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Detective Inspector Wainwright began with the orange scarf. “Cadmium yellow,” she corrected then clarified. “It’s an artist’s color.”
“An unusual color for a woman to wear,” the sergeant offered. “My missus won’t wear oranges.”
“Not many would choose the color, especially when it is so intense,” Isabella agreed. “It’s too difficult to match to other colors, but I understand the young lady to whom it belongs lives in London. It’s a color that an art-inspired young lady would be rash enough to pick. And here at Emberley I have noticed several connections to the art world. The baron’s two oldest daughters and his sister, and they invited several other artists.”
“Yourself included,” he said. “I have St. John Lamont and Stephen Pettigrew on my list as artists.”
“Mr. Wyatt Williamson is an art critic, and Mr. Eliot is an actor. Mr. Gresham spoke of writing music and painting, but I believe his most recent endeavor was a play.”
“Prof. Tarrant mentioned Mrs. Hunstead was on the stage.”
“We don’t really know her background. Someone suggested former chorus girl.”
Wainwright nodded. “That’s good background, thank you. Now, did you see Miss Selena Buxton after your walk? The professor stated that yesterday in the woods you four saw Mr. Buxton and his niece arguing. At that time, she had on this orange—cadmium yellow scarf. Did you see Miss Buxton after your walk?”
“No. She did admit earlier today, when Sir Reginald was telling everyone about Mr. Gresham’s death, that she’d given the scarf to Mr. Gresham this morning before they parted.”
“This morning?”
“Did Gawen not tell you? Wait, no, he couldn’t. He wouldn’t have heard that. But did Madoc say nothing?”
“We were focused on other things. So, Miss Buxton gave the scarf to Gresham. What time was this?”
“Before he left the pub where she has hired a room. Around 7 o’clock, I believe.”
“They were at the pub?”
“Miss Buxton was not invited to the holiday celebration. After Sir Reginald informed us of—what happened, her uncle asked if she could stay here rather than there.”
Wainwright glanced at his sergeant. “She returned to the pub to collect her belongings?”
“No. I believe Thompson sent the chauffeur to have her suitcase collected. After lunch.”
His shoulders sagged a little. “Let me see if I have this correctly. Yesterday Miss Buxton argued with her uncle then returned to the pub. Last night Gresham left this house and walked to the village. He spent the night there with Miss Buxton. He left her around 7 a.m. to return to Emberley, but he stopped at the pond. He was killed there. What time last night did he leave Emberley?”
“I don’t know. Miss Tori Malvaise may tell you. The gossip at breakfast was that they had argued.”
The sergeant scribbled away. Inspector Wainwright tapped a pen on the blank paper before him. “Do you know the reason for the argument?”
“No. Our room is too far away.”
“Our room?”
“I’m sharing with Cecilia Arkwright. Mrs. Ryder told us of last night’s argument, and Mrs. Lamont confirmed it. Their argument was not the only one that was fodder for gossip. Mrs. Greta Ffoulkes and her fiancé Harry Jervis also argued, but they made up.”
He flipped open a notebook. After scanning the page, he looked at her under his eyebrows. “That’s Rosamunde Ryder, wife of Douglas Ryder, and Caroline Lamont, the wife of St. John Lamont. The same St. John Lamont who walked around the pond this morning but claims to have seen no sign of Thomas Gresham.”
“The walk from the village takes over thirty minutes, Inspector. Mr. Gresham would not have arrived there until half-past 7.”
“If we can trust Miss Buxton’s time,” the sergeant murmured.
“Why would she lie?” Isabella asked.
“Why would she lie?” Wainwright repeated with a different inflection. “Do you know the time that the baron’s hunting party left the house?”
“Eight or thereabouts.”
“A little earlier. The butler Thompson informs me that the shooting started promptly at 8:30. Sir Reginald is apparently very particular about the time. Would you agree with Thompson?”
“I reached the morning room for breakfast at 9 a.m. The shooting awakened me, so that time is likely correct. Thompson is also very particular.”
“Then we can assume that Gresham arrived at the pond after 7:30. He was shot after 8:30, an hour or more after his arrival. Was he waiting to meet someone?”
“Are you asking me? Or thinking out loud?”
Wainwright smiled. “Both. Sometimes we like to bounce ideas off other people. Sgt. Callaway has much the same answers as I do. What do you think of that time lag, Miss Newcombe?”
Isabella frowned, wanting to be helpful but very aware that she might point a finger at an innocent person. And she did not want to point any kind of finger at Cecilia. Her friend’s early morning venture was long before 7 o’clock. She was back before the hall clock rang 6:30. She could not have met Gresham.
With that burden lifted, she gave attention to the inspector’s question. “My guess is that both you and your sergeant think he was waiting to meet someone. That is likely. But he could have simply been delayed. If I were facing a half-hour walk on a frosty cold morning, I would want something hot in me before I set out. I would ask at the pub if anyone besides Miss Buxton saw Mr. Gresham leave. If he stopped for tea or coffee or a hot toddy, which is the likeliest of the three—.”
“You’re saying Gresham drank a lot?”
