Page 3 of Marriage and Murder (The Casebook of Barnaby Adair #10)
Mallard’s answering nod was respectful. “Inspector Stokes.” Shifting his gaze to Penelope and Barnaby, standing at Stokes’s shoulder, Mallard blinked several times, clearly not knowing what to make of them.
Stokes took pity on him and gestured in their direction. “This is Mr. Barnaby Adair and Mrs. Adair. They act as consultants to Scotland Yard, especially when a case touches the aristocracy, as I believe this case does.” Stokes paused a beat, evaluating Mallard, then added, “They’re here at the express request of the commissioner.”
Mallard nodded heavily. “I see.”
Barnaby took that to mean that Mallard now recognized the futility of any move to limit Barnaby and Penelope’s involvement in the investigation. That didn’t mean that Mallard was, as yet, entirely happy over their presence.
“In that case, if you’ll come through to my office”—Mallard waved at the door through which he’d come—“we can discuss the details thus far known regarding the murder of Miss Viola Huntingdon.”
They followed him through the door, which gave access to a narrow corridor, then turned left and went through a door on the opposite side of the passageway. The room beyond was a decent-sized office, the central focus of which was a large desk half covered by a collection of messy papers and file folders. One large chair sat behind the desk, and wooden filing cabinets lined the walls. While Mallard drew forward two more chairs to join the single chair already facing the desk, Barnaby saw Penelope to that chair, then accepted another straight-backed chair from Mallard, placed it beside her, and sat.
Stokes set his chair on Penelope’s other side and made himself comfortable while Mallard rounded the desk and sank into his customary chair.
“Right, then.” Mallard clearly wished to keep control of the exchange. “Now you’re here, we can get on with closing this case. It’s as open-and-shut as they come.” He clasped his hands on his blotter and regarded them steadily. “As I mentioned, the victim was a Miss Viola Huntingdon, a forty-two-year-old spinster lady, and she was strangled to death in the parlor of her cottage. That’s Lavender Cottage, in the village of Ashmore.”
Mallard focused on Barnaby and Penelope. “I take it you’re here because of Lord Glossup’s involvement, and indeed, him being involved is why I sent for Scotland Yard.” He switched his gaze to Stokes. “I didn’t feel I have the standing to arrest a lord.”
Stokes studied Mallard, then replied, “Before we discuss any arrest, perhaps you should outline your case against Lord Glossup.”
Mallard nodded, leaned forward slightly, and obliged. “First, on the morning of the murder, we have two witnesses to an argument—apparently quite a heated one—between the victim, Miss Huntingdon, and his lordship. At the conclusion of the exchange, his lordship issued a threat to the victim, along the lines that if she did a certain thing he disapproved of, he would make sure she didn’t live to do it again.”
Grimly, Mallard nodded and went on, “Then, later in the day, we have two other witnesses who saw his lordship leaving the victim’s house at a time when we now know she was dead.” Mallard paused, then continued, “And if that weren’t enough to put Lord Glossup in the dock, there’s the fact that his late wife was murdered in exactly the same way just five years back. She was strangled, too.” Mallard studied their faces, but Barnaby knew he would read absolutely nothing in any of their expressions. A trifle uncertainly, Mallard pressed on, “It’s hard to overlook the similarities in the two deaths, both associated with the one person. I wasn’t here then, but in light of this new murder, the locals are all whispering about how his lordship must have killed his wife, too, but he got away with it that time.”
Barnaby glanced at Stokes to see how he would react, but his friend was looking down at his notebook.
Without looking up, Stokes asked, “I understand the medical examiner has given an estimate of the time of death?”
Mallard looked pleased. “He has, indeed. To the minute. I took Doc Carter down with me as soon as we were told of the death. That was at noon on the day after the murder. By examining the body, Carter put the time of death as between twelve and four o’clock, but there was a carriage clock that plainly got broken in the struggle, and it had stopped at three-thirty-three. The housekeeper said the victim was very fond and proud of the clock and wound and set it every morning. The sister of the victim, who arrived the next day, confirmed that, so it seems we’re on sound ground in declaring the murder was committed at three-thirty-three.”
“I see.” Stokes was assiduously taking notes. “So at present, it appears that the murder was committed at three-thirty-three or close to that.” He finally looked up and pinned Mallard with his gaze. “You said his lordship returned to the cottage sometime in the afternoon. When, exactly?”
Mallard frowned. “As to that, we don’t actually know when he got there, but we have two witnesses who saw him leaving, and that was at about four-thirty.”
Stokes nodded. “We’ll get to those witnesses in a moment, but first, do you know how his lordship arrived at the cottage?”
“Apparently, he rode,” Mallard replied. “Seems he rides everywhere.”
“Indeed. Where did he leave his horse?” Stokes asked.
