.

"Croxton." Stokes's tone was disgusted. "You owe a friend of Croxton a ‘not-insurmountable' sum?"

"For how long has that debt been hanging over your head?" Barnaby asked.

Arthur clearly wished he didn't have to answer, but again, eventually obliged, "Four years."

"I imagine Croxton and his friend are growing impatient." Stokes's comment hit the mark, and Arthur's glower turned wary.

After a moment, Arthur wet his lips and offered, "Croxton is prepared to wait to get his hands on the horse—on that particular horse."

Stokes sat back and regarded Arthur steadily. "You must realize that having Croxton—and his friend—after you, wanting that horse that, thus far, you've failed to persuade your uncle to make over to you, gives you a viable motive to poison your uncle."

Arthur looked genuinely taken aback. "Why? If he died before giving me the horse, I'd have to fight Stephen tooth and nail to get it…" His expression changed as understanding dawned. "Oh God—that's what's happened."

He looked at Stokes, Penelope, and Barnaby, his expression a strange blend of belligerence and dejection. "Now I'll have to metaphorically wrestle Stephen for the horse. And he damned well knows I need it!" He looked at the ceiling as if praying for some better revelation, then returned his gaze to them. "So that's what Uncle Angus dying has landed me with—a battle with Stephen for the horse. And in case you haven't realized, my older brother and I do not get on. If you think I would rather go up against him than argue with an old man, well, you're wrong. You don't know Stephen. He's a much harder case than my uncle ever was."

Stokes arched a brow at Arthur. "So you didn't poison your uncle?"

"No. I did not." Arthur sat upright and tugged down his waistcoat.

"Yet it's you who's in debt to Croxton's friend," Barnaby mildly observed.

"But Croxton's willing to be patient, and the sum isn't that much—it's not me who's up to my eyeballs in debt!" Immediately he made the statement, he looked as if he wanted to take it back.

"I assume," Stokes purred, "that you're referring to your younger brother, Peter."

But Arthur's lips primmed, and he endeavored to look down his nose. "You may ask Peter about his situation. I'm not saying anything more."

Stokes glanced at Barnaby and Penelope, and when neither made to ask anything else, Stokes returned his gaze to Arthur and inclined his head. "In that case, Mr. Meriwell, you may go. Please send in Peter, who I believe will be waiting outside."

Without another word and with barely a civil nod, Arthur rose and strode rapidly for the door.

Penelope, Stokes, and Barnaby all watched as Arthur opened the door, nodded to someone beyond, then stepped back to allow Peter Meriwell to enter.

Penelope noted that the look this pair of brothers exchanged was more in the nature of a warning, possibly conspiratorial in nature.

Stokes welcomed Peter and directed him to the chair before the desk.

Peter was several years younger than his brothers; Penelope placed him in his late twenties. He was leaner than Stephen and Arthur, although she thought not as tall, and was easily distinguished from the other two by his dark-brown hair, which was almost sable. Peter's features were more saturnine, a trifle pinched, with a longer nose. He appeared more openly dissolute than Arthur, with a rather peevish cast to his features. Peter's eyes were his redeeming feature—a greeny hazel framed by long, dark lashes. His hair was decently styled, and his clothes—a well-cut black jacket worn over dark-brown trousers and boots—matched the current fashion for gentlemen of his age and standing.

As soon as Peter had settled, Stokes moved quickly through the initial questions regarding the company moving into the dining room and the seating arrangements.

For Penelope's money, judging by Peter's vague and incomplete replies, he'd been paying even less attention to those about him than Arthur; all of Peter's observations of others were referenced to himself, to what he'd been doing or thinking at the time.

Hoping to jolt him from his self-absorption and possibly learn something of use, she leaned forward, drawing his attention. "What can you tell us of Miss Sophie Meriwell's relationship with her grandfather, your uncle?"

Peter blinked, then glanced at Stokes and Barnaby. When neither reacted, he returned his gaze to Penelope and replied, "I don't really know that much. Sophie's younger than us—than me and my brothers. I only really saw her when I was staying here during school holidays or, later, when I came to visit. It's not as if she and I—or my brothers—socialized or moved in the same circles or shared friends. We—Stephen, Arthur, and I—were more friendly with Sophie's brother, Jacob, but he left years ago." He paused, then added, "But I can tell you that Sophie was always— always —the apple of Uncle Angus's eye. No matter what she did to annoy him, ultimately, she could do no wrong."

