Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

N aturally, Mr. Busselton was the first of his family they invited to join them in the library; all three of them felt sure that the MP wouldn't have had it any other way.

Yet judging by his manner when he entered, decidedly tentative, almost wary, Mr. Busselton wasn't sure how to behave—how high-handed he could be—given Barnaby, son of an earl who was also one of the governors of the police force, and Penelope, another scion of a noble house with innumerable noble connections, were sitting there, behind the desk, rather obviously supporting Stokes.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, Mr. Busselton had decided to be careful.

As he responded to Stokes's greeting and invitation to take the chair before the desk, Barnaby felt certain that, had he and Penelope not been present, George Busselton, MP, would have been officious and obstructionist, simply on principle.

Consequently, when Stokes, no doubt reading the man equally accurately, arched a brow Barnaby's way, Barnaby shifted slightly, securing Busselton's attention, and led with, "Mr. Busselton, could you describe for us where you were in the procession into the dining room?"

"Indeed, Mr. Adair. I was walking beside his lordship. Lord Meriwell, that is. Our host." Busselton started to frown. "That is…"

"Quite." Their host was now dead. Barnaby rolled on, "When you and his lordship walked into the dining room, do you recall where the other guests were and whether they were standing or sitting?"

Busselton appeared to rack his brains, but eventually conceded, "I know they were all present, but exactly who was doing what or even exactly where they sat, I fear I can't say. Not with any certainty."

Barnaby nodded understandingly. "I believe you were seated at his lordship's right?"

"I was, yes. Very…" Busselton colored faintly. "Er…appropriate, no doubt."

"Temper-wise," Barnaby continued, "how did his lordship seem to you?"

"Well…tense." Busselton nodded to himself. "Yes, that's how I would describe his manner. Somewhat on edge, although over what, I gleaned no insight."

Penelope leaned forward, drawing Busselton's attention. "Others have confirmed that, once his lordship sat, he was glaring down the left side of the table."

Busselton nodded. "I noticed that."

"In your view," Penelope asked, "at whom was his lordship glaring?"

"Well, I suppose it must have been his granddaughter, Miss Meriwell."

Penelope cocked her head. "Why do you believe it must have been her?" Her tone suggested she was merely curious as to Busselton's process, not that she was challenging his assessment.

"Simple deduction, really. His lordship's glare was directed along that side of the table, but at some position beyond my wife. The next along on that side was our son, Peregrine, and as his lordship had only just met Perry, it stands to reason he wouldn't have cause to be glaring at him. Next seat along was Miss Meriwell, and after her sat Mr. Stephen Meriwell, and beside him was our daughter, Persimone. I'm sure his lordship wasn't glaring at Persimone, so his target had to have been either his granddaughter or Stephen, and again, it stands to reason it wouldn't have been Stephen. Ergo, his lordship must have been glaring at his granddaughter, Sophie."

Penelope manufactured a frown. "Why do you believe it couldn't have been Stephen his lordship was glaring at? We've been hearing that Lord Meriwell had frequent difficulties with his nephews."

Busselton nodded readily. "Indeed, indeed, but the difficulties, I have heard, were with Mr. Arthur Meriwell and Mr. Peter Meriwell, the younger nephews, not—indeed, never—with Stephen Meriwell. My understanding is that Stephen rides high in his lordship's esteem and always has."

"We understand," she ventured, "that your family's visit to Meriwell Hall was, at least in part, to assess Stephen Meriwell's suitability as an aspirant for your daughter's hand." She smiled encouragingly. "From that, I assume you've had occasion to interact with Stephen in London, and in that, you have the advantage of us. How have you found Stephen thus far—both here and in town?"

Busselton's face lit. "I must admit, Mrs. Adair, that as a father and given the office I hold, I've been wary of any approaches to secure Persimone's hand. But in all I've seen and learned of Stephen Meriwell, I have been favorably impressed. Extremely favorably impressed. The gentleman is all he purports to be. He is a charming conversationalist and has a ready store of unexceptionable tales with which to entertain the ladies. He has an excellent sense of what is right and proper and is always attentive and protective of those in his care. He is patently well-to-do and manages a sound business that clearly provides a more than acceptable income."

Busselton paused in his paean to consider and, after studying Penelope for an instant, confessed, "While we—my wife and I—would prefer Persimone married a title and a man with a decent estate, I believe it's no secret that, as matters stand, Stephen Meriwell will inherit the title and entailed estate of the late Lord Meriwell." He grimaced. "Of course, one would prefer that such an inheritance came without murder being the cause, but as I cannot imagine Stephen was in any way involved, ultimately, the alliance remains an excellent prospect." He paused, then added in a quieter tone, "Especially as Persimone is…well, rather finicky. My wife and I have grown concerned—Persimone is already twenty-three—but she was willing to entertain Stephen Meriwell's suit, and now that he will be Lord Meriwell, I expect the engagement to go forward in time."

