Page 6 of The Meriwell Legacy (The Casebook of Barnaby Adair #8)

CHAPTER 6

T he clock on the library mantelpiece had just finished chiming for five o’clock when Jensen responded to their summons.

David and Veronica had left to check on their patients, so once again, it was Barnaby, Penelope, and Stokes seated behind the desk when Jensen came to stand before it.

Barnaby didn’t bother inviting the butler to sit. That would have only made Jensen uncomfortable. More uncomfortable.

Stokes said, “We’ll keep this as brief as we can. How long before the guests entered the dining room was his lordship’s wine glass placed on the table?”

Immediately, Jensen replied, “The wine glasses are the last items to be set out. Thomas fetched them from the sideboard and wiped each out with a linen cloth before setting them in place. I was watching and waiting until he set down the last glass, which was her ladyship’s. I take that moment as my cue to go and inform the company that dinner is ready to be served.”

Barnaby nodded. “Between you leaving for the drawing room and returning, was the dining room left unattended, even for just a moment?”

“No, sir,” Jensen replied. “Jeremy had left to fetch the soup tureen, but Thomas remained. When I returned, he was waiting as usual at the far end of the room to assist with her ladyship’s chair.”

Penelope leaned forward. “You reentered the dining room ahead of…I believe it was her ladyship, Lord Iffey, and Mrs. Busselton.”

“Indeed, ma’am. That’s correct.” Jensen paused a second, then added, “Her ladyship and Lord Iffey are generally the first in, as they have to go all the way down to the other end of the table. It’s more difficult if they come in later and have to get past the other diners.”

Stokes glanced up from his notebook. “What were you and the footmen doing during the time the guests were filing in and finding their seats?”

Jensen faintly grimaced. “With the space so tight, what with those four big sideboards, we’ve learned to stand back, more or less with our backs to the walls, to allow the diners to find their places. There were place cards put out.”

“Where was the decanter of wine?” Barnaby asked.

“On the sideboard closest to me,” Jensen replied. “It was stoppered at that point. I’d decanted it downstairs, in my pantry, and left it to air there, and I brought it up while Thomas and Jeremy were setting out the plates.”

“When did you pick up the decanter and unstopper it?” Stokes asked.

“Jeremy came in with the soup tureen immediately behind his lordship and set it on the sideboard near the decanter. As usual, I waited until everyone sat before pouring the wine. Lord Meriwell was the last to take his place. He waited until Mr. Busselton sat”—Jensen paled a touch—“and as his lordship took his seat, I picked up the decanter and poured the wine into his glass.”

Penelope quickly asked, “Was it normal for his lordship to immediately take a mouthful of wine, before you’d even filled another glass?”

Jensen blinked, then frowned. “No, ma’am. Now you mention it, I can’t recall him ever doing so before. He was normally the most attentive and correct host.”

Somewhat carefully, Stokes asked, “Why do you think he did so on this occasion?”

Jensen immediately pokered up. “I’m sure I can’t say…” His voice trailed away, then he sighed, and his shoulders slumped. “As the master is dead, then…I believe he was furiously angry and trying to…well, almost drown his ire enough to get through dinner.”

Penelope said, “We’ve heard from several people that his lordship was glaring down the table as he picked up his glass and swallowed.”

Jensen nodded. “He was glaring in Miss Sophie’s direction. Whether he was actually glaring at her, I couldn’t say.”

Barnaby said, “We’ve been trying to build a picture of what exactly happened in the last instants of Lord Meriwell’s life. We’ve heard that once he’d swallowed the wine, the poison acted almost immediately, yet he tried to lift his left hand and point. Do you know at whom?”

Jensen grimaced and shook his head. “It was his left hand—the right was gripping the stem of the wine glass—and he seemed to be trying to point in the same direction in which he’d been glaring. But the poison overcame him before he could actually point at anyone, and his hand fell back to the tablecloth.”

Stokes nodded. “Tell us about what happened immediately after his lordship collapsed.”

Jensen looked over their heads, and his gaze grew distant. “At first, there was a stunned silence—you could have heard a pin drop—then Miss Sophie screamed, and several people stood up. It was obvious from the first that his lordship’s condition was serious, and I sent Thomas running for Nurse Haskell. By then, Mr. Arthur and Mr. Peter had rushed to help his lordship. Mr. Peter reached him first, but Mr. Arthur pushed Mr. Peter aside and bent over his lordship, and Mr. Stephen came up on his lordship’s other side.”