“He was not often inebriated, but he often had a drink in his hand.”
“Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir,” and he scribbled more.
“Gresham may have stopped for something hot before he returned to the house. That’s a good idea. Why wouldn’t he wait to return before Sir Reginald’s shooting party? Did he know about the morning shoot?”
“He must have. He’s come here before. Sir Reginald rotates his morning excursion, you see. Shooting, tramping, riding, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, then it repeats, with church on Sunday.”
“You learned the house’s habits quickly.”
“Thompson informed us, on Christmas morning.”
Again Wainwright’s pen tapped the blank paper. “They maintained this schedule even on Christmas Day?”
“Sir Reginald likes his schedule.”
“Riddle me this, Miss Newcombe: why would Gresham not be concerned about arriving after the shooting had begun?”
She guessed he knew the answer; he just wanted to check her knowledge of an answer, to judge what Tommy Gresham might have known. “The shoot is not in the wood between Emberley and the village. It’s toward the river, where the land rises then drops steeply.”
“Unsuitable for farming or riding,” Callaway said.
Wainwright nodded. “The shooting continued through breakfast. Some shots sounded close to the house?”
“Only at the beginning.”
“Only one wound, sir.”
Wainwright stared at the blank sheet. Isabella sat still until her spine asked her to wiggle out its stiffness. She controlled the movement and kept waiting. Finally, the inspector reared back and rested his palms on the edge of the desk. “We’ll need a timeline, Callaway. We have a relatively narrow window we’ll be checking. Get that constable to interview our pub owner and ask around the village: who was out between 7 and 9 this morning, who did they see. That oran—cadmium yellow scarf should be memorable, but don’t mention it to the constable. He’ll put that in a question and give ideas to our witnesses. Thank you, Miss Newcombe, for your answers and your insights. I may ask more questions later, but I must move on to my preliminary interviews of everyone else.”
She started to rise.
“Wait. I do apologize. Can you think of anything I’ve neglected or anyone I should consider?”
She remembered Mrs. Buxton’s early arrival at breakfast and her husband coming later with the recovered earrings. She remembered Alicia Osterley’s absence from breakfast and her extended trip to the village, arriving back long after lunch. And she remembered the report of Tori Malvaise’s anger, likely because of Gresham’s philandering with Selena Buxton. “No, Inspector, I can think of nothing.”
He gave another cant of his head but repeated his gratitude. “Callaway, I believe we should have Selena Buxton next.”
“Very good, sir.” The sergeant opened the door for Isabella then followed her along the hall to the main entrance.
When she entered the drawing room, Callaway still on her heels, she crossed to the windows where Cecilia sat. Madoc and Gawen were missing.
“I assure you, sir,” the sergeant spoke clearly. Isabella saw him stiff and formal before Philip Buxton. “The inspector will sift the evidence carefully before he makes a determination. His questions may seem tedious, but they are a necessity. Now, Miss Buxton, Miss Selena Buxton,” and when the young lady raised her hand, “if you will come with me, Miss.”
“Is there a reason you have focused on my niece, Sergeant?”
“We understand that your niece saw Mr. Gresham early this morning, sir.”
Many eyes turned toward Isabella, and she felt like she was the one in the dock.
Selena Buxton stood up. “I did see him. He spent the night with me.”
“Selena! I told you—.”
“I’m not ashamed, Aunt Maureen. Even if I did follow him to see the reason he left me so early—.”
“Miss,” Sgt. Callaway looked pained. “If you’ll tell all this to the inspector.”
“I will be happy to tell him.” She marched out.
Philip Buxton rounded on Isabella. “Just what did you tell this Inspector Wainwright?”
“He already knew most of it,” she shot back. “And I’m not going to lie to the police. They already suspect all of us. Why would I lie and give them a reason to be suspicious of me? No doubt they have their theories about Mr. Gresham’s death. I can’t influence that.”
St. John Lamont came to her rescue. “She’s right. Never lie to the police. They’ll only look at you more closely. Tell the truth—or do you want to be on the side of a murderer? I don’t. I will tell them where I was, when I was there, and what and who I saw.”
“Did you see Mr. Gresham or anyone else when you were at the pond?” someone asked.
He shook his head and drew out a cigarette. “Too early, I guess. I wanted to be back in the house before the shooting started. Thompson saw me, which I am certain he has conveyed to our policemen. Along with everything else he saw this morning. Did you not notice our inspector questioned the servants first? They owe loyalty only to Sir Reginald, and many eyes can alibi him during the crucial hour.”
“The crucial hour?” Mrs. Ryder asked.
“The shot—.”
Tori sobbed and rushed from the room.
Lamont cleared his throat when the door banged shut. “Since Miss Buxton shared that Gresham left her at 7 o’clock, with a half-hour walk from the village, that puts him waiting at the pond from 7:30 on. The shot had to come at the first of the shooting. The shot we all heard because it was so close to the house. That shot was after 8:30 this morning. All our inspector needs is someone without an alibi inside that time frame, and he has his murderer. Or murderess.” He lit his cigarette. “Don’t tell me that you all hadn’t worked that out.”