He glanced at Barnaby and confided, "It never hurts to have a son-in-law in the Other Place."

Barnaby smiled easily. "Thank you for sharing your opinions. Having the view of someone from outside the Meriwell family greatly assists us in our investigation. Now, as to what occurred when Lord Meriwell picked up his wine glass…" Barnaby outlined the sequence of events they'd compiled from their previous interviewees to the point of the guests returning to the drawing room to await word on their host's condition. "Do you have anything to add to that account?"

Busselton frowned in thought, then slowly shook his head. "I believe that covers everything that occurred." He looked at Barnaby, then at Penelope, then somewhat reluctantly settled his gaze on Stokes. "Inspector, given all you have now gleaned, what are your next steps?"

Stokes mildly replied, "We will need to speak briefly to your wife and children, purely to confirm what they saw, before interviewing those of the company with whom we've yet to speak, and then move on to the staff in case there is something pertinent of which they are aware. After that, we'll be in a better position to know what will need to come next." Stokes concluded, "At this point, I suggest we move on to speaking with the other members of your family so we don't keep them waiting any longer than need be."

Barnaby hid a grin at Stokes's deft handling of the MP's wish to know more and, possibly, to have some influence on the conduct of the investigation.

Of course, Busselton wasn't enamored of Stokes's suggestion. "I really can't see why you must question my family. They saw no more than I did, so can hardly tell you anything more."

Penelope smiled confidingly at Busselton and rose, forcing Busselton to get to his feet. She rounded the desk and reached for his arm. "You'd be amazed," she advised him, gently but inexorably steering him toward the door, "by how often the very last person you expect to have noticed the vital clue actually has and remembers it when asked."

On reaching the door, she opened it and released Busselton. "So we really do need to speak with Mrs. Busselton next. I believe she'll be waiting in the drawing room. Would you please ask her to join us?"

There was no way in the world that Busselton could refuse a request from Penelope at her most aristocratically gracious.

Mutely, he nodded, then directed a more distant nod at Barnaby and Stokes and left.

Penelope closed the door, then smiled widely and returned to the desk. As she sat, she beamed at Barnaby and Stokes. "What an excellent team we three make."

In her late forties, Mrs. Hermione Busselton was a large, solid-boned matron, plain faced but, from her manner, equally plainly well bred. Calm, unflappable, and, Barnaby judged, highly competent, she was the perfect partner for a minor politician with aspirations to higher office.

She also proved to be just such a witness as Penelope had mentioned; she was observant, shrewd, insightful, and possessed an excellent recall of events.

Barnaby did the honors, taking Mrs. Busselton rapidly through their now-standard questions regarding the movement into the dining room and the actions that followed. To their delight, Mrs. Busselton replied concisely and accurately, confirming what they'd already learned, but with an absolute confidence that was reassuring.

Even more telling, Mrs. Busselton did not speculate over things she did not, in fact, know; when Penelope asked at whom she'd thought Lord Meriwell had been glaring, Hermione Busselton crisply explained that given her position on his lordship's left, she had not been in a position to identify his lordship's target. "All I could say was that it wasn't Peregrine, who was seated beside me, but someone farther along our side of the table."

Relieved to have such a reliable witness, Barnaby asked what had happened next.

Mrs. Busselton related how the butler had filled his lordship's wine glass, then stepped back. "To my complete and utter surprise, his lordship picked up the glass and took a…well, it was almost a swig. A large swallow. I was instantly struck by the oddity of him taking such a gulp before anyone else's glass had even been filled."

Penelope's eyes widened, and she sat straighter. "You're right. That was…quite a faux pas."

Mrs. Busselton's lips primmed censoriously. "Indeed. It surprised me because, until then, his lordship had behaved with all due propriety."

Penelope searched Mrs. Busselton's face. "Why do you think he broke with polite practice?" That was veering into speculation, yet it seemed Penelope had been correct in sensing that Mrs. Busselton might have some observation to share.

"If I had to guess," Mrs. Busselton said, "he was attempting to swallow his anger. The action had that feel to it."

Penelope arched her brows. "Was he—Lord Meriwell—angry prior to coming into the dining room?"

Mrs. Busselton's tight lips told them that she was debating whether or not to share her opinion, but then she looked at Penelope and made up her mind. "He was doing his level best to hide his temper, doubtless on Stephen's and our accounts, but yes. I felt that his lordship was…well, saying he was consumed with rage, suppressed rage, would not be overstating the matter. He was fairly vibrating with the emotion."

Penelope seized the tangent and ran with it. "You mention Stephen Meriwell. We understand that the impetus behind this visit is to further your knowledge of Stephen and his family given he has indicated a wish to offer for your daughter's hand."

Mrs. Busselton met Penelope's eyes and nodded. "Indeed."

