composed of the houseguests. Portia stopped to chat to the Hammond sisters, subdued and somewhat crushed. Simon left her and moved on, eventually coming up beside Stokes.
The “gentleman from Bow Street” was hanging back by the wall, consuming a pastry. He caught Simon’s eye. “Lord Netherfield suggested I attend.” He took another bite, looked away. “Seems a nice old codger.”
“Very. And no, I don’t think he did it.”
Stokes grinned, and met Simon’s gaze. “Any particular reason for thinking so?”
Thrusting his hands into his pockets, Simon looked across the room. “He’s of a type and a generation where stooping to murder someone as essentially powerless as Kitty-Mrs. Glossup-would be seen as very bad form.”
Stokes munched on the pastry, then quietly asked, “Does ‘very bad form’ still matter?”
“Not to all by any means, but to those of his ilk, yes.” Simon met Stokes’s questioning look. “To him, it would be a matter of personal honor, and that, I assure you, matters to him very much.”
After a moment, Stokes nodded, then pulled out a handkerchief and dusted his fingers. He didn’t look up as he said, “Do I take it you’re willing to… assist me in my inquiries?”
Simon hesitated, then replied, “Perhaps in interpreting any facts you might find, attaching the correct weight to anything you might hear.”
“Ah, I see.” Stokes’s lips curved. “You’re a very old friend of Mr. James Glossup, I hear.”
Simon inclined his head. “Which is why I, and Miss Ashford and Mr. Hastings, are all eager the murderer-the real murderer, whoever he is-be unmasked.” He met Stokes’s gaze. “You’ll need us to get anywhere. We need you to get a result. A fair enough bargain, to my mind.”
Stokes mulled it over, then stuffed his handkerchief back in his pocket. “I’ll be conducting interviews all afternoon-I haven’t yet spoken to all who were here. Then I’m going down to the gypsy encampment. I doubt I’ll be back before dinner, but perhaps we can talk when I return?”
Simon nodded. “The summerhouse-it’s down by the lake. You can’t miss it. It’s private, and no one else is likely to wander that far at dusk. We’ll wait for you there.”
“Agreed.”
With an inclination of his head, Simon moved away.
He, Portia, and Charlie decamped to the summerhouse the instant tea, served as soon as the gentlemen returned to the drawing room, had been dispensed with. Normal custom having been observed, most guests retired to their rooms, although a light still burned in the billiard room; with the library inhabited by Bow Street’s best, it had become the gentlemen’s retreat.
Stokes had spent all afternoon interrogating the rest of the houseguests, then disappeared. There’d already been a curious tension in the air, as if the desperate fiction that the murderer was, of course, one of the gypsies was already wearing thin; Stokes’s unexplained absence only ratcheted that tension one notch tighter.
Beside Simon, Portia walked down the lawns and onto the path around the lake, puzzling, as she had since quitting his bed that morning in great measure restored to her customary spirits, over why Kitty’s murder had come about.
“You have to admit Stokes was mightily brave to specifically interview Lady O.” Charlie followed in their wake, frowning as he ambled.
“He seems very thorough,” Simon replied.
“And determined.”
“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.
Knew the instant she noticed.
She stopped, staring at the candelabra, now with all candles burning. Then she looked around-at the window, the heavy winter curtains normally tied back through the warmer months fully drawn, then at the bed, bathed in the golden glow thrown by two six-armed candelabra perched on the angled bedside tables, a seven-armed cousin on the tallboy against the corridor wall, and a five-armed one standing on the chest against the opposite wall.
“What…?” She looked at him across the warmly lit expanse.
He shook out the taper, adjusted the second six-armed candelabrum so its light fell on the massed pillows. Then he lifted his head. Met her gaze. “I want to see you, this time.”
She blushed. Not fierily but the wash of color was readily discernible under her alabaster skin.
He hid a wholly predatory smile. His gaze on her, gauging her reaction, he rounded the bed, walked to her side.
She was staring at the counterpane, a silky soft crimson sheening in the candlelight.
He reached for her, slid his hands around her slender form, and drew her into his arms. She came easily, but
