Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

T he following morning, Veronica was still smiling in besotted fashion as she started down the service stair, heading for breakfast in the servants' hall.

She was two steps above the first-floor landing when an earsplitting scream rent the morning's peace.

Veronica froze. Her smile vanished, and her heart thudded twice, then she hauled in a breath, rushed down to the landing, and pushed through the service door, emerging at the end of the first-floor corridor.

The scream had come from somewhere along there, and although subsiding in volume, continuing sounds led her to Sophie's room.

The door was not quite shut.

Veronica pushed it wide, stepped inside, and halted.

Sally, with both hands clapped over her lips in an ineffectual attempt to mute the half shrieks, half whimpers that spilled from her, was backing, step by slow step, away from the four-poster bed.

Veronica's gaze shot to the bed.

To the figure beneath the covers.

Sophie lay on her back with her eyes closed and her arms stretched to either side. She appeared to be serenely sleeping, but her color…

Veronica pushed past Sally and rushed to the bed. She reached for Sophie's wrist, but even before her fingers touched the too-cool skin, she knew it was too late.

"Oh no." She stared at the still features, then releasing Sophie's wrist, stepped back.

On the bedside table sat a tray with a cup of hot chocolate and a plate of buttered toast upon it. Sally had brought up the tray, then tried to wake Sophie and discovered…

Veronica turned and went to Sally. "Here." Gently, Veronica closed her hands around Sally's shoulders and steered the maid to a straight-backed chair set against the wall. "Sit."

Gulping, Sally sat. Tears swamped her eyes, and her cries had muted to shaky whimpers.

Hearing the thunder of approaching footsteps—most of the staff would have been downstairs, and the family and guests in nearby rooms would have been asleep—and judging that Sally wasn't about to descend into hysterics, Veronica returned to the doorway.

The first to arrive— thank God —was David.

He'd been given a room in the opposite wing and had plainly dallied only to throw on his clothes before racing there. He took one look at Veronica's expression, and his features set. Without a word, she stepped back and let him into the room.

David glanced at the bed, then said to Veronica, "Keep the others out. We need to send for Stokes and the Adairs."

She nodded and moved to bar the doorway.

As David made for the bed, he heard her relay the order to summon Stokes and the Adairs from the Angel Inn with all speed. From the sound of the reply, it was the younger footman, Thomas, who dashed off to carry the message.

The chintz curtains hadn't been drawn around the bed but left looped and tied to the four posts, leaving the occupant readily visible. To David's educated eyes, Sophie was dead and had been for some hours. Her features were inert, and her skin had taken on a grayish hue. For the record, he checked for a pulse in her wrist, then in her throat, but her skin was so cold it was obvious death had claimed her in the small hours of the night.

A brown bottle with an apothecary's label stood on the bedside table on the other side of the bed. A folded sheet of paper lay beside the bottle. David couldn't read the label across the width of the bed, but he didn't recognize the bottle.

The burgeoning cacophony at the door intruded, and he heard Veronica explaining to Jensen and others that it seemed Sophie had died and that Stokes had been sent for. Then more-commanding voices joined the chorus of questions, and his lips tightening, David turned and crossed the room to Veronica's side.

Instantly, all attention—expectant, apprehensive, and in some cases, almost ghoulish—swung his way.

Stephen Meriwell asked, "What's happened? Has Sophie been taken ill?"

Without inflection, David stated, "It appears that Sophie passed away during the night."

Veronica had said the same, but him saying it made it real and uncontestable.

The crowd fell silent, some sucking in shocked breaths.

From the rear, Peregrine Busselton asked, "How did she die? Was it poison again?"

Calmly, David responded, "At this time, I can't say, but I do know that Inspector Stokes, who is on his way to the house, would not want anyone else coming into the room prior to him and the Adairs examining the scene."

Veronica looked at Stephen. "Perhaps, Mr. Meriwell, you might escort Miss Busselton and Mr. Busselton downstairs to await developments."

David backed the suggestion with a decided nod. "Please do not spread the news at this point. Once I've spoken to the inspector, I will break the news to her ladyship myself."

Stephen and Arthur, who had joined the group in time to hear Peregrine's question, looked relieved that they would not have to perform that duty.

Jensen said, "Perhaps I should leave Jeremy here, sir—outside the door—to make sure no one thinks to venture inside."