“According to our witnesses,” Mallard replied, “it was tied up in the lane by the gate.”
“I see,” Stokes said. “And what, exactly, did the two witnesses see?”
Mallard paused, then slowly supplied, “They saw his lordship walking down the path from the cottage’s door and out of the gate.”
Stokes considered his notes, then said, “So if I understand your argument correctly, you’re saying that his lordship rode to the cottage, tied his horse to the hedge by the gate, and went inside, and at or about three-thirty-three, he strangled Viola Huntingdon. Then he waited inside the cottage for an hour before walking out to his horse, which had remained in the lane throughout, mounting up, and riding home.” Stokes caught Mallard’s gaze. “Is that an accurate summation of your case?”
When Mallard pressed his lips tightly together and didn’t immediately respond, Stokes leaned back and said, “Quite aside from the issue of the horse in the lane virtually announcing his lordship’s presence for all to see, why do you think he waited an hour beside a dead body? I have to say that’s rather unusual behavior for a murderer.”
“Ah, but”—eagerly, Mallard leapt for the straw Stokes had waved—“that was because he was searching the house. Turned the place over thoroughly, he did.”
“What was he searching for?” Penelope asked.
Barnaby had wondered for how much longer she would remain silent. For his part, he was content to allow Stokes to deal with the delicate task of opening Mallard’s eyes to the flaws in the case against Henry without antagonizing the man. While investigating in his territory, they would need Mallard’s assistance, not his enmity.
“Jewelry,” Mallard replied with considerable relish. “The victim’s sister, Miss Madeline Huntingdon, says that the victim’s favorite pieces—a necklace and matching bracelet, both set with aquamarines—are missing. The housekeeper confirmed that the victim valued both highly.”
“I see,” Stokes said. “And how do the necklace and bracelet connect with his lordship?”
Mallard blinked.
Stokes glanced at Penelope. “You’re our expert in jewelry. Aquamarines. They’re not especially valuable, are they?”
“Not really,” Penelope said. “They go in and out of fashion somewhat, as all semiprecious stones do. Very large, perfect, high-quality aquamarines will be worth something, but at present, they would rank less highly than, say, garnets, and all such stones will never approach the value of diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and sapphires.”
Stokes returned his gaze to Mallard. “It’s difficult to see what Lord Glossup would want with what to him would be little more than baubles, yet you’re suggesting his lordship killed Miss Huntingdon for the jewelry.”
Put on the spot and faintly irritated and frustrated with it, Mallard returned, “Well, regardless, he must have taken them. Who else could have?”
The murderer, perhaps? Barnaby exchanged a look with Penelope and knew exactly what she was thinking as, figuratively, they bit their tongues.
Returning his gaze to Stokes, Barnaby felt his friend was demonstrating extraordinary patience.
“Perhaps,” Stokes said, “if we return to the argument earlier in the day between his lordship and the victim, we might find some clue. Have the witnesses given you any idea what the argument was about?”
Somewhat reluctantly, Mallard described the altercation more or less exactly as Henry had. “Miss Huntingdon took strong exception to the actions of his lordship’s hound. She was, by all accounts, very proud of her hedge.”
“Was any mention made of the jewelry?” Stokes asked.
Mallard faintly frowned. “No.”
Stokes raised his brows. “No mention of the jewelry at all?”
Starting to look decidedly uncertain, Mallard shook his head.
Stokes glanced at his notebook, then looked at Mallard. “You mentioned a threat made during this exchange. What was the nature of the threat his lordship made in relation to the victim?”
Mallard visibly perked up. “His lordship was heard by our two witnesses to declare that if she—the victim, Miss Huntingdon—pointed a gun at one of his animals, he’d make sure she never did so again.”
His expression unreadable, Stokes studied Mallard as if waiting for more, then when nothing more was forthcoming, sighed and asked, “Was anything said about killing her?”
“Well, no,” Mallard conceded. “Not in so many words, but what else could he have meant?”
Stokes regarded Mallard steadily. “Lord Glossup is the local magistrate and has been for many years. Did it not occur to you that he might well have meant to use the law to remove Miss Huntingdon’s gun from her, something he could easily have done?”
Mallard’s expression stated that, until that moment, the answer had been no. But from the frown forming in his eyes, he was finally starting to set aside his preconceived notions and think about the facts and evidence.
“At present, Mallard,” Stokes went on, “you allege that Lord Glossup had an argument with the victim over a dog’s behavior and was subsequently seen riding off, but that later, unseen by anyone, he returned to the cottage, left his horse tied up in the lane, and strangled the victim, ransacked her cottage, and stole a bracelet and necklace that were set with aquamarines, and for some reason, attaining the jewelry was his true if entirely unexplained motive.”
Mallard grimaced, and his frown deepened.
“And,” Stokes continued, “returning to the witnesses who saw his lordship leave the cottage at about four-thirty, did they see him leave the cottage? As in, come out of the door and close it behind him?”
