“That, too.”
“Do you think he’ll succeed?”
Simon glanced at Charlie. “For the Glossups’ sakes—for everyone’s sakes—I hope so.” He seemed to catch something of Charlie’s concern. “Why do you ask? What is it?”
They paused, as one turning to confront Charlie.
Halting, he grimaced. “I spoke to James at the wake, and again this afternoon. He’s . . . not his usual self.”
Portia raised her brows. “I wouldn’t be my usual self either if I knew I was a prime suspect for murder.”
“Yes, well, it’s rather more than that.” Charlie looked at Simon. “You know how close James and Henry really are. This business, if anything, has drawn them closer . . .” Charlie ran a hand through his hair. “Point is, James feels guilty over Kitty—not because he harmed her, but over her preferring him to Henry. Even though he never encouraged it . . . well, it was pretty clear how it was. Deuced awkward enough while she was living—hell now she’s not.”
Simon had stilled; Portia sensed the change in him.
“What exactly are you saying?”
Charlie sighed. “I’m worried that James will do something foolish—especially if things look to be going badly for Henry, and heaven knows, it already looks bad enough. I think he might confess to spare Henry.”
Simon exhaled. “Damn!”
Portia looked from one to the other. “Would he really do that?”
Simon nodded. “Oh, yes. If you knew their past, you’d understand. James will do anything to protect Henry, because Henry spent half his life shielding James.”
“So what can we do?” Charlie asked. “That’s what I want to know.”
“The only thing we can do,” Simon replied. “Help unmask the real murderer with all speed.”
It was late when Stokes, clearly weary, joined them.
“Dealing with gypsies is never easy.” He sank into one of the armchairs. “They always assume we’re about to haul them off.” He grimaced. “Can’t say I blame them, given how things used to be.”
“Given you haven’t hauled anyone off,” Simon said, “I take it you don’t think Arturo is guilty?”
“I can’t see it, myself.” Stokes looked across at him. “Can you?”
“No,” Simon acknowledged. “But everyone will suggest it, I’m sure.”
“Aye, they have, but it’s drawing a very long bow. I’ve no reason to suspect he—or that other one, the younger one . . . Dennis, that was it—did the deed.”
Portia leaned forward. “Have you any theories on who did?”
“Not as such.” Stokes relaxed back in the chair. “But I have some thoughts.”
He shared them; they, for their part, told him all they knew—all Kitty’s little snipes, all her recent barbs. While waiting for Stokes, they’d agreed to hold nothing back, trusting that the truth in Stokes’s hands would not harm the innocent. There was too much at stake to toe the line of polite reticence.
> So they told him of all Portia had overheard, all they individually and collectively surmised of Kitty’s propensities for meddling in others’ lives.
Stokes was impressed—and impressive; he questioned them, truly listened, and tried to follow their explanations.
Eventually they reached a point where he had no more questions, but they’d yet to see even a glimmer of a conclusion. They all rose and walked back to the house, silently mulling all they’d touched on, as with a jigsaw trying to see a pattern prior to aligning the pieces.
Portia was still mulling, still deep in thought, when she slipped into Simon’s room an hour later.
Standing beside the bed, he looked up, then continued lighting the six candles in the candelabra he’d borrowed from one of the unused parlors.
He heard the door lock snib, heard Portia’s footsteps cross the floor.