David nodded. "An excellent idea. I'm sure Stokes will take charge once he gets here."

"Indeed, sir. We'll direct the inspector and the Adairs up as soon as they arrive." Jensen bent a severe eye on the maids, grooms, and other staff who had gathered, and reluctantly, they dispersed. Under David's gaze, Stephen and Arthur gathered the Busseltons—both still trying to sneak looks past Veronica and David at the bed—and herded the pair toward the main stairs.

David reached for the door and, when Veronica stepped back, firmly shut it. He glanced at the maid, who was sniffling but looked to have calmed, then caught Veronica's eye and tipped his head toward the far side of the bed. Quietly, he said, "Come and tell me what you know about this."

Puzzled, she followed him around the bed.

He stood back so she could see what was on the bedside table.

Her gaze fell on the brown bottle and the folded note, and her puzzlement turned into a frown. "What on earth's that?"

She walked forward and picked up the brown bottle, angling it so the light from the window fell on the label.

David drew closer so that he could read the small, typed letters, too.

"Good Lord." Veronica met his eyes. "It's high-strength laudanum."

He frowned. "I thought I gave orders that none of that was to be kept in the house."

"You did, and there's none of this concentration in the drugs cabinet in the still room." Veronica tipped the label more to the light and squinted to read the tiny print along the bottom. "This is from Melchoir's Apothecary in the Strand."

They both stared at the bottle. Melchoir's was one of the larger apothecary emporiums in the capital.

David shook his head. "How did she…?"

"I can't imagine." Veronica set down the bottle and picked up the note.

It was a sheet of letter paper of the rag-pressed sort that young ladies favored and had been folded in half.

She unfolded it, scanned it, and frowning anew, reported, "There's really only one line. It says, ‘I'm so very sorry.' And then comes her signature. ‘Sophie.'"

Frowning in even greater puzzlement, Veronica lowered the sheet. She looked at the bottle, then met David's eyes. "This makes no sense."

His lips compressed, David nodded. "But now that I know what I'm looking at…" He turned to the bed. "I'll do a more detailed examination while we're waiting for our investigators."

Penelope was grimly shaking her head when she walked into Sophie's room. "I can't believe it! Why kill Sophie?"

Immediately, Sally, until then sitting morose and silent on the chair against the wall, let out a wail, then mortified, gulped and blurted, "She did it! She took her own life!"

Barnaby and Stokes had followed Penelope into the room, and Stokes promptly shut the door on the no-doubt-interested footman standing in the corridor.

Along with Barnaby and Stokes, Penelope walked closer to the bed. They spent several moments silently studying the still figure, then all three turned inquiring gazes on David and Veronica, who were standing before the window and had clearly been waiting for them.

With her hands clasped at her waist, Veronica began, "Sally"—she nodded at the maid, busily dabbing at her eyes—"brought up Sophie's breakfast tray as usual, set down the tray, tried to wake Sophie, and found her unresponsive. Sally screamed. I was on my way down the servants' stair, so I was close and came running. I checked Sophie in case there was any hope, but she was already gone."

"I arrived about that time." David took up the tale. "I, too, checked for a pulse, but there was none. In my opinion, Sophie has been dead for at least six hours, possibly more."

Stokes was jotting in his notebook. "Cause of death?"

"As to that…" David glanced at the side of the bed closer to him and Veronica. "You'd better examine what we found left on the bedside table."

When he waved in that direction, Penelope bustled around the bed, with Barnaby and Stokes on her heels. She spied the bottle and note on the table and eagerly went forward.

She picked up the bottle and held it up to the light. Her excellent spectacles made reading even the tiniest print easy. "Maximum-strength laudanum from Melchoir's in the Strand." She handed the bottle to Barnaby and picked up the note.

She read the single sentence and frowned. She turned the letter and inspected the back, but it was free of marks. She flipped it over and studied the writing through narrowing eyes. "Hmm." She handed the note to Barnaby, adjusted her spectacles, and looked at Veronica and David, who were waiting for their reactions. "The letter is odd," Penelope declared. "As a suicide note—if that's what we're supposed to believe it to be—it lacks several indicators."

Stokes had been studying the bottle. He cocked a brow at David. "In your opinion, is this what killed her?"