When Mrs. Busselton volunteered no more, Barnaby said, "Your husband seems very taken with the prospect of your daughter becoming Mrs. Stephen Meriwell."

Hermione Busselton compressed her lips, plainly considered for several seconds, then stated, "My husband is deeply impressed by Stephen Meriwell."

Penelope leaned forward. "And you? What do you think of Stephen as a future son-in-law?"

Mrs. Busselton regarded Penelope's wide eyes and, as if accepting that she wouldn't be put off, sighed and admitted, "My husband may prove correct in his reading of Stephen. For myself, I'm waiting to learn more of the man himself. I had hoped to do so on this visit." She paused, then added, "Although it might seem insensitive to say so, his lordship's death and the tension that will inevitably generate will likely provide a revealing testing ground for measuring the mettle of Stephen's character."

With a dip of her head, Penelope agreed.

Barnaby caught Penelope's eye and arched a brow, but she shook her head, indicating she had no more questions for Mrs. Busselton, and after Stokes indicated the same, Barnaby rose and thanked Mrs. Busselton for her assistance and escorted her from the room.

After closing the door, Barnaby turned to his co-investigators only to have Stokes raise a staying hand. "Before we discuss Mrs. Busselton's insights, I suggest we have the younger Busseltons in, just in case they take after their mother rather than their father and can add more detail to our picture of Stephen Meriwell and also Lord Meriwell and his anger."

Penelope concurred, and Barnaby crossed to the bellpull to summon Jensen and send him to fetch their next interviewees.

Miss Persimone Busselton duly arrived and gracefully sat in the chair before the desk. Her father had mentioned she was twenty-three, and like her mother, she was tallish for a female and large boned. Her features were pleasant albeit a trifle plain, but there was intelligence in her hazel gaze, and using their standard questions to open proceedings, Stokes quickly established that Persimone was every bit as observant as her mother and possibly more intelligent as well; she seemed quick to notice, assess, and weigh the importance of what she observed.

For a future politician's or minor lordling's wife, that was quite a recommendation. Barnaby had no difficulty understanding what had attracted Stephen Meriwell's attention.

On the question of the target of Lord Meriwell's glare, Persimone informed them, "From my position on Lady Meriwell's right, I could tell that Lord Meriwell was glaring at either Stephen or Sophie. I can't be certain which."

Stokes sent a wordless invitation to Penelope, and she leaned forward and said, "Lady Meriwell and your mother both mentioned they thought that Lord Meriwell was furious but attempting to hide it during the conversation in the drawing room." Penelope tipped her head. "Can you add anything to that?"

Persimone frowned. After a moment, she shook her head. "That might be so—I would trust Mama's judgment on the point—but I was speaking with Sophie and Stephen and wasn't in a position to notice his lordship's mood."

Penelope nodded, impressed that the younger woman hadn't sought to comment regardless of any factual knowledge. "Moving back into the dining room, once the butler started pouring the wine…what are your thoughts on what followed?"

"Well," Persimone replied, "I was astonished that Lord Meriwell couldn't seem to wait for the rest of the table—not even Papa—to be served but immediately picked up his glass and took a healthy swallow." Persimone's sharply intelligent gaze flitted from Stokes to Barnaby before settling on Penelope. "That seemed decidedly odd, but if the poison was in the wine, then I suppose we must be grateful that in acting as he did—however boorish that might have been—Lord Meriwell spared everyone else from potentially being poisoned."

Penelope nearly laughed. Persimone was clearly angling for information. Rather than give it to her, Penelope said, "You and the others returned to the drawing room to await news of his lordship's state. Who else was there, in the drawing room?"

Persimone took the rebuff in her stride. "At the beginning, there was Peter, Lady Meriwell, and Lord Iffey, and Mama, Papa, myself, and my brother, Perry, and Sophie. It was Peter who urged us to retreat there, and given the situation, everyone complied."

"And everyone remained there until Stephen and Arthur returned bearing the news of Lord Meriwell's death." Stokes made the words a statement, that being what the three of them believed.

But Persimone shook her head. "No. At first, we all stayed there, but then Peter excused himself, saying he would go up and learn what was going on, but we didn't see him again that night. And shortly after Peter had left, Sophie said she was feeling poorly—hardly a surprise—and took herself off to her room."

Barnaby frowned. "So when Stephen and Arthur returned—" He broke off because Persimone was shaking her head again.

"Not Arthur—not at first. Stephen came in, and he was about to speak when Arthur arrived." Persimone paused, clearly replaying the moment in her mind. "I got the impression that Arthur had been somewhere else. He hadn't been with Stephen, at least not just before Stephen walked into the drawing room."

"I see." Stokes was busily scribbling. He paused, read over what he'd written, then looked at Persimone. "Lord Iffey and Lady Meriwell. Were they still in the drawing room when Stephen came in?"

