The Perfect Lover (33 page)

Her lips thinned, then she opened them to argue—

“No.” She blinked at his tone; when she continued to stare, he felt forced to explain, “The murderer tried to kill you. Given it’s
you
he now has his eye on, I’m not willing to take any chances.” He felt his face harden as he added, in case she’d missed the point, “None. Not one.”

She searched his eyes. He could almost see her thoughts whizzing behind her dark eyes, almost see the balance as she weighed his arguments against what she knew of his character, and all that flowed from it.

In the end, she inclined her head. “All right.”

She looked back at the lake; he quietly exhaled.

“Not Lady O, and not Lady Hammond, either.”

He considered, then acquiesced. “Agreed. Similarly, I think we can eliminate Mrs. Archer.”

“But not Mr. Archer.”

“He’s something of a dark horse. I agree—we can’t ignore him.”

“If we follow your line, theoretically at least any of the Glossup men could be responsible.”

He hesitated. “What do you think of Oswald?”

She frowned, then grimaced. “I honestly felt he avoided Kitty—I think because she saw him and treated him as a child.”

“Hardly comfortable for his ego, but . . . unless there’s something that would account for him being transformed into a murderous rage—and I honestly haven’t seen any propensity for that in him—then he seems unlikely.”

“Granted. What about Swanston—do we cross him off for the same reason?”

He frowned. “I don’t think we can. He’s Kitty’s brother—there might have been some bone of contention in their past we know nothing of, and he’s neither as easygoing nor as soft as Oswald. If Kitty had prodded too hard, Swanston could physically have done the deed. Whether he did . . . ?”

“Which brings us to Winifred.” She paused, considering. Eventually said, “Do you really think she might have been angry enough over Kitty’s poaching her suitors—even Desmond, even now—that she might have . . .”

He watched her face. “You know Winifred better than I—do you think she could have?”

For a long minute, she stared out at the dark waters of the lake, then glanced at him, grimaced. “Winifred will have to remain on the list.”

“And Desmond is certainly on it, which, in fact, gives Winifred an even stronger motive.”

Portia pulled a face, but didn’t argue. “Ambrose is on the list, too, which means Lady Calvin and Drusilla must stay on as well.”

After a moment, he asked, “Why Drusilla? I can understand Lady Calvin—she has a great deal invested in Ambrose’s future, and although she’s so reserved, he’s very much the apple of her eye. But as I read things, Drusilla and Ambrose don’t share even the weakest brother-sister bond.”

“True. Nevertheless, Drusilla’s reasons are twofold. One, of us all, she was the
angriest
at Kitty—Kitty had all the attributes Drusilla lacked, and still she wasn’t content. I’m sure that rankled—Drusilla hadn’t met Kitty before coming down here, so that’s the only explanation I can see for her reaction.”

“And her second reason?”

“Lady Calvin, of course. Not Ambrose, but the pain Lady Calvin would be forced to bear if Ambrose became involved in any scandal.” She met his gaze. “Drusilla is utterly devoted to her mother.”

He raised his brows, but now that she’d pointed it out . . . “That leaves us with the gypsies, or one of the servants.”

Portia frowned. “I might not approve of Arturo slipping through the shrubbery at all hours, but I can’t see any reason why he would
bother
to kill Kitty. If it was his child she was carrying . . .” She stopped. “Oh.”

She looked at him. “Is that a motive do you think? That Kitty told him she was planning on getting rid of the baby . . . don’t gypsies have a code or something about that?”

He held her gaze. “Most men have a code or something about that.”

She colored. “Yes, of course—but you know what I mean.”

“Indeed, but I think you’re forgetting one thing.”

She raised her brows.

“The timing. Kitty must have conceived in London, not down here. Arturo wasn’t in London.”

“Ah.” Her face cleared. “Of course. So there’s really no reason Arturo would have killed her.”

“Not that I can see. And as for Dennis, even imagining an unrequited love, given he knew Arturo was consorting with Kitty, I can’t see Dennis imagining himself in the running. Again, why kill her?”

“I talked to the maid about how the staff saw Kitty. The girl’s a local and has lived here on the estate all her life. She knows everyone, and is old enough to scent any scandal between stairs. There wasn’t even a hint she considered such a thing vaguely possible—in fact, she told me the maids were frightened the murderer was one of the gentlemen, and they’d been reassured by the housekeeper that it was sure to be the gypsies.”