David replied, "While waiting for you, I conducted a thorough examination. For the record, it's my opinion that Sophie died of an overdose of laudanum." With his head, he indicated the bottle. "Exactly what would have happened had she been dosed with what should have been in that bottle. That said, obviously, I cannot swear that it was the contents of that particular bottle that she ingested and that killed her."

Stokes grimaced. He pocketed the bottle and accepted the note from Barnaby. He glanced at it, then looked at Penelope. "You're our writing expert. What's your verdict on this?"

She wrinkled her nose. "I can't claim to be an expert on suicide notes. However, several things strike me as unusual. First, the layout of the note is not conventional. If you were to sit down and write that sentence as your suicide note, you would almost certainly start with some form of salutation, and even if you didn't, you would almost certainly start the sentence farther down the page. Instead, this sentence is written at the top of the page. She also doesn't state what she is sorry about. I assume we're meant to leap to the conclusion that she's apologizing for poisoning her grandfather, but this letter doesn't say so. If you were going to confess to poisoning your grandfather, wouldn't you write more than that? And last, she signs it simply ‘Sophie.'" Penelope stared at the note in Stokes's hand. "Most people would consider their final letter to the world to be worthy of their full name. If that truly was her suicide note, then I would have expected her to sign it as Sophie Meriwell, at the very least."

Struck by a thought, Penelope frowned and looked at Veronica. "Are we sure this is Sophie's handwriting?"

Veronica came forward, took the note and studied it, then said, "I think it is, but I've not been here long enough to have seen her writing sufficiently to be sure."

She raised her head and looked at Sally, then crossed to stand before the maid. "Sally, pull yourself together. This is important." She waited until Sally sat up and, somewhat trepidatiously, looked at her.

Penelope had followed Veronica. "Sally, we need you to look at this letter, but you absolutely must keep what you see as well as all that you hear us say to yourself. All right?"

Eyes widening, Sally nodded. "Yes, ma'am." She glanced at Veronica. "I'm ready to help if I can."

Veronica found an encouraging smile. "You've seen Miss Sophie's writing before, haven't you?"

Sally nodded. "Often enough. She's often writing away when I'm around."

"I thought so." Veronica held out the letter. "Is this Miss Sophie's writing?"

Sally took the sheet and studied the words. "I think it is, but I couldn't swear to it. But the thing I can swear to is that this is Miss Sophie's letter paper." Sally held up the sheet. "See how it's faintly pink?" She held the letter to her nose. "And there's a faint rose scent to it, too." Sally handed the paper back to Veronica. "There's more of that particular paper in the top drawer of her desk."

Barnaby was already on his way to the lady's desk set before the second window. He drew out the top drawer, looked inside, then turned to the others. "Sally's correct. There's a small stack of that paper here."

Penelope glanced at Stokes. "That's good enough, I think, to say that Sophie wrote the letter. The point I would, at this stage, take issue with is the notion that she wrote it as a suicide note."

"So you're saying," Stokes clarified, "that this is not a suicide but…what? An accident? Or another murder?"

"The latter," David said. When the others, including Sally, looked his way, he went on, "That bottle of laudanum is not one I've ever prescribed for anyone in this house. Indeed, when I first took over his lordship's care about five years ago, I visited and checked the drug cabinet, and I got rid of all the old drugs, and that included the high-strength laudanum that the local doctor had previously prescribed for Sophie. And those bottles came from a local dispensary in Kingston, so this bottle isn't one that Sophie had somehow secreted away."

Veronica added, "And I can verify that it's not from any current household stock. I hold the keys to the drug cabinet, and as of yesterday evening, when I last looked, everything there was as usual and nothing had been added or was missing."

"So," Stokes asked, "how did this bottle turn up here, in Sophie's room?"

David said, "I can't imagine how she could have laid hands on it."

"Especially not coming from Melchoir's." Penelope looked at Stokes. "That's such a busy shop with such a large clientele, I don't like your chances of tracing who bought such a bottle recently, much less not so recently."

Stokes sighed. "So we have a note that might not be a suicide note and a bottle of the drug that most likely brought about Sophie's death, but we can't see how she might have got hold of it."

His expression bleak yet intent, Barnaby had been gazing at the body. Now he looked at David and arched a brow. "There were no signs of violence on the body?"

David blinked, then shook his head. "No. None. But there wouldn't have been if she'd taken the drug herself."