"Oh yes," Persimone said. "Lord Iffey was concerned and tried to suggest several times that her ladyship should retire, but she wouldn't hear of it. She wasn't about to leave guests to fend for themselves—she was quite adamant about that."

Penelope stirred and, when Persimone looked her way, mildly said, "We gathered that your visit here was by way of getting to know Stephen Meriwell and his family. We've heard your parents' views on Stephen's suitability as a potential suitor for you." Her gaze on Persimone's face, Penelope tipped her head. "What are your thoughts on the matter?"

"On Stephen?" Persimone didn't seem perturbed, much less flustered by the question. She considered, then offered, "I appreciate that he presents as a respectable, reliable, steady gentleman of established means. Outwardly, he appears to be a highly suitable parti. But as to the man himself, I have reservations, which is why I agreed to us coming to Meriwell Hall. I hoped to learn more of Stephen's character, his nature and temperament. While I perceive no grounds on which to reject his suit, there is more I would seek to know before I would feel comfortable accepting it."

Persimone met Penelope's eyes and smiled somewhat wryly. "If that makes me sound like some vacillating ninny…" She shrugged. "I would simply rather be sure than sorry."

Penelope's smile was genuine and approving. "A laudably sensible approach." After a swift glance at Stokes and Barnaby, neither of whom had anything to add, Penelope nodded to Persimone. "Thank you, Miss Busselton. You've been a great help."

Persimone's gaze flitted over them again, and it was obvious her curiosity hadn't waned in the least. "Are you staying here, at Meriwell Hall? In case I remember something pertinent."

Penelope sternly suppressed a chuckle. "No. We find it helps our deliberations to abide elsewhere. But we are staying close by. If you recall anything you think might prove helpful, please alert Jensen. He will know where to find us."

She wasn't about to tell Persimone that they were staying at an inn a few minutes' walk away. The girl would appear there, supposedly getting a feel for the locality; had she been in Persimone's shoes, that was what Penelope would have done.

"Oh." Persimone managed not to look too disappointed. When Barnaby rose and came to escort her to the door, she stood and nodded a farewell to Stokes and Penelope. "Inspector. Mrs. Adair." She turned to Barnaby and inclined her head graciously. "Mr. Adair. Should I send my brother in?"

Barnaby smiled. "If you would, Miss Busselton, that would be helpful."

Persimone turned and walked to the door.

All three investigators smiled at the panel after it closed behind her.

Peregrine Busselton walked into the library even more openly agog to witness a police investigation in action than his sister had been.

He was tallish, still retaining the gangliness of youth; Penelope placed him at twenty years old at most. His pleasant, likeable features had yet to firm into their fully adult lines, and his expression was unguarded and devoid of all artifice.

Stokes waved Peregrine to the chair before the desk.

As he sat, he assured them, "I say, you can count on me to help in any way I can."

Stokes struggled to mute his grin. "Excellent." He glanced at Barnaby, delegating opening the questioning to him.

Barnaby smiled encouragingly at Peregrine and commenced with what were now their routine questions regarding the movement of the company into the dining room and the actions about the table thereafter.

Peregrine's answers—clear, concise, and surprisingly insightful for one of his years—quickly established him as their most useful witness to date. He confirmed his mother's and sister's accounts of the movements of people and the target of Lord Meriwell's glare. Peregrine, too, had registered the oddity of their host seizing his wine glass and quaffing wine before anyone else had been served. "Dashed strange, that was. It didn't seem like the sort of off-color behavior someone like Lord Meriwell would normally have indulged in."

Barnaby studied Peregrine's face. "I believe—we believe—that you're right in thinking the action was out of character for Lord Meriwell. If you had to hazard a guess, why do you think he might have done it?"

"Oh, he was angry," Peregrine said. "I spotted that the moment he walked into the drawing room. He was seething underneath, but it wasn't anything to do with the company—the gathering—so he was trying valiantly to squelch his temper." Peregrine paused, then offered, "If I had to guess, then I would say he quaffed the wine to help him swallow his rage. Only he choked." Peregrine's sharp hazel eyes studied Barnaby, then shifted to Penelope. "But that was the poison, wasn't it?"

"It seems so," Penelope admitted, then abruptly shut her lips.

Hiding a smile, Barnaby tapped the desk, drawing Peregrine's attention back to him. "Tell us how the company returned to the drawing room."

Peregrine recounted much the same tale as Persimone. "After a time, Peter left, saying he was going to see what he could find out, but he never came back. I wouldn't be surprised if, instead, he went off to find a stiff drink. A minute or so after that, Miss Meriwell claimed she was feeling quite ill and left, supposedly for her chamber. Sometime after that—perhaps ten minutes or more—Stephen returned to tell us the sad news. Arthur came through the door a little after Stephen. I'm fairly certain that Arthur had been drinking—he had that look about him."