He snorted. “The gypsies. Always the most convenient scapegoats.”

“Especially if they up stakes and leave.” She paused, mused, “I wonder if the murderer, whoever he is, has thought of that?”

“I’d say he might be counting on it—the gypsies decamping in the dead of night would be his salvation.”

They both sat staring out at the lake, watching the breeze send ripples across the glassy surface. Minutes passed, then Portia sighed.

“The Glossups. We’ve left all of them except Oswald, even Lady Glossup, on our list. Why do you think one of them would have killed Kitty? They’d put up with her for three or more years, and the Archers were staying. Why kill her—and especially why now? There would have to be a very good reason.”

“Two reasons,” he replied, his tone flat and even. “One, divorce—a topic Henry’s only recently been forced to consider. Two, the baby she was carrying that wasn’t any of theirs, but which, if she’d borne it, would have been the next Glossup heir. They might not rank as high as either the Cynsters or the Ashfords, but the Glossups have been around almost as long—they’re an old and, in their way, distinguished house.”

“But she wasn’t going to bear it—she was quite definite about that.”

“You overheard her telling her mother that—how many others knew?”

Portia spread her hands. “How many others knew she was having a baby at all?”

“Only you, those she told, and those they might in turn have told.”

Portia wrinkled her nose. “I told Lady O. And you.”

“Precisely. And there’s always the servants—they overhear more than we think.”

“And the household must have known Kitty and Henry were estranged.”

“Which means it would have been obvious to all that any child Kitty was carrying was not—”

When he stopped, Portia looked at him, then grimaced horrendously. “If the baby wasn’t a Glossup—and it most likely wasn’t—then that would have been bad enough, but what if it was indeed a Glossup?”

“Worse, what if it wasn’t, but Kitty claimed it was?”

“No—you forget. She didn’t want to carry the child.”

“I hadn’t forgotten.” There was ice in his tone. “If she wanted to persuade the father—or someone who might have been the father, or even someone who could not possibly be the father—that it would be wise to help her abort the child . . .” He met Portia’s gaze. “What better way to persuade James, or Harold, or even Lord Netherfield to aid her than by claiming the baby was a Glossup, just not Henry’s.”

Portia stared at him, her eyes growing round. “You mean . . . she’d tell James it was Harold’s, or Harold it was James’s, or Lord Netherfield either . . .”

She put her hand to her chest and swallowed. “Good God!”

“Exactly. And what if Henry found out?”

She held his gaze, then looked away.

After a moment, he went on, “And that’s not even considering the looming likelihood of divorce. For Harold and Catherine, and Lord Netherfield, too, the very concept is shocking, more than it is for us. For their generation, it’s an unthinkable scandal reflecting on all the family.

“We know what Kitty was like, how she delighted in irritating people. We know that she went to the library to meet someone, but we don’t know whom or why. We don’t know what they discussed—what topic drove the murderer to silence her.”

Portia said nothing, her understanding and agreement implicit. After a few minutes, she slipped her hand into his, leaned against his shoulder. Flicking free of her fingers, he lifted his arm and she wriggled closer as he gathered her in.

She sighed. “Kitty was playing with fire on so many fronts, it’s hardly surprising she got burned.”

Luncheon was a subdued affair. Lord Willoughby had informed them they would need to remain until the investigator from Bow Street arrived. Since that individual was expected later in the afternoon, many spent the hours after lunch making discreet arrangements to leave that evening.

Aside from all else, most felt the Glossups should be left to deal with their loss in peace, without the distraction of houseguests; anything else was quite shockingly unthinkable.

The investigator duly arrived—and promptly informed them that they would need to think again.

A large man, heavily built but with an air of determined energy, Inspector Stokes had first spoken with Lord Glossup and Lord Netherfield in the study before being conducted into the drawing room and introduced to the guests en masse.

He inclined his head politely. Portia noticed his eyes, a steady slate grey, moving over each face as their names were said. When her turn came, she regally inclined her head, watched Stokes duly note Simon sitting on the arm of her chair, his arm on its back; then his gaze rose to Simon’s face, he acknowledged his name with a nod, and moved on.

