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 p
oint 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.”