Barnaby glanced to where Stokes was busily jotting notes, then returned his gaze to Peregrine. "What do you think about having Stephen Meriwell as a brother-in-law?"

Peregrine raised his eyebrows. "To be perfectly frank, I'm not sure Persimone will accept him. As for myself, when it comes to Stephen Meriwell, I'm very much on the fence. I haven't seen enough of him to make up my mind about what sort of man he is." He met Barnaby's gaze. "I mean, there's the outer man and the inner man, and you want some experience of the fellow to be reasonably confident that the inner man matches what you can see."

Barnaby inclined his head. "That's an excellent way to put it." It was also surprisingly astute and mature.

Peregrine looked from Barnaby to Stokes to Penelope. "I say, can I join in the hunt?"

Barnaby saw Stokes struggle to quash a smile. "No," Stokes said, "although we'd be glad if you kept your eyes and ears open and let us know of anything odd you might learn." When Peregrine shot faintly frowning glances at Barnaby and Penelope, Stokes deigned to explain, "Mr. and Mrs. Adair are long-standing official consultants to the Metropolitan Police. They assist at the commissioner's request, so you might say that they have legal standing. That's important in terms of giving evidence in court and is not a position that is readily available or that can be readily bestowed on anyone."

Peregrine sighed. "I see." Although he was plainly disgruntled, there was no sign that he didn't accept Stokes's verdict.

Stokes unbent enough to add, "We're staying nearby, and if you discover something you think we ought to know, Jensen will know where to find us. We'll be returning tomorrow and, most likely, be about the house during the day."

Peregrine nodded. "All right." He sat up and looked at the three of them. "Should I take myself off, then?"

The three of them couldn't help but smile.

Peregrine smiled back, rose, tipped them a salute, and ambled from the room.

When the door closed behind him, Penelope shook her head. "He's going to be one to watch in the future."

"After interviewing his sister," Stokes said, "I hadn't imagined the Busselton quiver would contain an even sharper mind."

Laughing, Barnaby agreed.

"What I found noteworthy," Penelope said, "was that while Mr. Busselton was full of praise for Stephen Meriwell and ready to welcome him as a son-in-law with open arms, the rest of the family were a great deal more equivocal."

"Yes," Stokes said, "but that might be because George Busselton has spent more time with Stephen, and the other three all intimated that learning more about Stephen might yet win them over."

"True," Penelope conceded.

Barnaby rose and stretched. "Other than telling us that winning the support of Mrs. Busselton, Persimone, and Peregrine requires more than a winning smile and easy ways, I'm not sure the observation gets us much farther. It doesn't necessarily reflect in any substantial way on Stephen Meriwell."

Penelope sighed. "You are, sadly, correct." She smiled at Barnaby. "Now you're up, why not ring for a tea tray, and over tea and biscuits, we can review and decide what we need to ask Sophie Meriwell."

Peregrine returned to the drawing room to find that, while he'd been in the library, afternoon tea had been served.

He strolled into the room and made a beeline for where Lady Meriwell sat behind the trolley, dispensing cups of tea. To Peregrine's eyes, the old dear was holding up well; despite an aura of sorrow that draped about her like a shawl, she was determined to play her part as hostess in appropriate fashion. Peregrine could appreciate her devotion to society's conventions; such rules gave one something to hold on to in times of upheaval.

He smiled at her ladyship and accepted a cup and saucer from her.

"Have they finished with their questions for you?" she asked with a sad smile.

"Yes. I'm done." He glanced at the others gathered in several groups dotted about the room. "They didn't ask me to send in anyone else, so perhaps they, too, will be taking tea."

"I hope so." Her ladyship's blue eyes drifted to where Lord Iffey was speaking earnestly with Arthur and Peter. "I really don't know," her ladyship all but whispered, "what will come of this."

Peregrine didn't know how to reply to that, so he thanked her for his tea, picked up a bun off the plate beside the pot, and retreated to the side of the room.

After putting his back to the wall, he bit into the bun, finding it substantial and quite tasty. While he chewed, he surveyed the others in the room; no doubt the group included all the potential suspects. Along with the murderer.

Could he spot who that was?

The investigators might have declined his offer to join them, but that didn't mean he couldn't use his eyes and ears. Indeed, they'd encouraged him to do that, so what could he see?

His gaze returned to Arthur and Peter, currently standing in a tight knot to one side and discussing some subject with Lord Iffey. Judging by the glances they darted at Lady Meriwell and their serious expressions, the trio were evaluating the situation in a furtive manner they hoped would not be noticed by her ladyship.

Faint hope, that.

Regardless, Peregrine received the clear impression that both younger men were worried. What about was impossible to guess, but what did they have to fear, hmm?

Realistically, however, neither Arthur nor Peter struck Peregrine as having the stomach for murder, especially not the rather gruesome act of poisoning their uncle at his own dinner table. To Peregrine, that seemed a particularly dastardly act.