Despite all, her interest was piqued—not in Stokes the man, but Stokes the investigator. How was he going to unmask the murderer?

“I take it, Mr. Stokes, that now you have met us, you have no objections to our departing?” Lady Calvin asked the question, the full weight of her status as an earl’s daughter echoing in her tone.

Stokes didn’t blink. “I regret, ma’am, that until the murderer’s identified, or until I’ve investigated as far as I’m able, that I must request that you all”—his gaze swept the company—“remain at Glossup Hall.”

Lady Calvin colored. “But that’s preposterous!”

“Indeed, sir.” Lady Hammond fluffed her shawl. “I’m sure you mean well, but it’s quite out of the question—”

“Unfortunately, ma’am, it’s the law.”

There was not an ounce of anything anyone could take exception to in Stokes’s tone, nor yet any comfort they could draw from it.

He inclined his head in something resembling a bow. “I regret, ma’am, but it’s quite essential.”

Lord Glossup huffed. “Standard procedures and all that, I understand. No point quibbling—and really, there’s no reason the party can’t continue, except for . . . well, yes, except for that.”

Portia was sitting across from the Archers. Mrs. Archer appeared still in shock; it was questionable whether she’d taken anything in since being told her younger daughter had been strangled. Mr. Archer, however, was pale but determined; he sat at his wife’s side, a hand on her arm. At Stokes’s words, a glimmer of pain had crossed his features; now he cleared his throat, and said, “I would take it kindly if we could all assist Mr. Stokes in whatever way we can. The sooner he finds Kitty’s murderer, the better it will be for us all.”

There was nothing to be heard in his voice beyond a father’s grief, controlled yet unflaggingly genuine. Naturally, his appeal was met by quiet murmurs and assurances that yes, of course, put like that . . .

Stokes hid it well, but he was relieved. He waited until the murmurs died, then said, “I understand Miss Ashford, Mr. Cynster, and Mr. Hastings were the first to see the body.” His gaze swung to Portia and Simon; she nodded slightly. “If I could speak with you three first . . . ?”

No real question, of course; the three of them rose and followed Stokes and Lord Glossup to the door.

“You can use the estate office—I told them to clear the rubbish.”

“Actually.” Stokes halted by the door. “I would much prefer to use the library. I believe that’s where the body was found?”

Lord Glossup frowned, but nodded. “Aye.”

“Then it’s unlikely your guests will be keen to spend time there. It would expedite my questioning if I can establish specific points at the scene, so to speak.”

Lord Glossup had to agree. Portia went through the door Stokes held open and led the way to the library; she exchanged a glance with Simon as he opened the library door, was sure he, too, felt Stokes’s request had rather more reason than that.

Whatever it was, it felt undeniably strange to reenter the room where she’d discovered Kitty’s body. Had it only been just over twenty-four hours ago? It felt more like days.

They all paused just inside the door; Stokes closed it, then waved them to the armchairs gathered before the fireplace, at the opposite end of the room from the desk.

Portia sat on the chaise, Simon sat beside her. Charlie took one armchair. Stokes considered them, then sat in the other armchair, facing them. Portia wondered if he was sensitive enough to read the arrangement; it was indeed him against the three of them, at least until they decided if they would trust him.

He drew a notebook from his coat pocket and flipped it open. “Miss Ashford, if you could start by describing exactly what happened from the point where you entered the front hall yesterday afternoon.” He looked up at her. “You were with Mr. Cynster, I understand?”

Portia inclined her head. “We’d been walking in the pinetum.”

He glanced at a sheet he’d unfolded and laid on his knee. “So you’d gone out together through the front door?”

“No. We’d left from the terrace after lunch, and circled around via the lake path, and so on to the pinetum.”

He followed the route on what was clearly a sketch of the house and grounds. “I see. So you entered the front hall from the forecourt. What happened then?”

Step by step, he led her through the moments, leading her to describe her movements remarkably accurately.

“Why did you wander around the room like that? Were you looking for a book?”

“No.” Portia hesitated, then, with a fleeting glance at Simon, explained, “After my discussion with Mr. Cynster I was somewhat overset. I came in here to think and circled the room to calm down.”