Stokes looked at Simon. Portia did, too, and realized that whatever Stokes meant, Simon understood.
He glanced at her as Stokes went on, “Miss Ashford appears to be the murderer’s only remaining mistake. After last night, we know that, no matter she doesn’t know anything that would identify him, he’s still convinced she does. The adder—that might have been an attempt to frighten her off, but the attempt last night was intended to kill. To silence, as he’s silenced Dennis.”
Simon looked at Stokes. “You’re saying he won’t stop. That he’ll feel compelled to keep on, to dog Portia beyond the boundaries of Glossup Hall, through her life, wherever she goes, until he can make sure she’s no longer a threat to him?”
Curtly, Stokes nodded. “Whoever he is, he clearly feels he has too much to lose to risk letting her go. He must fear she’ll remember at some point, and that what she’ll remember will point too definitely to him.”
Portia grimaced. “I’ve racked my brains, but I really don’t know whatever it is. I just don’t.”
“That I accept,” Stokes said. “It doesn’t matter. He believes you do, and that’s all that counts.”
Charlie, unusually grim, said, “It’s actually very hard to protect someone who’s going about in society. Plenty of ways accidents can happen.”
All three men looked at her. Portia expected to feel fear; somewhat to her relief, all she felt was irritation. “I am not going to be”—she waved—” ‘cribb’d, cabin’d, and confin’d’ for the rest of my days.”
Stokes grimaced. “Yes, well—that’s the problem.”
Simon looked at Stokes. “You didn’t bring us here to tell us that. You’ve thought of some plan to put paid to this villain. What?”
Stokes nodded. “Yes, I’ve thought of a plan, but it’s not going to be something you”—his gaze swept the three of them—“any of you, are going to like.”
A momentary pause ensued.
“Will it work?” Simon asked.
Stokes didn’t hesitate. “I wouldn’t bother suggesting such a thing if I didn’t think it had a real chance of succeeding.”
Charlie leaned forward, his forearms on his thighs. “Just what are we aiming for here—the murderer unmasked?”
“Yes.”
“So not only will Portia be safe, but the Glossups, and whoever of Winfield and Calvin it isn’t, will be free of suspicion?”
Stokes nodded. “All will be revealed, the murderer apprehended, and justice done. Better yet, justice seen and publicly acknowledged as being done.”
“What’s this plan of yours?” Portia asked.
Stokes hesitated, then said, “It revolves around the fact that you, Miss Ashford, are the only means we have of drawing the murderer into the open.”
Deliberately, Stokes looked at Simon.
For a long minute, Simon held his gaze, his face unreadable, then he leaned back in his chair, waved one long-fingered hand. “Tell us your plan.”
None of them liked it.
All three
agreed to it.
They could think of nothing better, and clearly they had to do something. They felt compelled to at least try, to do their best and make it work, horrible though the entire performance was certain to be.
Portia wasn’t sure who looked forward to it least—she, Simon, or Charlie. The charade required them to trample on virtues they all held dear, that were fundamental to who they were.
She glanced at Charlie, pacing the lawn beside her. “I warn you—I know nothing about flirting.”
“Just pretend I’m Simon—behave as you would with him.”
“We used to snipe constantly. Now we simply don’t.”