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.”
Stokes blinked. His gaze shifted to Simon; faint puzzlement showed in his eyes. Neither of them exhibited the slightest sign of any tension between them—quite the opposite.
She took pity on him. “Mr. Cynster and I have known each other since childhood—we frequently upset each other.”
Stokes looked back at her. “Ah.” He met her gaze; she saw a glimmer of respect—he’d realized she’d followed his thoughts well enough to answer the question he hadn’t yet posed. He looked down at his notebook. “Very well. So you continued on around the room . . .”
She continued her story. When she came to the point of Simon’s rushing in, Stokes stopped her, and switched his interrogation to Simon.
It was easier to appreciate Stokes’s art when it wasn’t directed at her. She watched and listened as he drew a highly detailed and factual account from Simon, then turned his attention to Charlie; Stokes was really very good. All three of them had come prepared to tell him all, yet there remained a reticence, a barrier over which they would speak, but not cross; Stokes was not of their class, not of their world.
They’d all entered the room reserving judgment. She exchanged a glance with Simon, noted Charlie’s more relaxed pose; both of them were revising their opinions of “the gentleman from Bow Street.”
He’d be fighting an uphill battle if they didn’t reach over that barrier and help him understand what had truly been going on, what concerns drove the various members of the house party, what tangled webs Kitty had been weaving before she’d come to grief.
Stokes himself was intelligent enough to know it. Clever enough, now he had their measure, to openly acknowledge it. He’d taken them to the point where others had rushed in and Kitty’s death had become more widely known. Setting aside his map, he looked up, let his gaze linger, then gravely asked, “Is there anything you can tell me—any fact you know, any reason at all you can even imagine—that might have led one of the guests here, or the staff, or even one of the gypsies, to kill Mrs. Glossup?”
When they didn’t immediately react, he straightened in the chair. “Is there anyone at all you suspect?”
Portia glanced at Simon; so did Charlie. Simon met her gaze, read her decision, checked with Charlie, who almost imperceptibly nodded, then looked at Stokes. “Do you have a list of the guests?”
At the end of an hour, Stokes ran his fingers through his hair, and stared at the network of notes he’d made around Kitty’s name. “Was the damned woman looking to get herself strangled?”
“If you’d known her, you’d understand.” Meeting Portia’s gaze, Simon continued, “She seemed incapable of seeing how her actions were affecting others—she didn’t think of others’ reactions at all.”
“This is not going to be easy.” Stokes sighed, waved his notebook. “I’m usually searching for motive, but here we’ve motives aplenty, opportunity for all the household to have done the deed, and precious little to tell us which of them actually did.”
He searched their faces again. “And you’re sure no one has given the slightest sign since—”
The library door opened; Stokes swung around, a frown gathering, then he saw who it was; his expression blanked as he rose to his feet.
As did the others as Lady Osbaldestone and Lord Netherfield, looking like a pair of aged conspirators, carefully shut the door, then—as silently as two largish people using canes could—swept across the room to join them.
Stokes tried to assert his authority. “My lord, ma’am—if you don’t mind, I really need to—”
“Oh, posh!” Lady O declared. “They’re not going to play mum just because we’re here.”
“Yes, but—”
“We came to make sure they told you all.” Leaning on her cane, Lady O fixed Stokes with her best basilisk stare. “Have they told you about the serpent?”
“Serpent?” Stokes’s face was a study in impassivity; he shot a glance at Simon and Portia, clearly hoping they’d rescue him . . .
When they didn’t immediately respond, his eyes narrowed; he looked back at Lady O. “What serpent?”
Simon sighed. “We hadn’t got that far yet.”
Naturally, there was no getting rid of Lady O after that. They all sat again, Simon relinquishing his seat on the chaise to Lady O and Lord Netherfield and taking up a stance by the hearth.