Jensen paused to wet his lips, then continued, “Mr. Busselton had frozen—it was obvious he didn’t know what to do for the best and was uncomfortable interfering. He sat back while the three nephews gathered around his lordship, trying to help him. No one really knew what was happening. Then Mr. Arthur, I think, suggested they take his lordship upstairs. Mr. Stephen agreed, and between them, they managed to lift his lordship up and turn toward the door.

“Nurse Haskell had arrived by then, but the nephews insisted they should first get his lordship upstairs and she could examine him there. I assisted, as did Jeremy. His lordship was quite a heavy weight to get up the stairs and to his room. Oh, and Gorton—his lordship’s valet—was there, too. I think he arrived with Miss Haskell. She followed on our heels to his lordship’s room.”

Jensen paused, then added, “As we quit the dining room, Mr. Stephen told Mr. Peter to take the rest of the company to the drawing room, which I understand Mr. Peter did. I sent Thomas to assist.”

Stokes took Jensen through the subsequent happenings. The butler’s account matched Veronica’s in every detail, all the way to when Jensen and Veronica returned downstairs in search of the wine glass, only to discover it had vanished.

“And you’ve been searching for it?” Stokes asked.

“Indeed, sir.” Jensen looked troubled. “We’ve been quite thorough, but we’ve found no trace of it.”

Barnaby clarified, “Only his lordship’s glass went missing?”

“Yes, sir. All the other glasses, the cutlery and crockery—everything else that had been on the table—was still there, in its proper place. Only his lordship’s glass had…vanished.”

“When you returned to the dining room, did you see any of the family or guests in the corridors or on the stairs?” Penelope asked.

“No, ma’am.” Jensen paused, then added, “I was later told that there were two glasses used in the library that evening. For brandy. I suspect one was used by Mr. Arthur and the other by Mr. Peter, although none of the staff saw either gentleman during that time.”

“After you and Miss Haskell left the dining room, she was summoned upstairs to attend to Miss Sophie.” When Jensen nodded, Penelope asked, “Where did you go?”

“Back to his lordship’s room to warn Gorton and Jeremy that it would be better to keep our thoughts on his lordship’s murder to ourselves until Dr. Sanderson could confirm our belief. After that, I went down to the drawing room, ma’am.”

Barnaby inquired, “Who was there at that point?”

Jensen paused to consult his memory, then stated, “Lady Meriwell and Lord Iffey. Mr. Stephen and Mr. Arthur, and the Busseltons, all four of them.”

Stokes looked at Barnaby and Penelope and arched his brows. Both shook their heads, and Stokes looked at Jensen and smiled kindly. “Thank you. You’ve been very clear.”

“We appreciate that,” Penelope said. “We understand this could not have been easy for you, watching your master die as he did.”

“No, indeed, ma’am.” Jensen offered them a bow. “I take it you would like to speak with the rest of the staff?”

Stokes glanced at Penelope. “Just the footmen—Thomas and Jeremy—to start with, I think.”

“I’ll send them in straightaway.”

Jensen was as good as his word, and within minutes, the two footmen had presented themselves in the library.

Understandably, the pair were nervous, but between them, Barnaby and Penelope managed to lead them through the critical events, and they soon lost their hesitation and answered quickly and clearly, ultimately confirming all that Jensen had said.

After assisting Peter Meriwell to steer the remaining company to the drawing room, once dismissed, Thomas had retreated to the servants’ hall to await further orders.

Jeremy, meanwhile, had remained with his lordship’s body in his bedchamber. “Until Nurse Haskell looked in after seeing to Miss Sophie. She said we had to move the body to the laundry room in the basement, and Gorton sent me to get the stretcher for his lordship. I had to wake the gardeners to get it, so it was an hour or so before I got back, and by then, Gorton had the body ready, and Thomas, Jensen, and I helped him carry the stretcher down to the basement.”

“Thank you,” Stokes said. “That fills in several holes.”

“One last question,” Barnaby said. “Did either of you, at any time in the evening after his lordship’s death, see any member of the family in the corridors or on the stairs?”

Both footmen shook their heads.

“Right, then.” Penelope smiled on them both. “You may go, but if you would, please send Gorton in.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the pair chorused and left with alacrity.