Barnaby nodded. "That's my point. The note is ambiguous—it could indicate suicide, or it could indicate murder. The bottle, however, suggests murder, not suicide. However, it seems she took the drug willingly, which bolsters the case for suicide."

"Ah." David's expression blanked.

"Oh." Veronica looked as if she saw some light.

But it was Sally who, in a small voice, said, "It must've been in her cocoa."

Veronica nodded. "Sorry. We didn't mention that Sophie was in the habit of taking a small dose of laudanum— very small—in her cocoa every night. She insisted she needed it to help her sleep." Veronica exchanged a resigned look with David. "Whether she truly did or not is open to debate, but Sophie liked to think of herself as fragile, so she was adamant that she needed it every night."

Stokes was scribbling again. "How was the drug—her usual dose—put into the cocoa?"

"It was added directly to the mug of cocoa, by me, every night." Veronica went on, "For instance, last night, Sally brought the mug of cocoa to the still room, where I keep the household's stock of laudanum under lock and key. Her ladyship occasionally has need of it, too, but the stock we hold is very much more dilute than the solution that would have been in the bottle we found here."

David sighed. "Her grandparents were always concerned that in one of her dramatic flights, Sophie might take it into her head to stage"—he waved at the bed—"well, a scene much like this one. So his lordship had a new cabinet installed to keep any potentially dangerous drugs under lock and key."

Barnaby asked, "So what happened next, after you added the correct dose to the cocoa?"

Veronica looked across the room at Sally. "Sally left, taking the cocoa, and I locked up the cabinet and the still room."

Barnaby smiled encouragingly at Sally, who was looking exceedingly uncertain.

Penelope had been watching the maid. "Don't be frightened. No one is blaming or is likely to blame you. Just tell us what happened from the time you went to make up the cocoa."

Finding herself the focus of everyone's attention, Sally sat straighter in the chair, then said, "I went down to the kitchen and put the milk to warm on the stove, then fetched a mug from the sideboard in the servants' hall."

"Was it a particular mug?" Penelope asked. "One only Miss Sophie used?"

"No, ma'am. It was just one of the mugs the family uses for such drinks." When Penelope nodded, Sally went on, "I took the mug to the kitchen and got the cocoa powder from the pantry and added that to the mug, then when the milk was ready, I poured that in and stirred and stirred, like you have to."

Being fond of hot cocoa herself, Penelope nodded in understanding. "And once the cocoa was ready?"

"I took the mug to the still room for Nurse Haskell to add the laudanum." Sally looked at Veronica. "The still room's in the basement, and she was there, as usual, and put the stuff in, just as usual."

Penelope glanced at Veronica. "How did you know to be at the still room?"

"It's always the same time," Veronica replied. "Sally arrives at the still room just after ten o'clock. Making up Sophie's cocoa and delivering it to her room is the last duty each of us performs every night."

Sally nodded in agreement.

"So," Barnaby said, "you now have the cup of correctly dosed cocoa on your tray, and you leave the still room in the basement. What did you do next?"

"I came up here by the servants' stair." Sally tipped her head to the left. "It comes up at the end of the corridor. I carried the tray with the mug to Miss Sophie's door, knocked, and when Miss Sophie said to come in, I opened the door and walked in."

"Where was Miss Sophie?" Barnaby asked.

Sally looked toward the writing desk. "She was where she usually was at that time of an evening, sitting at the desk, writing. I put the tray—it's a small one—on the corner of the desk, just like I always do. I asked her if there was anything else she needed—she was already changed and ready for bed—and she said no, I could go. So I did."

"Did Miss Sophie appear overly sleepy or drugged to you at that time?" Penelope asked.

Sally shook her head. "No. She looked like she always did at that time. Still wide-awake."

"Was anyone else in the room?" Stokes asked.

"No," Sally replied. "Just Miss Sophie."

"Did you see anyone in the corridor when you left?" Barnaby asked.

Again, Sally shook her head. "There didn't seem to be anyone about."

Stokes glanced at Veronica. "We'll need to check the household cabinet and the stock it contains." He glanced at the others. "But assuming the drug that killed Sophie didn't come from the household stock, and she didn't knowingly add it herself, then it must have been—somehow—slipped into her cocoa by someone she allowed into her room after Sally left." He looked at David. "There's no sign that she was forced to drink the doctored cocoa, but wouldn't she have noticed a difference in taste?"