Mallard was not just seeing the light but, albeit reluctantly, finally accepting the reality. “No. They saw him walking down the path to the gate and stepping into the lane.”
Stokes nodded. “Do you have any evidence at all that places Lord Glossup inside Lavender Cottage on that afternoon?”
Mallard’s lips turned down. “No.”
“And when the medical examiner assessed the scene, did he find anything to suggest that the murder took place anywhere other than in the cottage parlor?”
“No.” Mallard sighed, then muttered, “Quite the opposite.”
Penelope sensed that Mallard was at the point of accepting that his case against Henry simply wouldn’t hold water, but to make certain of it, she shifted on the chair, and when Mallard and Stokes glanced her way, pointed out, “We shouldn’t forget his lordship’s horse. He tied it up in the lane where everyone in the village could see it, and everyone in Ashmore would know whose horse it was.”
Mallard wrinkled his nose. “He made no effort to hide the fact he was there.”
“Indeed.” Stokes shut his notebook. “As matters stand, Mallard, there are no evidentiary grounds upon which to charge Lord Glossup with the murder of Viola Huntingdon.”
Mallard’s expression resembled that of a bulldog whose bone had been taken away. “But his lordship’s late wife?—”
“Was murdered by someone else,” Stokes calmly cut in. “His lordship just happened to be in the house—his home—at the time.”
Mallard frowned darkly at his blotter, then glanced at Stokes. “I know Scotland Yard sent down an inspector at the time, but I heard it was his first big case, and perhaps he got it wrong, and it was his lordship as killed his wife the whole time.” Almost challengingly, Mallard went on, “He killed then, and he’s killed now. First his late wife and now, Viola Huntingdon.”
His expression impassive, Stokes regarded Mallard levelly. “Superintending Constable Mallard, I would advise you to be very careful about making such wild accusations. As it happens, I was the investigating officer Scotland Yard sent to Glossup Hall five years ago, and I made no mistake in charging Ambrose Calvin with the murder of Catherine Glossup. Aside from all else, he confessed before a small army of witnesses, including”—Stokes glanced at Penelope and Barnaby—“Mrs. Adair’s sister and brother-in-law and three of Mr. Adair’s close friends, all of whom attended the same house party.”
Barnaby thought Mallard looked like he’d swallowed a frog and didn’t know if he was allowed to cough.
Smoothly, Stokes went on, “Now, where can I find the medical examiner—Mr. Carter, was it?”
Apparently struck dumb, Mallard nodded, then rather uncertainly pushed to his feet. He cleared his throat and gruffly said, “I’ll show you to Carter’s office.”
They all rose and followed Mallard into the corridor. He led them up a flight of stairs and along a corridor to a door close to the corridor’s end. He tapped perfunctorily on the panel, opened the door, glanced inside, then announced, “Inspector Stokes of Scotland Yard and his two consultants would like a word about the Huntingdon case.”
With that, Mallard stepped back, and Penelope led the way into the office. Barnaby followed, and Stokes walked in behind him. As Stokes passed Mallard, Barnaby heard Stokes say, “That will be all for the moment, Mallard.”
A cool dismissal, and while Mallard’s features pinched, he accepted the unstated rebuke with a dip of his head and, reaching into the office, drew the door closed.
In Barnaby’s eyes, Mallard definitely deserved the reprimand for his investigative blindness. While the case against Henry would never have prospered in court, being charged with murder would have been Henry’s worst nightmare.
Penelope bustled eagerly into the medical examiner’s office. She was keen to hear what facts he had to impart. After listening to Mallard’s conjecturing for the past half hour, she was looking forward to getting her teeth into cold, hard evidence.
The man who rose from behind the desk to greet them was a surprisingly chipper individual. Carter was short, neat, and round, with a round cheery face and rotund torso. He had pale-brown hair and twinkling hazel eyes and appeared to be every bit as curious about them as Penelope was about his findings.
He smiled at her and Barnaby and half bowed, then held out his hand to Stokes. “Inspector. I’m Carter, medical examiner for the district.”
Stokes introduced Barnaby and Penelope, and with a “Very pleased to meet you,” Carter waved them to three chairs lined up before the desk. “I’d heard you were with Mallard and hoped you would stop by. It’s quite a case, evidence wise.” Carter resumed his seat and confided, “Mallard’s generally a sound man, but in this instance, I fear he’s picked the wrong bone to chew on.”
Penelope pounced. “You don’t think his lordship strangled Miss Huntingdon?”
“Well,” Carter temporized, “based on what we know to this point, strictly speaking, it’s possible he might have, but given the evidence I have to hand, it’s difficult to see why he would have.”
Stokes settled his notebook on his knee. “So what can you tell us?”