Gorton arrived with commendable promptness. When Barnaby invited him to take the chair before the desk, he sat on the edge of the seat, his back ramrod straight, his hands on his knees as he looked at them expectantly.

He was relatively short and somewhat burly, yet his hands were small, the fingers neat. His pate was balding but partially concealed by well-combed brown hair, and his face was the sort usually described as comfortable, with uninspiring features that nevertheless appeared kindly.

At the moment, his expression radiated quiet sorrow lightened by expectation, possibly by the hope of helping to gain vengeance for his late master.

Stokes commenced by taking the valet through the events from the time he followed Veronica into the dining room to the moment when, with his lordship’s body conveyed to the laundry, Gorton had closed the door on Lord Meriwell’s earthly remains.

Gorton concluded, “I went up to my quarters in the attic after that, with the others—Thomas, Jeremy, and Jensen. We were all somewhat low and went straight to our rooms.”

Penelope was frowning. “If you would, Gorton, think back to the moment when you first reached his lordship in the dining room. Can you say if, in your opinion, his lordship was still breathing?”

Gorton thought, then drew breath and admitted, “I don’t think he was, ma’am. Looking back, I believe he was already dead by the time I reached him.”

“I’m merely curious,” Stokes said, “but what was the reason given for removing his lordship’s body to his bedroom?”

Gorton’s eyes widened. “I don’t think anyone made the argument, Inspector. Someone, I think it was Mr. Arthur, suggested we should move his lordship to his bed, and everyone agreed, and we did. It seemed…well, more appropriate—more respectable—for him to be lying in his bed, dead or not.”

Stokes nodded, as did Barnaby and Penelope.

“Now,” Stokes went on, “several people have mentioned noticing that his lordship was angry from the moment he walked into the drawing room. Angry, but trying to hide it. You were with his lordship immediately prior to him coming downstairs. Did he seem particularly angry while he was dressing?”

Gorton nodded readily. “He was all but fuming, truth be told. But the anger didn’t start until after the man who came to see him left.”

Stokes stilled, as did Barnaby and Penelope, their gazes fixed on the valet. “The man who came to see him,” Stokes parroted. “What man is that?”

“Earlier in the afternoon, about three o’clock, before the nephews and the Busseltons arrived at closer to five, a man called to see his lordship. I only glimpsed him in the corridor while Jensen was escorting him here, to the library.” Gorton paused. “I wouldn’t say the man was a gentleman but perhaps a businessman.”

“And his lordship received this man.” Stokes was scribbling in his notebook. “How long was their meeting?”

“About an hour, I would say. I don’t know any more than that, but Jensen might.”

Stokes nodded. “We’ll definitely be asking Jensen later.”

“Was Lord Meriwell angry before this visit?” Barnaby asked.

“No, sir. Not that I noticed.” Gorton plainly thought back, then affirmed, “I spoke with him after lunch, and he was his usual genial self.”

“What you’re saying,” Penelope summarized, “is that his lordship’s anger was triggered by this man’s visit—possibly by something the man told him.”

Gorton lightly shrugged. “That’s how it seemed. Before the meeting, he was relaxed, and after it, he was, at first, frowning, as if he was very unhappy—unsettled and disturbed. Then, as I dressed him for dinner, he got angrier and angrier. Not at me but over whatever it was that was bothering him. I could feel it. By the time he left his room to go downstairs, he was palpably furious, but over what, I have no idea.”

Barnaby caught Gorton’s eye. “Had you ever seen his lordship angry like that before?”

Gorton thought, then looked down and, in an almost puzzled tone, replied, “Not quite that way. Normally, I would have assumed he was irritated by Mr. Arthur or Mr. Peter—at their latest importunities. They are the two who most often put his lordship into a temper. But this time seemed…worse. More intense.” Gorton raised his gaze to Barnaby’s face. “In all honesty, I had never seen him in quite that sort of mood—so gripped by ferocious anger— before.”

Both Stokes and Barnaby cast around, but there seemed nothing else Gorton could tell them, and they dismissed him with genuine thanks.

When the door closed behind him, Penelope let out a long breath. “At last, we have a real clue to follow.”

They immediately recalled Jensen, but while the butler confirmed the unknown man’s hour-long meeting with Lord Meriwell, he had little to offer by way of the man’s identity or purpose.