“We should solve the murder ourselves,” Buxton declared, “before they accuse my niece of the crime.”
“Of course,” Pettigrew said. “We’re smarter than those black-booted policemen. And we know everyone involved.”
“I didn’t suggest—.”
Mr. Hunstead interrupted the artist. “I would never have voted for Tommy Gresham to be killed. I had no idea he was a blackmailer.”
“And a drug dealer,” Buxton added. “A lowlife who preys on others’ weaknesses.”
Mr. Ryder cleared his throat. “Who would you have thought would be killed, Mr. Hunstead?”
“Someone greedy and needing money.”
“Ouch,” Tony Buxton said. “I don’t think I would kill my father to access his money. It’s all tied up in shipping.”
“A cheating wife,” Greta said. “Killed by her jealous husband.”
“Or the jealous lover,” Mrs. Ryder proposed, “who kills the husband to get the wife.”
“They could work together,” Mrs. Hunstead bared her teeth at Greta in a mockery of a smile. “She could murder the woman controlling him. He could murder the husband. They could alibi each other.”
“That sounds like a good mystery,” Caro Lamont declared. “I like Wilkie Collins myself, but I might give that book a whirl.”
“The old friend who is no friend,” Lottie Crittenden mused. “The one who has waited for years to get revenge.”
“Revenge for what?” Mrs. Ryder asked.
“A past injury. A blow to their pride.”
“Wouldn’t it need more than an old injury to create enough hate to kill?” Filly asked. “A thousand injuries, over and over again. Constant blows to someone’s pride and then some final, demeaning insult that must be swallowed.”
Jack Portman frowned at her. “That’s cold-blooded hate you’re describing.”
She looked up from her seat on the dowager’s sofa. “Yes. Cold, cruel, ruthless. In return for everything endured over the years. It would take that kind of hate, wouldn’t it? To make Tommy wait in the cold beside the pond? To walk up to him, all friendly, then shoot him in the chest? And leave him there in the cold? A man would have to be all ice to do that.”
Portman dropped a hand on her shoulder. He squeezed it then turned away and flung his cigarette into the hearth.
“We might kill to protect someone we love,” Isabella offered.
“That’s a worthy reason,” Cecilia declared. “We want to protect them. We couldn’t want to see them hurt. Not again.”
Mrs. Hunstead leaned forward, playing with the red and black scarf around her neck. “I would kill anyone who tries to control me.”
“Or kill in war,” Alexa said.
“That’s not the same,” Portman snapped.
“It breaks a sacred law, doesn’t it? They killed once. They’ll find it easy to kill again.”
“You think a soldier is more willing to commit murder?” Isabella shook her head. “I think that soldier would be less likely. He knows the cost.”
“A man is dead. We shouldn’t make a game of this,” Wyatt Williamson warned from his corner of a sofa. He looked around, making eye contact with several, some of whom dropped their gazes. Isabella nodded encouragement when his gaze intersected with hers. “A man is dead,” he repeated. “Someone will hang for his murder.”
Stephen Pettigrew had a gleam in his eyes. “If the police catch him. They may not. And who’s to say we can’t make a game of this? Is there anyone in this room who doesn’t deserve to be murdered?”
“‘Let he who is without sin cast the first stone’,” Mr. Ryder quoted.
“I’ll take that challenge.”
“Enough,” Buxton snapped. “This is not something to make a game of.”
“Spoilsport. It’s the perfect game. And we learn even more about each other.”
“I think we all just mined a mountain about each other,” Portman judged. “Much more than I wanted to know about some of you. I’ll be re-thinking a few associations.”
Filly looked up again and earned a brief smile.
“This is the reason you knew I hadn’t killed Gresham?” Cecilia hissed. “How do you know I’m not capable of murder?”
“I didn’t say that!”
But Cecilia laughed.
“Where are Madoc and Gawen?”
“That inspector has them searching Gresham’s room. He apparently doesn’t trust the constable’s men to do it properly. I believe he gave them a few more rooms to search as well.”
“I don’t see Harry Jervis. Did he not come back when Jack Portman did?”
“He has the job of standing guard outside the chapel while the doctor conducts his post-mortem there. You’ve missed a lot, Isabella. Where have you been? Before that sergeant dragged you in for questioning?”
“In our room. Sketching.”
“How can you concentrate on art when we’ve had a murder?”
Isabella didn’t explain.
The maids brought tea, a welcome distraction. The conversation rolled through London and the countryside, Brighton in winter and Paris in the spring while the inspector worked through his interviews, calling people out for questions and returning them only to have another person brought to him. Gradually the talk dwindled to nothing. Several people left and came back without being called out. Since the appointed policeman watching the door wasn’t stopping anyone, Isabella decided to go to her bedroom. The man nodded and let her pass.
On the second landing, as she turned toward her room, something on the floor beside the banister caught her eye. A rolled paper.
Isabella bent to pick it up.
From her left came a rush of movement. A tremendous shove threw her sideways. She fell and kept falling, tumbling down the stairs. Then everything went black.