He shifted his attention to Lord Iffey. Given the man's solicitous behavior toward Lady Meriwell, it wasn't difficult to concoct a fantasy of Iffey carrying a torch for her ladyship for uncounted years.

Carrying a torch, yes. Fond and being close, yes. But to Peregrine's eyes, the elderly pair were the epitome of very old friends, deeply comfortable in each other's company. Even if their friendship had evolved into something deeper, could he imagine Iffey poisoning his old friend over the dinner table in order to claim that old friend's wife?

Peregrine considered the prospect. He knew such motives existed and that they could be extremely powerful, but he couldn't quite see why, if Iffey had been so murderously inclined, he would have waited so long and then acted now, when there was company at the Hall.

That made little sense, and Peregrine set Lord Iffey and her ladyship aside as unlikely suspects.

He shifted his gaze to those at the other end of the room. He skated over his parents, both of whom were doing their best to appear patient with the proceedings and altogether detached from them. In short, they were endeavoring to pretend that everything was more or less normal, which in situations like this was the way people like them behaved; it was, in effect, their way of supporting Lady Meriwell and Stephen by "doing the right thing."

Peregrine focused on his sister, who was standing and conversing in low tones with Stephen and Sophie.

Peregrine considered Sophie Meriwell to be a rather flaky sort, liable to act in some outrageous manner at any moment and for no apparent reason. From what little he'd seen of her, she appeared far too enamored of her own drama, a condition he read as her constantly wanting attention—constant attention—paid to her.

Nevertheless, at present, she seemed rather subdued, and from the way her gaze kept drifting to the door, she was concerned over what might walk through it…

Ah, right. Sophie hadn't been interviewed by the investigators yet.

Peregrine wondered if her being at the end of the list meant anything and decided he as yet knew too little of the investigators' ways to make anything of it.

Refocusing on the group including Sophie, he switched his attention to his sister and hid a smile behind his cup. To his educated eyes, Persimone was battling to rein in her curiosity and merely ask questions that were sufficiently innocuous to pass social muster.

Peregrine made a mental note to ask Persimone later what the investigators had asked her and tease out whether she'd learned or sensed anything he hadn't.

His mind drifted to the investigators. An odd and unexpected trio and definitely not what he had expected. That said, he'd got the definite impression that the three were accustomed to working together and had a very good grasp of what they were about. There'd been an almost seamless understanding of who would ask what, and they hadn't trod on each other's toes, not at any point.

All three were, Peregrine judged, highly intelligent, and while the inspector, Stokes, might be the legal anchor, Peregrine suspected that, in a situation such as this, the other two possessed certain society-based skills that Stokes could not possibly have. All in all, Peregrine could see that the trio made a formidable team.

He could certainly understand why Persimone was so intrigued, not to say fascinated and curious about them and how they operated.

He finished the bun and licked his fingers, then sipped the last of his tea. His gaze returned to Stephen and lingered. Peregrine could usually tell how he felt about a person, especially a gentleman, in short order, but he honestly could not make up his mind about Stephen Meriwell.

That, in itself, was strange. It was as if he couldn't quite get a handle on who Stephen Meriwell was.

Perhaps that was Peregrine's own lack of experience talking.

With an inward grunt, he acknowledged that was entirely possible.

But in terms of the investigation, Stephen seemed entirely calm, waiting and watching as all of them were and, in his case, showing no signs of perturbation or concern.

Stephen's self-assurance was easy to read, and within that, there was not a sliver of anything resembling guilt.

Accepting that, Peregrine swung his gaze back to where he'd started his survey of suspects—to the group including Arthur and Peter.

In terms of poisoning Lord Meriwell, they remained the standout candidates.

So, Peregrine asked himself, which one had found the gumption to actually do the deed?

Sophie Meriwell sat in the chair before the desk in the library and stared at Penelope, Stokes, and Barnaby.

For this interview, Penelope sat in the center, in the admiral's chair, the better to be the principal questioner. Observing how Sophie was gripping the chair's arms with both hands, with her knees pressed together and her feet flat to the floor—as if she was poised to leap up and flee—Penelope considered their arrangement wise. She would need to keep Sophie's focus on her, to Sophie the least frightening person behind the desk.

Veronica had told them that Sophie was eighteen, and with her lustrous sable tresses, presently arranged in a fashionable and appealing style, her large brown eyes framed by lush lashes, and a fine-complexioned face of elfin cast, she would likely make her mark once she emerged into the ton.

To Penelope's mind, Sophie resembled a trapped butterfly, one newly hatched but, to this point, not allowed to fly free. The girl's fluttery, rather flighty movements and gestures added to the image. Her gray gown was à la mode, but youthful in style and, with its several ribbon-edged flounces, gave an impression that edged toward the frivolous.