David grimaced. "Yes, the cocoa with a greater amount of laudanum would have tasted more bitter, but taste is a funny thing. Sophie had been accustomed to drinking laudanum in her cocoa for many years—long before I took over her care and reduced the dosage. The local man started her on it when she was barely thirteen and at a much higher dose, albeit still less than that used to kill her. To Sophie, the increased bitterness, assuming she registered it, might even have tasted better."

Stokes nodded and made several notes.

Barnaby shifted. "All the aspects of Sophie's death, which is looking increasingly like murder, once again underscore that our murderer—and I believe we're on solid ground in assuming we have one murderer who has now killed twice—is a member of the family." He pulled a face. "Or Lord Iffey. It has to be someone familiar with Sophie's nighttime routine."

Penelope was looking around. "Where's the mug?"

Sally leaned forward, peering at the desk. "I don't see it. Or the small tray. They should be waiting on the desk for me to collect."

They all looked at each other, then started searching.

It didn't take them long to confirm that neither the mug of cocoa—most likely the vessel carrying what amounted to poison for Sophie—or the small tray were there.

Penelope huffed. "Could our murderer be any more obvious in declaring he's the one behind this? We now have two vanishing vessels-used-to-poison."

Muted voices reached them through the door.

Stokes sighed. "I suspect we've run out of time to stand here and speculate."

"I think that's Iffey outside." David glanced at Veronica. "I'd better go and break the news to Lady Meriwell."

"If you would," Stokes said, "that would likely be best." He glanced at the bed, and his features firmed into stoic lines. "What about the body?"

David confirmed that he'd completed his examination, and they agreed that the body should be removed to the laundry room and laid out with Lord Meriwell.

"Mrs. Hutchinson will see to it." Veronica looked at Sally. "Sally, if you would remain here until Mrs. Hutchinson arrives?"

Dully, Sally nodded. "I'll keep watch, miss."

Stokes tapped his pencil on his notebook, then glanced at Veronica. "Unless you feel you need to go with David, I should look at the still room as soon as possible."

Veronica exchanged a fleeting look with David, then nodded. "I'll take you there now."

They left Sally staring morosely at the bed. On emerging from the room, they saw Lord Iffey retreating down the corridor, and David strode off to join him and go on to her ladyship's room.

Stokes paused to give the footman, Thomas, orders to convey to Mrs. Hutchinson, and once Thomas had hurried off, Veronica led Stokes, Barnaby, and Penelope in the footman's wake.

They descended the servants' stair past the ground floor and on to the basement.

Although the air down there was cool, it was also dry. Veronica led them along a corridor to a sturdy door, which was locked. As she searched for the right key on the ring she pulled from her pocket, she said, "Only Mrs. Hutchinson, Jensen, and I have keys to this room. It's always kept locked unless one of us is in here."

Stokes made an approving noise.

Once the door was unlocked, Veronica opened it, and she, Penelope, and Barnaby went inside.

Stokes paused at the door to check the lock. When he straightened and saw the others looking his way, he stated, "No one's tried to pick or force the lock."

Veronica showed them the metal drug cabinet, then unlocked it and drew out the bottle of laudanum stored there and held it up to check the level. She nodded and handed Penelope the bottle. "This is the laudanum I use for Sophie or her ladyship. I keep a ledger of the doses dispensed"—she pointed to a small book tucked inside the cabinet—"and that's the correct amount still left in the bottle. I check the level every night, and it hasn't changed since last night."

Penelope turned the bottle over and around. It was another brown bottle, but of a different style to the one in Sophie's room, and was about half full.

Penelope handed the bottle to Stokes, and after he and Barnaby had examined it, they returned the bottle to Veronica, and she put it back in the cabinet. As she closed and locked the door, she added, "As far as I know, that's the only laudanum the household has. As David mentioned, there was a reason we all felt it best to keep the stuff under lock and key."

Stokes subjected the cabinet to a cursory inspection, but it, too, was entirely undamaged. "Right." He looked at the others. "I think we can deem the laudanum used to drug and effectively murder Sophie to have come from somewhere other than the household stock."

They nodded in agreement.

"Let's head back to the library," Barnaby suggested. "We need some time and space to think."

No one disagreed. After Veronica had relocked the still room door, they trooped up the stairs to the front hall and continued to the library.