“He was an entirely unremarkable man.” Jensen frowned in concentration. “I would agree with Gorton’s assessment that he wasn’t a gentleman, but he was neatly dressed in good-quality clothes, and his manners were assured.” Jensen looked at Stokes and Barnaby. “I would swear he was a man accustomed to dealing with those of higher standing. I did find it odd that he didn’t give his name. He merely said that his lordship was expecting him, and as Lord Meriwell had warned me that he was expecting a man to call and I should bring him directly to the library, I did so. From what I glimpsed of his lordship greeting the fellow, he was, indeed, the man his lordship had been expecting.”

Barnaby, Stokes, and Penelope frowned, puzzlement mixed with frustration.

After a moment, Barnaby looked at Jensen. “How did the man arrive? Horse? Carriage?”

Jensen looked relieved to be able to offer some actual information. “He drove up in a gig. A decent-enough carriage with a nice-looking bay. Not, I would venture, an equipage hired from hereabouts.”

Increasingly frustrated, Penelope surveyed the desk and its many drawers. “Did Lord Meriwell keep a diary?”

“Not that I was ever aware of, ma’am. Her ladyship might know, but…” Jensen grimaced faintly. “Truly, I don’t believe he did. His lordship was not one for writing things down.”

Penelope sighed. Feelingly.

Stokes studied Jensen. “I don’t suppose you had any indication of the tone of the meeting? No raised voices, for instance?”

When Jensen shook his head, Barnaby asked, “How did his lordship and the man interact when you came to see the man out?”

Jensen paused to think, then offered, “His lordship shook the man’s hand. I would say that, toward the man, he was cordial and…grateful. But his lordship seemed unhappy and more tense than previously, presumably over what the man had told him.” Frowning, Jensen paused, then added, “From all I saw, I took it that the man had reported something to the master, something that caused him serious concern.”

Barnaby nodded.

Stokes glanced at Penelope, then thanked Jensen, adding, “We’ll come down to the servants’ hall in a moment. I don’t expect we’ll keep the staff for long.”

“Very good, Inspector.” Jensen bowed and took himself off.

The instant the door shut behind him, Penelope humphed. “This case gets stranger and stranger. Who was this mystery man with the upsetting news?” She eyed the desk severely. “While I’m reluctant to search his lordship’s correspondence without knowing the man’s name and therefore what we’re searching for, if we don’t get some clue as to what the man reported, which was presumably what sparked his lordship’s temper, and some indication as to which of his family his ire was directed, I fear we’ll have to do just that.”

“Possibly,” Stokes allowed. “But if his lordship was disinclined to write things down, searching his papers might not get us far.”

“Indeed,” Barnaby said. “But before we ponder that, we need to release the staff. They’ll be waiting on us, and they do still have a dinner to serve.” Barnaby uncrossed his long legs and rose. “Let’s go and—faint hope—see if the staff can shed any light on our accumulating mysteries.”

Sadly, as Barnaby had foreshadowed, the assembled staff could add nothing to the picture of events they’d already assembled.

Penelope thought to clarify, “The nephews don’t bring staff with them—any gentleman’s gentlemen or grooms?”

“No, ma’am,” the housekeeper, Mrs. Hutchinson, said. “They use us.”

Gorton added, “My understanding is that none of the three are sufficiently flush to have staff of the level to be brought into this household.”

“So the footmen unpack their bags?” Penelope asked, but all the staff shook their heads.

Jensen explained, “The nephews have been visiting here since they were in short coats, and from the time each went to school, they’ve had a permanent room in the house. All three leave clothes and accoutrements here, so when they visit, they rarely bring much luggage. Just an overnight case at most.”

“I see.” Penelope glanced at the housekeeper and maids. “And the Busseltons?”

Mrs. Hutchinson replied, “They didn’t bring any staff, either.” She nodded at Gorton. “Gorton was deputed to assist Mr. Busselton.”

Gorton nodded. “I offered my services, but other than pressing his shirt for the evening, he did not require my assistance.”

Mrs. Hutchinson went on, “Pinchwell, her ladyship’s dresser”—she waved at a tall, somewhat severe-looking gray-haired female—“and Sally, who tends Miss Sophie”—another wave indicated a cheery, younger maid with apple cheeks and blond hair—“assisted the Busselton ladies as well as their mistresses.”

Penelope stifled a sigh. “I don’t suppose anyone noticed anything odd—any unusual vials or bottles?”

The staff glanced at each other, but all shook their heads.