One notable aspect of her appearance was the evidence of tears in her red-rimmed eyes; of all those they'd interviewed, other than her grandmother, she was the only one to bear physical signs of sorrow.

That, however, was to be expected; Sophie was undeniably young. From the tension that gripped her and the way she surreptitiously bit her lower lip, it was patently obvious that she was entirely unsure how she should behave. How she should react to the situation she found herself in. Confusion and uncertainty were readily discernible in her brown eyes.

Deeming it wise to reassure her, Penelope smiled understandingly. "We'd just like you to tell us what you remember of the evening in question, starting from the gathering in the drawing room." When Sophie didn't immediately respond, Penelope prompted, "Where was your grandfather when you entered the room. Was he already there?"

Sophie nodded. "Yes. I was the last down. Grandpapa was speaking with the Busseltons." She frowned and went on, "He seemed angry about something, but trying to hide it given we had guests."

"Do you have any idea what he was angry about?" Penelope asked.

Sophie shook her head. "He wasn't often angry—not like that, or at least not to that extent—and I was mystified as to what had caused it. He wasn't angry earlier in the day."

Penelope nodded and took Sophie through the movement of the company into the dining room. Her account was reasonably fulsome and matched the previous reports.

"Once your grandfather came in and sat at the head of the table, it seems he glared down the table, apparently toward you."

"Yes!" Sophie grew animated and sat straighter in the chair. "He did! It was quite distressing."

Penelope blinked, then asked, "Do you have any idea why he might have been glaring your way?"

"No!" Sophie all but wailed. "That was what made it so distressing!" She met Penelope's gaze directly. "He usually only glares like that at Arthur or Peter, and I was racking my brain as to why he could possibly be glaring at me in that way. He never normally did."

The genuineness of her confusion and puzzlement was written on her face.

Gently, Penelope suggested, "Might your grandfather's attitude have something to do with the argument between you about you going to London for the Season? We understand you and he disagreed strongly over that."

"Indeed, we did!" Sophie flared up like tinder to which a spark had been applied. Her features firmed into stubborn lines, her chin hardening with determination. "Can you imagine?" She appealed to Penelope. "He refused—categorically refused!—to allow me to go up for the Season this year. I'm already eighteen! Other girls make their come-outs when they're younger, but I agreed to wait until I was eighteen, and then he refused!"

Penelope shut her lips, not wanting to interrupt the pending tirade; tirades could be revealing.

Sophie duly rolled on, "I argued and argued, but he wouldn't be moved!" She fell silent, her expression close to a scowl as she dwelled on her grandsire's iniquities, then confusion once more overtook her features, and frowning in puzzlement, she looked at Penelope. "But surely, if that was the cause, then it should have been me glaring at him—not him glaring at me."

Penelope stared at Sophie's lost-and-confused expression and wondered why they hadn't realized that themselves. Holding Sophie's puzzled gaze, Penelope inclined her head. "You're correct. It can't have been that subject that your grandfather was reacting to."

"Well, then." Sophie continued to frown as she pondered the point. "As I said, Grandpapa only glares at Arthur and Peter like that—in that particular way—but they were on the other side of the table. It was me and Stephen on our side, and I can't imagine why he was glaring at me. I hadn't done anything…" She broke off, then in a choked voice rushed on, "And then he picked up his glass and drank, and… oh!"

Her hands flew to her face.

"Just so." Ruthlessly, Penelope cut off any impending hysterics. "Now, after your grandfather collapsed." She continued in a firm, clear voice, leading Sophie through the subsequent actions.

Forced to follow and respond to Penelope's simple questions, Sophie calmed.

When Penelope asked what Sophie had done after the company had returned to the drawing room, Sophie replied, "We all sat around for several minutes, no one knowing what else to do, then Peter said he was going to go and check to see if there was any news. He left, but didn't come back. I think he probably went for a drink. I kept thinking of Grandpapa—the look on his face as he choked—he was looking toward me, as you know, and it was simply dreadful, and I started to feel ill, so I excused myself and said I'd go up to my room, and I left. I knew by then that any news wouldn't be good—that Grandpapa was dead—and I was trying hard not to think about any of it. It was all too…well, overwhelming ."

"Did you go straight to your room?" Stokes dared to ask.

Sophie glanced at him and nodded. "Yes. And I rang for Sally as soon as I got there. She came up straightaway and helped me undress and get into bed."

"You didn't see anyone else on the stairs or in the corridors?" Stokes asked.

Sophie shook her head. "No one. I think the others must still have been in Grandpapa's room."

Stokes nodded in acceptance and continued to keep his gaze on his notebook.

Barnaby caught Sophie's gaze and smiled gently, encouragingly. "Was there anything you noticed about anyone else that evening—family, staff, or guests—that seemed odd or strange to you?"