They'd barely fallen into the armchairs near the fireplace when David opened the door, saw them, and came in. He drew up another chair and joined the circle. He sighed as he sank into it. "Her ladyship is understandably overset. The good news is that she doesn't wish to be sedated, and I see no reason to insist. She's in reasonably sound health, and Iffey is with her. For what it's worth, both seemed sincerely shocked and stunned at the news of Sophie's death."

Stokes studied David. "Did they ask how she died?"

David nodded. "I told them she'd died of an overdose, and I also felt I had to say that at this juncture, there was no reason to believe she'd committed suicide." His lips twisted in a grimace. "Luckily, neither were in any state to question me further as to whether that meant it was murder or not."

Grimly, Stokes said, "Sophie being murdered is bad enough. It wouldn't be kind to allow them to imagine it was suicide if it wasn't."

David let out a breath. "Exactly." He paused, then added, "Jensen mentioned that Stephen, Arthur, Peter, and the Busseltons have sensibly broken their fast and are now waiting, not entirely patiently, in the drawing room. As for Wishpole, apparently, he was more affected by the news—more deeply shocked. Jensen has settled him in a parlor, out of the way, and is keeping an eye on him."

"Right," Stokes said. "We'll go and speak with everyone shortly, but first, I'd like to get some idea of how we all see this."

"Meaning," Penelope asked in a faintly disgusted tone, "do we believe Sophie's death was suicide? Or was it murder made to look like suicide?"

Barnaby raised a hand. "My vote is for the latter."

David nodded. "As is mine."

"And mine," Veronica firmly said.

Regarding them, Penelope tipped her head. "Just to play devil's advocate—which I hope will shore up our reasons for believing as we do—if Sophie had, indeed, poisoned her grandfather, then fallen into a funk and committed suicide by way of atonement, how did she get either poison? The cyanide for his lordship and the high-strength laudanum for herself?"

"Her having such poisons screams premeditation," Barnaby pointed out, "which does not fit with anything we've learned of Sophie."

Penelope nodded. "Indeed. But did she, for instance, go up to London recently?"

"No," David answered. "She's been stuck here, quite literally, for a year and more. That was a large part of her gripe against his lordship."

"Very well," Penelope said. "But did she have a bosom-bow in London, a close friend she wrote to constantly, whom she might have prevailed upon to obtain and send or bring her such poisons?"

"I remember her complaining that she hadn't had anyone her age visit here since last autumn," Veronica said. "I can't see Sophie planning anything that far from execution."

"No." Penelope thought, then stated, "I believe we can answer our Lucifer's advocate's questions." She focused on Stokes. "Sophie was murdered. She was our murderer's second victim, and presumably, she was killed to provide our murderer with a scapegoat."

Barnaby nodded. "If Veronica and David hadn't been here—on site to examine the body and understand the dosages of laudanum—then the chances are the murderer might well have got his wish."

"Hmm. I believe," Penelope said, "that the murderer hoped his lordship's murder would be put down to old age, but if it wasn't—as it wasn't—then he came prepared to offer Sophie up as the sacrificial scapegoat to appease the gods of justice."

Stokes grunted. "Very poetic, but essentially on point."

"And," Barnaby said, "we still have two missing vessels—his lordship's wine glass and Sophie's mug."

David stirred. "Wishpole turned up yesterday, by which time our murderer knew his lordship's murder wasn't going to be dismissed as natural causes. It's possible our murderer thought that Wishpole could have information that might have inclined us to look more closely at him—the murderer—so he enacted his back-up plan and threw the authorities a ready-made, self-confessed murderess in Sophie." David glanced around their circle. "He hopes we'll all swallow the story and go away."

Everyone agreed.

"Yet it's interesting," Barnaby said, "that he came prepared with both cyanide and high-strength laudanum."

Stokes nodded. "That suggests that Sophie's death was always a part of the murderer's plan regardless of Wishpole turning up. He—the murderer—always intended to kill Lord Meriwell and follow up by casting Sophie as the murderer. To our villain's mind, that would end the investigation and leave him free and unencumbered to enjoy his ill-gotten gains, whatever those might be."

"All of that," Penelope said, "confirms that the murderer, whichever of our suspects he is, is still here, in the house."

"And most likely," Stokes said with a small, feral smile, "he's waiting for us in the drawing room." He glanced at the others. "I suggest it's time we speak with the assembled company." He looked at David. "Is her ladyship well enough to join the gathering?"