Faintly grimacing, Penelope looked at Stokes. She was out of questions.

Stokes duly thanked the staff. “And now, we’ll get out of your way and let you get on with your duties.”

That announcement was greeted with relief, and Penelope led the way up the stairs as the staff dispersed.

Barnaby, with Stokes beside him, followed at Penelope’s heels as she led them back to the front hall.

They’d just emerged through the swinging baize-covered door at the rear of the hall when the front doorbell pealed.

All three of them halted, doubtless struck by the same thought.

Penelope looked down the hall toward the front door. As Jensen arrived and went past them to open it, she murmured, “It’s nearly six o’clock. A curious time to call at any house.”

As curious as Penelope regarding the caller, Barnaby waited with her and Stokes as Jensen swung open the door.

On taking in the personage waiting on the porch, Jensen exclaimed, “Mr. Wishpole, sir!” Surprise mixed with confusion in the butler’s tone.

The man on the porch was garbed in a conservative suit in the dull black favored by those in the legal profession. He was at least sixty years old, with white, tufted hair and a face whose wrinkles bore testimony to his age. His broad brow, piercing gaze, and prominent nose gave him the appearance of a raptor, but he nodded amiably at Jensen and said, “Good evening, Jensen. I had hoped to be here earlier, but his lordship’s summons rather took me by surprise, and there were matters I had to deal with before leaving chambers.”

Jensen stuttered, “I didn’t know…” Then he hauled in a breath, drew himself up, and bowed. “Do come in, sir.”

The older man—Wishpole—obliged, and Jensen hurried to shut the door.

Even as Wishpole noticed the investigators, Jensen whirled and spoke to Barnaby, Penelope, and Stokes. “This is Lord Meriwell’s solicitor, Mr. Wishpole of Lincoln’s Inn.”

Wishpole’s sharp gray gaze had already fixed on them. Smoothly, he said, “Indeed, I have that honor. But I fear you have the advantage of me.”

Before Jensen could fling himself into introductions, Barnaby went forward and offered his hand. “Barnaby Adair, sir.” As Wishpole gripped his hand, Barnaby waved at Penelope. “And this is my wife.”

Penelope came up beside Barnaby and returned Wishpole’s greeting—a half bow and a murmured “A pleasure, ma’am”—with a polite if curious nod.

“And this”—Barnaby gestured at Stokes, who had followed at Penelope’s heels—“is Inspector Stokes of Scotland Yard.”

Wishpole’s eyes widened even as he reached to shake the hand Stokes held out. “Bless me! What’s this about?”

Stokes released Wishpole’s hand. “I regret to inform you, sir, but your client, Lord Meriwell, is dead.”

“Dead?” There was no doubting Wishpole’s shock.

“Specifically,” Stokes went on, “he was poisoned at his dining table yesterday evening.”

Wishpole’s bushy white eyebrows had climbed to his hairline. “Good Lord! But?—”

Wishpole cut himself off, and his expression grew seriously perturbed.

Barnaby glanced at Penelope, then ventured, “Perhaps we might repair to the library, sir, and you can tell us what brings you here.”

Wishpole came out of his sudden reverie to blink at Barnaby and Penelope. “My apologies, sir, but what connection do you have to this matter?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Adair are acting as official consultants to the Metropolitan Police,” Stokes explained. “At the commissioners’ behest.”

“Ah.” Wishpole’s expression lit with understanding. “I have heard of your previous endeavors, I believe. With that case at Mandeville Hall?”

Penelope smiled. “Indeed. And several cases before that. But we are truly agog to learn what brought you to Meriwell Hall so opportunely, sir.”

Wishpole’s expression grew bleak, and he nodded. “And I fear I need to tell you forthwith.” He glanced at Barnaby. “The library, I believe you said?”

After Wishpole confirmed to Jensen that he would be staying at least overnight—and possibly for longer—and Barnaby assured the butler that they needed nothing more from him at that moment, the four made their way to the library.

While Penelope settled Wishpole in one of the armchairs before the fireplace, Barnaby and Stokes fetched drinks from the tantalus.

Stokes handed Wishpole a healthy dose of brandy, then took the chair beside the solicitor, leaving Barnaby the chair opposite, beside the one Penelope had claimed. Barnaby handed her a small tot of brandy and sat.