Her brow furrowed in thought, but after several moments, she shook her head. "No. Truth to tell, I can't remember much about what other people did. It was so deeply shocking that I wasn't really thinking about anything but Grandpapa dying." With that, her attitude—her posture in the chair, her spine, her shoulders, her entire being—seemed to wilt into despondency. "I really don't know what will happen now that Grandpapa is gone. I won't even be able to have a proper Season next year, because I'll still be in half mourning."

Penelope shared a brief glance with Barnaby, then she looked at Sophie and blandly said, "Thank you, Miss Meriwell. I believe that will be all. You're free to go."

Barnaby rose and walked around the desk.

After a brief frown at Penelope's crisp dismissal and her lack of appreciation for the invitation to further dramatize Sophie's future, Sophie decided it was better to leave. She rose and allowed Barnaby to usher her to the door.

After he closed the door and turned back to the room, Penelope blew out a breath. "That," she declared, "was a close call. Any encouragement, and we would have had a full-blown display of her histrionic abilities."

Barnaby smiled at his wife. "You handled her quite well, I thought."

"Rather you than me." Stokes dropped his notebook on the desk. "So who do we speak with next?"

They decided to speak with David and Veronica about how the poison got into the wine glass.

As the pair settled in the chairs before the desk, Stokes explained, "We thought that before we speak with the staff, we should ask if you have any ideas about how, exactly, the poison might have been put into the glass so we can adjust our questions accordingly."

Jensen had followed the pair in, carrying a fresh teapot and a plate of buns.

As the butler straightened from arranging the tray on the desk, Penelope said, "Jensen, I know time is getting on and soon the staff will need to prepare for dinner, and we're sorry to have to interrupt, but some questions need to be asked today and not later."

"We, the staff, quite understand, ma'am." Jensen met her gaze. "His lordship was a good master, always fair and generally even-tempered, and there's not one member of the staff who are happy that his time as master of Meriwell Hall was cut short in such a way. You will find all of us eager to assist in bringing his murderer to justice."

Penelope inclined her head. "We will call you as soon as we're ready."

Jensen bowed and withdrew, leaving Penelope filling and refilling cups while Barnaby passed around the buns.

Once everyone was supplied, Stokes sat back and looked at David. "Give us your thoughts on how the poison could have been placed in that wine glass."

David glanced at Veronica. "While you've been busy with your interviews, we've been investigating just that, and to begin with, it now seems certain that the poison was only in Lord Meriwell's glass."

"The other glasses were clean?" Penelope asked.

David nodded. "In order to cause such a rapid reaction in the victim, the poison had to have been in concentrated form, and so only a few drops would have been needed in the glass, and concentrated prussic acid is colorless."

Stokes nodded. "A few drops, and no one would notice."

"Exactly." Veronica lowered her teacup. "Jensen is quite meticulous, and if there'd been any liquid visible in the bottom of the glass, he would not have poured the wine."

"But a few drops in a crystal goblet wouldn't have been detectable," Barnaby said.

"That," David said, "is why we believe it must have been done that way—just a few drops of concentrated liquid dripped into the glass as the murderer passed by."

"Also, and you should check this with the staff," Veronica said, "it seems likely the poison could not have been placed in the glass ahead of the company entering the dining room. Usually, the glasses are set out by the footmen only minutes before Jensen leaves to summon the company, and the footmen generally remain in the dining room during the intervening minutes."

"And all our suspects were in the drawing room anyway," Stokes pointed out.

"Indeed," David nodded. "So the upshot is that we believe the poison was dripped into the glass—it would have taken less than a second, literally—by one of the company as they milled around the table prior to taking their seats."

"And by all accounts, mill they did." Penelope grimaced. "Given the room's dimensions, where they each sat, and the order they came into the dining room, they would have had to jostle past each other in order to get to their seats."

Barnaby arched his brows. "So essentially, we have murder by sleight of hand. The murderer knew enough to take the risk?—"

"Not," Penelope interjected, "that it was that much of a risk given people would have been talking and therefore looking at each other's faces and others would have been pointing across the table at chairs—arms would have been extended over the table at various moments, all apparently innocently."

"Indeed." Barnaby inclined his head. "But my point was that our murderer knew—could guess and expect—that to be the case."

"Ah." Penelope adjusted her glasses. "You mean he was a local as it were."

Stokes humphed. "On the basis of our theory of how the poison got into the glass, we can cross George Busselton off the suspect list, but no one else."

"However," Barnaby said, "it's difficult to see how the other three Busseltons would have known about the cramped conditions of the Meriwell Hall dining room."

"It's also hard—or at least more convoluted—to devise a motive for Mrs. Busselton, Persimone, or Peregrine," Penelope added.

"Agreed." Stokes set down his empty cup and saucer and looked at Penelope and Barnaby. "Let's see if the staff can add any more details to our picture of how Lord Meriwell was poisoned."