"I can't say as to well enough, but I believe she will want to be present." David rose and glanced at Veronica. "We should at least give her the choice."

Veronica got to her feet. "I'll go with you."

"And," Stokes said, "please send Iffey down, regardless."

Veronica nodded, and she and David left to fetch Lady Meriwell and Lord Iffey.

Barnaby rose and tugged the bellpull. When Jensen arrived, Barnaby asked him to invite Wishpole to join the group in the drawing room. "Her ladyship and Lord Iffey are expected down soon with Dr. Sanderson and Nurse Haskell. Once everyone's gathered, Inspector Stokes, Mrs. Adair, and I will address the company."

"Very good, sir." Jensen bowed and departed.

Barnaby looked at Penelope and Stokes. "It occurs to me that in this scenario, Wishpole will, very likely, be an excellent additional pair of eyes and ears."

With Penelope and Stokes, Barnaby paused in the shadows of the library corridor and watched as David and Veronica, walking a little behind Lady Meriwell and Lord Iffey, met Wishpole in the front hall and drew the solicitor with them into the drawing room.

As Jensen shut the drawing room door, Barnaby exchanged a questioning look with Penelope, then Stokes, and by unvoiced agreement, they remained where they were, allowing those who had just entered a few minutes to receive and offer condolences and get settled.

Eventually, Penelope sighed. She glanced briefly at Barnaby, then she walked forward and nodded to Jensen, and when he opened the door, she led the way inside.

Barnaby followed, and Stokes came in behind him.

A quick survey of the room, left to right, showed Wishpole ensconced in a deep armchair set unobtrusively by the wall, with Veronica and David in straight-backed chairs nearby.

Lady Meriwell sat in an armchair to the left of the hearth, with Iffey in its mate beside her and Arthur and Peter Meriwell in straight-backed chairs set a little apart from his lordship.

Opposite, to the right of the hearth, the Busselton ladies sat on a sofa, with Miss Busselton nearer the fireplace and Mr. Busselton occupying an armchair alongside his wife. Stephen Meriwell stood protectively behind Miss Busselton, while Peregrine, apparently nonchalant, lounged against the back of his father's chair.

Somewhat grimly, Barnaby noted that the expressions on the faces turned their way ranged from concerned, anxious, and wary to, in the younger Busseltons' cases, intrigued. With apprehensive expectation, the company watched as Stokes walked forward to stand centrally before the gathering, his back to the door. Barnaby and Penelope flanked him, all three of them looking grave.

Stokes commenced, "I regret to have to inform you of the death of Miss Sophie Meriwell. She passed away in her sleep early this morning."

Barnaby and Penelope's joint task was to monitor the reactions of their suspects to the news as Stokes lugubriously doled it out.

Stokes used the ploy of consulting his notebook to punctuate his revelations. "It appears Miss Meriwell died of a large overdose of laudanum."

There was a swift intake of breath from the Busselton ladies, but none of the Meriwells seemed all that surprised. Most likely, Sophie's addiction to laudanum was well known within the family.

"A note was found beside the body," Stokes continued, "on the bedside table, and we believe it to be in Miss Meriwell's hand."

In a brief discussion before they'd quit the library, they'd agreed that no purpose would be served by holding back the facts as they knew them.

"The note," Stokes stated, "simply says, ‘I'm so very sorry' and is signed ‘Sophie.'"

The older Busseltons exchanged a telling look, but then glanced at Lady Meriwell and composed their features and said nothing. The younger Busseltons likewise shared a glance, but their expressions had more in common with hounds on the scent, expectant and waiting to see what would come next.

Of the Meriwell nephews, Stephen frowned, then looked at his aunt, and his lips tightened.

Both Arthur and Peter seemed to be restraining themselves from speaking, from giving voice to the conclusion the murderer had hoped they would all leap to, namely that Sophie had murdered her grandfather, then in a fit of remorse, killed herself.

Only her ladyship and Lord Iffey—both of whom had been informed that the investigators did not believe Sophie had committed the sin of suicide—remained focused and watchful, waiting to hear what Stokes would say next.

Finally, Stokes obliged, stating, "Despite what those facts might suggest, there are several observations that argue against us labeling Miss Meriwell's death a suicide rather than a murder." Stokes paused, then amended, "A second murder, one designed to deflect attention from the true murderer."

