She raised her brows.
“The timing. Kitty must have conceived in London, not down here. Arturo wasn’t in London.”
“Ah.” Her face cleared. “Of course. So there’s really no reason Arturo would have killed her.”
“Not that I can see. And as for Dennis, even imagining an unrequited love, given he knew Arturo was consorting with Kitty, I can’t see Dennis imagining himself in the running. Again, why kill her?”
“I talked to the maid about how the staff saw Kitty. The girl’s a local and has lived here on the estate all her life. She knows everyone, and is old enough to scent any scandal between stairs. There wasn’t even a hint she considered such a thing vaguely possible—in fact, she told me the maids were frightened the murderer was one of the gentlemen, and they’d been reassured by the housekeeper that it was sure to be the gypsies.”
He snorted. “The gypsies. Always the most convenient scapegoats.”
“Especially if they up stakes and leave.” She paused, mused, “I wonder if the murderer, whoever he is, has thought of that?”
“I’d say he might be counting on it—the gypsies decamping in the dead of night would be his salvation.”
They both sat staring out at the lake, watching the breeze send ripples across the glassy surface. Minutes passed, then Portia sighed.
“The Glossups. We’ve left all of them except Oswald, even Lady Glossup, on our list. Why do you think one of them would have killed Kitty? They’d put up with her for three or more years, and the Archers were staying. Why kill her—and especially why now? There would have to be a very good reason.”
“Two reasons,” he replied, his tone flat and even. “One, divorce—a topic Henry’s only recently been forced to consider. Two, the baby she was carrying that wasn’t any of theirs, but which, if she’d borne it, would have been the next Glossup heir. They might not rank as high as either the Cynsters or the Ashfords, but the Glossups have been around almost as long—they’re an old and, in their way, distinguished house.”
“But she wasn’t going to bear it—she was quite definite about that.”
“You overheard her telling her mother that—how many others knew?”
Portia spread her hands. “How many others knew she was having a baby at all?”
“Only you, those she told, and those they might in turn have told.”
Portia wrinkled her nose. “I told Lady O. And you.”
“Precisely. And there’s always the servants—they overhear more than we think.”
“And the household must have known Kitty and Henry were estranged.”
“Which means it would have been obvious to all that any child Kitty was carrying was not—”
When he stopped, Portia looked at him, then grimaced horrendously. “If the baby wasn’t a Glossup—and it most likely wasn’t—then that would have been bad enough, but what if it was indeed a Glossup?”
“Worse, what if it wasn’t, but Kitty claimed it was?”
“No—you forget. She didn’t want to carry the child.”
“I hadn’t forgotten.” There was ice in his tone. “If she wanted to persuade the father—or someone who might have been the father, or even someone who could not possibly be the father—that it would be wise to help her abort the child . . .” He met Portia’s gaze. “What better way to persuade James, or Harold, or even Lord Netherfield to aid her than by claiming the baby was a Glossup, just not Henry’s.”
Portia stared at him, her eyes growing round. “You mean . . . she’d tell James it was Harold’s, or Harold it was James’s, or Lord Netherfield either . . .”
She put her hand to her chest and swallowed. “Good God!”
“Exactly. And what if Henry found out?”
She held his gaze, then looked away.
After a moment, he went on, “And that’s not even considering the looming likelihood of divorce. For Harold and Catherine, and Lord Netherfield, too, the very concept is shocking, more than it is for us. For their generation, it’s an unthinkable scandal reflecting on all the family.
“We know what Kitty was like, how she delighted in irritating people. We know that she went to the library to meet someone, but we don’t know whom or why. We don’t know what they discussed—what topic drove the murderer to silence her.”
Portia said nothing, her understanding and agreement implicit. After a few minutes, she slipped her hand into his, leaned against his shoulder. Flicking free of her fingers, he lifted his arm and she wriggled closer as he gathered her in.