Abruptly, Peter met Penelope's eyes. "Uncle Angus had already made it clear to everyone that Sophie would inherit the bulk of the estate. The unentailed part. So there was no huge motive for any of us to kill Uncle Angus, at least not in the expectation of inheriting any large sum."

From the corner of her eye, Penelope saw Stokes's lips cynically lift.

"As to motive," Stokes said, "inheriting even a small amount can be a great relief if a man is under significant pressure to pay off debts."

Peter's pale complexion paled even more.

"We understand," Barnaby said, "that you presently owe a significant amount. How much are your debts?"

Peter looked furtive, but tried to brazen it out. He tipped up his chin. "I can honestly say that I don't know."

"You don't know, but they are substantial." Stokes jotted in his book and nodded sagely. "And likely increasing by the day." He pinned Peter with a penetrating look. "Is that a reasonable statement of the truth?"

Peter swallowed and didn't answer.

Stokes waited several seconds, then leaned forward and, his eyes narrowing on Peter, asked, "Just how desperate are you to pay off your most urgent creditors?"

When Peter just stared, Barnaby murmured, "The question really is are you desperate enough to have murdered your uncle for however little he might have left you?"

"No!" Peter looked horrified that they might think so, but almost immediately, petulance flooded his expression. "If only Uncle Angus had stopped treating me like some juvenile and handed over a few ponies when I first asked him, I wouldn't be in this state! It was never my fault—it was his! And as I'm sure he's left me a mere pittance that will barely scrape the sides of what I need, he was potentially worth more to me alive than dead! I might have been able to persuade him that the scandal would be worth paying to avoid." He flung out a hand. "I can't do that if he's dead!"

It was an unedifying speech, and Penelope, Barnaby, and Stokes let it lie for a moment, seething in the silence.

Peter folded his arms, then hunched and started gnawing on a fingernail, his gaze darting around and about, avoiding focusing on them.

Eventually, Stokes consulted his notebook, then asked, "You rushed to help with your uncle, but were superfluous to needs there, and Stephen asked you to assist in conducting your aunt, Lord Iffey, and the rest of the company to the drawing room." Stokes raised his gaze and fixed it on Peter's face. "Tell us what happened once the others took your uncle out of the dining room."

Peter's peevishness was on full show, but he stopped biting his nail and said, "I was as shocked as anyone. That's why I rushed to help. When the others left with Uncle Angus, I went to help Aunt Clementina. She's always been kind to me—well, to all of us—and Iffey was as unsteady on his feet as she was." Peter paused, but his thoughts had clearly tracked back to those moments. "The Busseltons milled about a bit, along with Sophie, who looked more stunned than I've ever seen her, then Mrs. Busselton realized they had to go first to allow us—Aunt Clementina with me and Lord Iffey on either side—to move down the table and out of the door. So they went ahead, but waited for us in the hall, and then we went on, and they fell in behind us. By then, Mrs. Busselton and her daughter had Sophie in hand and were towing her along. No hysterics, thank God!"

"Wasn't there a footman about?" Penelope asked.

Transparently still in his memories, Peter nodded. "Thomas. He was shocked, too, but couldn't do much more than open and hold the doors. He did that, seeing us all into the drawing room. He asked if we needed anything, and Aunt Clemmie seemed to gather herself and said not right now. She sat down on the settee, then said that we would all wait to hear about Uncle Angus. So everyone sat and waited. We didn't know what else to do."

Despite his sulky demeanor, Penelope judged that Peter had related what had occurred reasonably accurately; it seemed that the shock of his uncle's seizure had focused his attention more sharply than in the moments prior to the poisoning.

Stokes seemed to think so, too. After an inviting glance at Barnaby and Penelope to which neither responded, Stokes focused on Peter. "Thank you, Mr. Meriwell. For the moment, that's all the questions we have for you."

Peter blinked as if surprised. "So I can go?"

At Stokes's nod, Peter got to his feet rather rapidly. With the barest of nods, he turned and walked quickly to the door.

They watched him leave, then Barnaby asked, "So who should we question next? Sophie Meriwell or the Busseltons?"

The general consensus favored the Busseltons. As Stokes put it, "Better we have them in before Mr. Busselton, MP, gets on his high horse."

Penelope pushed her glasses higher on her nose. "At least the Busseltons shouldn't take that long, and then perhaps we can break for tea and think about our questions for Sophie and, after her, the staff."

They exchanged a glance of agreement, and Barnaby rose and crossed to the bellpull to ring for Jensen.