This time, the intake of breath was more pronounced. The Busseltons looked faintly alarmed, no doubt having just realized that Sophie's death did not mean that all danger within the household had been eliminated. That, on the contrary, the murderer stalking Meriwell Hall had struck a second time. Mrs. Busselton looked in consternation at her daughter, then glanced at her son. Her thoughts were easy to read in her face.

Mr. Busselton, too, was increasingly worried about the turn the investigation had taken, not just on the personal front but on the professional front, too. His mounting anxiety was even easier to read than his wife's.

As for Persimone and Peregrine, shielded by the invincibility of youth, especially that of those well-sheltered, the gleam in their eyes testified that they viewed hunting for a murderer as not far removed from a particularly exciting parlor game.

Her ladyship and Lord Iffey remained steadfast and largely unmoved. Their expressions bleak and rather stoic, they steadily regarded Stokes, patently waiting to see what else he would tell them. Having known the investigators were not entertaining death by suicide, the pair had already come to the obvious conclusion, namely that Sophie's death was, in fact, another murder. If anything, neither were capable of being further shocked.

As for the three nephews…

Looking from one to the other, Barnaby inwardly cursed. All three had reacted, but in exactly the same way. Or as near to the same as made no difference.

All three looked puzzled, even confused. Uncertain, unsure.

Definitely unable to decide what they should do—what they should say or how they should behave.

Transparently, all three vacillated as to what their response should be.

Eventually, in a hesitant tone that made it clear he was not challenging the investigators' conclusion, Arthur ventured, "Perhaps, Inspector, if you could tell us what makes you think Sophie's death was not some ghastly accident but another deliberate act?"

Stokes had been waiting for the question, but still took his time replying. "One anomaly is that we know of no way that your cousin could have gained access to the bottle of concentrated laudanum that was found beside her bed. It was purchased from an apothecary in the Strand and is of a very different strength to that stocked in the household. There is also the matter of the mug from which she presumably unknowingly imbibed the drug. It's missing from her room." He paused, then added, "Just as the wine glass used to poison his lordship is also missing."

They'd agreed that their best way forward was to lay those issues before their suspects and see who came forward to offer solutions consistent with Sophie committing suicide.

To prod the murderer onto that track, Stokes added, "Unless and until we can find rational and viable explanations to account for those two logical stumbling blocks, we cannot deem Miss Meriwell's death a suicide. At this point, based on the evidence, it appears more likely that her death was a second murder."

Stokes waited, but when no one rushed into speech, he glanced around the gathering. "Given the current situation, I have to inform you that you will need to remain at Meriwell Hall until we get to the bottom of what has occurred here. I'm sure that none of you would wish to see a murderer, likely now a double-murderer, walk free."

No one was about to argue that point.

Stokes paused, once again raking the company with his gaze. "Is there anything anyone here knows that might be pertinent to Miss Meriwell's death?"

Arthur shot a glance at his aunt, then flung a brief look at Veronica, sitting beside David. Distinctly uncertain, Arthur cleared his throat and ventured, "Most of us—the family—know that there's always been laudanum in this house. Are you"—Arthur fixed his gaze on Stokes—"sure this other bottle isn't a red herring, as it were, placed there to, perhaps, cover up some accident?"

Veronica stiffened, her eyes flaring in outrage.

Beside her, David bristled, appearing quite furious, but at a look from Barnaby, David clamped his lips shut and closed his hand about Veronica's in warning.

Veronica glared daggers at Arthur, but it was Stokes who replied with cutting iciness, "Quite sure, Mr. Meriwell. For your—and everyone else's—information"—Stokes swept the company with a steely gaze—"we have checked the household stocks, which are kept under lock and key—two locks, two keys—and determined that all is as it should be. Furthermore, Dr. Sanderson has confirmed that the household stocks could not have been used for this purpose."

That was a trifle more than David had actually said, but Barnaby judged it to be an accurate statement nonetheless.

An awkward silence ensued.

Finally, Stokes repeated, "Does anyone have any pertinent information?" When no one answered, he nodded curtly. "In that case?—"

Mr. Busselton cut Stokes off. He didn't have any information, but he did have questions.

As did his wife and children, and then Peter Meriwell joined the circus.

Along with Penelope, who was standing back on Stokes's other side, Barnaby dutifully observed as, with a stoic patience that had matured with the years, Stokes dealt with every last question.