The Perfect Lover (Cynster 10)

She heard the immediate pounding as he rushed to her. Put out her hands to stop him as he, as she had, tripped, then stumbled.

He caught his balance, glanced down, swore, and grabbed her, held her tight.

Swore again, and wrapped his arms around her, holding her close, swinging her away, shielding her from the sight.

Of the young gypsy gardener, Dennis, lying sprawled on his back, strangled . . . like Kitty.

Like Kitty, quite dead.

No.” Stokes answered the question put to him by Lord Netherfield; they—Stokes, Simon, Portia, Charlie, Lady O, and his lordship—were gathered in the library, taking stock. “So early in the morning, no one had any real alibi. Everyone was in their rooms, alone.”

“That early, heh?”

“Apparently Dennis often started soon after first light. Today, the head gardener passed him and spoke with him—the exact time’s uncertain, but it was long before the household was up and about. One thing, however, we can say.” Stokes stood in the middle of the room and faced them, gathered on the chaise and armchairs before the main he

arth. “Whoever killed Dennis was a man in his prime. The lad put up quite a struggle—that much was clear.”

Perched on the arm of the chair in which Portia sat, Simon glanced at her face. She was still white with shock, and far too quiet, even though half a day had passed since her gruesome discovery. Second gruesome discovery. Lips thinning, he looked back at Stokes; remembering the gouges in the grass, the twisted body, he nodded. “Kitty could have been murdered by anyone; Dennis is another matter.”

“Aye. We can forget all thought of any woman being the murderer.”

Lady O blinked. “I didn’t know we were considering the ladies.”

“We were considering everyone. We can’t afford to guess.”

“Humph! I suppose not.” She fluffed her shawl. Her customary air of invincible certainty was wavering; the second murder had shocked everyone, not just anew, but to a deeper level. The murderer was unquestionably still there, among them; some had, perhaps, started to push the matter aside in their minds, but Dennis’s death had forced all to realize the horror couldn’t be so easily buried.

Lounging against the mantelpiece, Charlie asked, “What did the blackguard use to strangle the poor blighter?”

“Another curtain cord. This time from the morning room.”

Charlie grimaced. “So it could have been anyone.”

Stokes nodded. “However, if we assume the same person’s responsible for both murders, we can reduce the list of suspects considerably.”

“Only men,” Lady O said.

Stokes inclined his head. “And only those strong enough to be sure of subduing Dennis—I think the being sure is important. Our murderer couldn’t risk trying but not succeeding, and he had to get the deed done quickly—he would have known there’d be others about.”

He hesitated, then went on, “I’m inclined to say the murderer must be Henry Glossup, James Glossup, Desmond Winfield, or Ambrose Calvin.” He paused; when no one argued, he continued, “All have strong motives for killing Mrs. Glossup, all could physically have done the deeds, all had the opportunity, and none has an alibi.”

Simon heard Portia sigh; he glanced down in time to see her shiver, then she looked up. “His shoes. The grass must have been wet that early. Perhaps if we check . . .”

Grim-faced, Stokes shook his head. “I already did. Whoever our man is, he’s clever and careful. All their shoes were clean and dry.” He glanced at Lord Netherfield. “I have to thank you, sir—Blenkinsop and the staff have been most helpful.”

Lord Netherfield waved the remark aside. “I want this murderer caught. I won’t have my grandsons—or the family—tainted by this sort of thing, and they will be unless we catch the blackguard.” He met Stokes’s gaze. “I’ve lived too long to shrink from reality. Not exposing the villain will only ensure the innocent are shunned along with him. We need the blackguard caught, now, before things get any worse.”

Stokes hesitated, then said, “If you’ll pardon the observation, my lord, you seem very confident neither of your grandsons is our villain.”

His old hands folded on the top of his cane, Lord Netherfield nodded. “I am. I’ve known them from babes, and neither of them has it in him. But you can’t be expected to know that, and I’m not going to waste breath trying to convince you. You must look at all four, but mark my words, it’ll be one of the other two.”

The respect with which Stokes inclined his head was transparently genuine. “Thank you. And now”—his gaze swept them all—“I must ask you to excuse me. There are details to check, although I confess I’m not expecting to find any useful clue.”

With a small bow, he left them.

As the door closed, Simon noticed Lady O trying to catch his eye, directing his attention to Portia.

Not that it needed directing. He glanced at her, then reached for her hand. “Come on—let’s go for a ride.”