Wishpole took a long sip of the fiery spirit, then cleared his throat. “Dear me. I must admit this is a shock.” He raised his gaze and regarded the three of them with a shrewd eye. “But as to what brought me here, while I would not, normally, break the confidence of a client without their permission, in this instance, I feel you should be made aware that his lordship sent a message to my chambers yesterday. It arrived late in the afternoon, just before we closed. His lordship wrote that he wished to make a significant alteration to his will. He didn’t include any further details and asked that I bring the current will and all else necessary here, as soon as possible, to legally make the change.”

Stokes had extracted his notebook and was writing. “The message—who delivered it?” He glanced at Wishpole. “The household wasn’t aware that his lordship had sent any communication.”

Wishpole nodded. “It wasn’t brought by one of his lordship’s servants or agents but was delivered by a street lad. You know the sort, the young lads always ready to run a message for a few pennies.”

“You didn’t question the lad?” Stokes asked.

Wishpole replied, “It was my clerk who accepted the note, and he had no reason to. But in his lordship’s message, which, I might add, was obviously written in haste, he mentioned that he was arranging delivery through the good offices of an acquaintance.”

Leaning back in the chair, Barnaby steepled his fingers. “Did his lordship give you any idea of who that acquaintance was?”

Wishpole shook his head. “I have no idea, but plainly, his lordship was correct in thinking that speed was of the essence in this matter of changing his will.” Wishpole’s expression turned grave. “It seems that whoever would have been affected by the change his lordship intended to make must have learned of his lordship’s intention and taken steps to ensure he didn’t have the opportunity to effect the change.”

Stokes nodded. “The timing is hard to discount.”

Penelope asked, “Did his lordship give you any indication of what type of change he intended to make?”

Wishpole shook his head. “He wrote only that he wished to make ‘a significant alteration,’ which, given the nature of his will, I presumed meant a change to the bequests. Beyond that, I know nothing more.”

Barnaby shared a grimace with Stokes. Once again, they appeared to be stymied.

Penelope ventured, “I take it you have his lordship’s current—and therefore extant—will with you.”

Wishpole regarded her warily. “I do.”

Penelope smiled understandingly and asked, “Given the extraordinary circumstances, can you outline for us, in general terms, the major provisions as they currently stand?”

Barnaby hid an appreciative smile. His clever wife had phrased her request in such a way that Wishpole might see his way to oblige.

The solicitor frowned and clearly inwardly debated the request, then slowly, he nodded. “In the circumstances, I feel certain his lordship would wish me to share the general outline with you. So. Firstly, Clementina, his wife, retains the use of the house and grounds and the income of the associated unentailed estate for her lifetime. As for ownership of the unentailed estate, Miss Sophie Meriwell is the principal beneficiary. Ultimately, she will inherit all that is not entailed, except for the following specific bequests to his lordship’s nephews, the sons of his late brother, Claude. Those bequests are, to Stephen Meriwell, a certain sum of money, to Arthur Meriwell, the ownership of a specific horse from his lordship’s stable, and to Peter Meriwell, a sum of money specifically intended to settle his debts. As to the title and the entailed estate, they will, of course, go to his lordship’s senior surviving male heir.”

Wishpole looked at Penelope, then at Barnaby and Stokes. “That’s more or less the sum of it. It’s a fairly standard will for these times.”

Barnaby nodded. Distantly, from deeper in the house, the sounds of activity reached them.

Penelope glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “Time is getting on, I fear.”

“Thank you for your information, Mr. Wishpole.” Stokes rose and nodded to the older man. “You’ve given us a great deal to think about. We may need to speak with you again.”

Wishpole inclined his head. “Of course.”

Barnaby, too, got to his feet. “Should you need us, we’re staying at the Angel Inn, which is only a few minutes away.”

“That’s good to know.” Wishpole pushed out of the chair as Penelope rose. “I imagine I’ll remain here for at least several days. Quite aside from having a very real interest in how the investigation progresses, I should be here to support her ladyship and Miss Sophie as needed.” His expression clouded, and he added, “I know that’s what Angus—Lord Meriwell—would have wanted me to do. He was a valued client and a good man. He might have been elderly, but he didn’t deserve to have his last years taken from him.”

“Indeed.” Penelope inclined her head to Wishpole. “We’ll leave you to get settled. No doubt we’ll meet tomorrow.”

With that, Barnaby, Penelope, and Stokes left the room and made for the side door and the Angel Inn.