“Right, well, I went with Mallard to the scene—he’s good like that, taking us along if we’re here when he’s called.” Carter paused to marshal his facts. “The deceased was lying on her back in the parlor, a yard or so away from the hearth, the fire in which had burned to ash some considerable time before. The hearth was cold, as was the parlor, which allowed me to narrow the time of death despite the lengthy period between death and my examination of the corpse.” Carter broke off and directed an apologetic look at Penelope. “I do hope my use of such terms won’t offend you, Mrs. Adair.”
Penelope smiled reassuringly. “I’ve attended several murder scenes in my time, Mr. Carter. Trust me when I say it would take a great deal more than properly used words to upset me.”
Barnaby hid a grin. Im properly used words were forever a source of considerable offence to his wife.
“Good-oh. Well, as I was about to say,” Carter went on, “based on my examination of the body, Miss Huntingdon was killed—strangled—sometime between noon and four o’clock on Thursday afternoon.”
Stokes prompted, “Mallard mentioned a broken clock.”
Carter nodded. “The carriage clock, which had fallen from the mantelpiece and broken and, apparently, stopped, showing the time as three-thirty-three. By all accounts, the clock should have been correct as to the time it displayed, so the implication is that the murder was committed at three-thirty-three that afternoon, which falls within the window defined by physiological criteria.”
“Was Miss Huntingdon strangled by someone facing her?” Barnaby asked.
“Indeed, she was.” Carter held up his hands, fingers splayed to either side and thumbs touching. “Like this.”
“So,” Stokes said, “it’s likely she knew her murderer.”
Carter agreed. “I would say so. There was nothing to suggest that she’d fled the clutches of a stranger, and I suspect that, with a lady of her age and type, there would have been signs of flight and struggle if she hadn’t known the person. She allowed her murderer to get close, face to face, and there was very little by way of her fighting back.”
“Would you say the murderer was taller than she was?” Penelope asked.
“Most definitely,” Carter replied. “The deceased was of average height.” Carter looked at Penelope. “Several inches taller than you, Mrs. Adair, and the angle of the pressure exerted by the murderer’s thumbs strongly suggests that the murderer was at least a few inches taller than that.”
Carter continued, “I would say you’re looking for a man of at least average height, possibly taller. One reasonably strong, but a man with decent, average strength would, I believe, in this case, have been able to do the deed. Miss Huntingdon was a well-fleshed woman, but she was one of those very soft creatures, if you know what I mean. Very little muscle to speak of.”
“Could the murderer be a woman?” Barnaby asked.
Carter waggled his head. “Hard to say, and I certainly can’t say with absolute certainty, but in my view, a female as murderer is less likely. Not many women would be sufficiently tall and also sufficiently strong to exert the necessary pressure at that elevated angle.” He paused, then added, “Based on what I saw at the scene, the attack was swift and over very quickly, again, in my opinion, arguing against a female. Whoever killed our victim did so in such a quick and forceful fashion that there was little resistance. For instance, the deceased had frizzy hair that she wore up in a neat bun. Despite the ordeal, very few strands of her hair had come loose. Also, I found no other wounds or even bruises on the body. And sadly, she was a nail-biter with nails bitten down to the quick, so even if she’d scratched at her attacker, I doubt she would have left any mark on him.”
They were silent for a moment, digesting all that, then Penelope asked, “Was there anything else about the body or clothing that struck you as unexpected or odd?”
“Well, not about the clothing itself, but there was a very light dusting of white powder on the upper bodice of her gown. It’s difficult to be certain with such a small amount, but I believe the powder is flour. Much as if the victim had eaten a floury bun and hadn’t noticed that some flour had fallen down her front.”
Stokes was deep in his note taking. “Who found the body?”
“The housekeeper, a Mrs. Gilroy. That was on the morning after the death. She doesn’t live in and comes in most mornings from her cottage in the village.”
When they didn’t ask anything else, Carter straightened in his chair and said, “Something that might help you with your investigation—the constable who was summoned is a local lad, Constable William Price.” Carter smiled self-deprecatingly. “He’s my sister’s boy and, if I do say so myself, observant and keen to be of help. You’ll find him waiting at the cottage. I asked him to remain there and make sure that nothing was moved until you arrived and had a chance to examine the scene.”
“Thank you!” Stokes uttered in sincerely heartfelt tones. He nodded to Carter. “For that alone, I’ll keep an eye out for your nephew. He sounds like just the observant sort we’ll need to pave our way.”
Carter beamed. “It’s a very small village—not even a village shop. Just a few cottages gathered around the village pond.”
Stokes glanced inquiringly at Barnaby and Penelope, but there was nothing more they could think of to ask, and when appealed to, Carter confessed he had nothing more to tell them, and so, more cordially than with Mallard, they took their leave of the man and, with their brains now churning with assorted facts, headed outside.