The investigator duly arrived-and promptly informed them that they would need to think again.

A large man, heavily built but with an air of determined energy, Inspector Stokes had first spoken with Lord Glossup and Lord Netherfield in the study before being conducted into the drawing room and introduced to the guests en masse.

He inclined his head politely. Portia noticed his eyes, a steady slate grey, moving over each face as their names were said. When her turn came, she regally inclined her head, watched Stokes duly note Simon sitting on the arm of her chair, his arm on its back; then his gaze rose to Simon’s face, he acknowledged his name with a nod, and moved on.

Despite all, her interest was piqued-not in Stokes the man, but Stokes the investigator. How was he going to unmask the murderer?

“I take it, Mr. Stokes, that now you have met us, you have no objections to our departing?” Lady Calvin asked the question, the full weight of her status as an earl’s daughter echoing in her tone.

Stokes didn’t blink. “I regret, ma’am, that until the murderer’s identified, or until I’ve investigated as far as I’m able, that I must request that you all”-his gaze swept the company-“remain at Glossup Hall.”

Lady Calvin colored. “But that’s preposterous!”

“Indeed, sir.” Lady Hammond fluffed her shawl. “I’m sure you mean well, but it’s quite out of the question-”

“Unfortunately, ma’am, it’s the law.”

There was not an ounce of anything anyone could take exception to in Stokes’s tone, nor yet any comfort they could draw from it.

He inclined his head in something resembling a bow. “I regret, ma’am, but it’s quite essential.”

Lord Glossup huffed. “Standard procedures and all that, I understand. No point quibbling-and really, there’s no reason the party can’t continue, except for… well, yes, except for that.”

Portia was sitting across from the Archers. Mrs. Archer appeared still in shock; it was questionable whether she’d taken anything in since being told her younger daughter had been strangled. Mr. Archer, however, was pale but determined; he sat at his wife’s side, a hand on her arm. At Stokes’s words, a glimmer of pain had crossed his features; now he cleared his throat, and said, “I would take it kindly if we could all assist Mr. Stokes in whatever way we can. The sooner he finds Kitty’s murderer, the better it will be for us all.”

There was nothing to be heard in his voice beyond a father’s grief, controlled yet unflaggingly genuine. Naturally, his appeal was met by quiet murmurs and assurances that yes, of course, put like that…

Stokes hid it well, but he was relieved. He waited until the murmurs died, then said, “I understand Miss Ashford, Mr. Cynster, and Mr. Hastings were the first to see the body.” His gaze swung to Portia and Simon; she nodded slightly. “If I could speak with you three first…?”

No real question, of course; the three of them rose and followed Stokes and Lord Glossup to the door.

“You can use the estate office-I told them to clear the rubbish.”

“Actually.” Stokes halted by the door. “I would much prefer to use the library. I believe that’s where the body was found?”

Lord Glossup frowned, but nodded. “Aye.”

“Then it’s unlikely your guests will be keen to spend time there. It would expedite my questioning if I can establish specific points at the scene, so to speak.”

Lord Glossup had to agree. Portia went through the door Stokes held open and led the way to the library; she exchanged a glance with Simon as he opened the library door, was sure he, too, felt Stokes’s request had rather more reason than that.

Whatever it was, it felt undeniably strange to reenter the room where she’d discovered Kitty’s body. Had it only been just over twenty-four hours ago? It felt more like days.

They all paused just inside the door; Stokes closed it, then waved them to the armchairs gathered before the fireplace, at the opposite end of the room from the desk.

Portia sat on the chaise, Simon sat beside her. Charlie took one armchair. Stokes considered them, then sat in the other armchair, facing them. Portia wondered if he was sensitive enough to read the arrangement; it was indeed him against the three of them, at least until they decided if they would trust him.

He drew a notebook from his coat pocket and flipped it open. “Miss Ashford, if you could start by describing exactly what happened from the point where you entered the front hall yesterday afternoon.” He looked up at her. “You were with Mr. Cynster, I understand?”

Portia inclined her head. “We’d been walking in the pinetum.”

He glanced at a sheet he’d unfolded and laid on his knee. “So you’d gone out together through the front door?”

“No. We’d left from the terrace after lunch, and circled around via the lake path, and so on to the pinetum.”

He followed the route on what was clearly a sketch of the house and grounds. “I see. So you entered the front hall from the forecourt. What happened then?”

Step by step, he led her through the moments, leading her to describe her movements remarkably accurately.

“Why did you wander around the room like that? Were you looking for a book?”

“No.” Portia hesitated, then, with a fleeting glance at Simon, explained, “After my discussion with Mr. Cynster I was somewhat overset. I came in here to think and circled the room to calm down.”

Stokes blinked. His gaze shifted to Simon; faint puzzlement showed in his eyes. Neither of them exhibited the slightest sign of any tension between them-quite the opposite.

She took pity on him. “Mr. Cynster and I have known each other since childhood-we frequently upset each other.”

Stokes looked back at her. “Ah.” He met her gaze; she saw a glimmer of respect-he’d realized she’d followed his thoughts well enough to answer the question he hadn’t yet posed. He looked down at his notebook. “Very well. So you continued on around the room…”

She continued her story. When she came to the point of Simon’s rushing in, Stokes stopped her, and switched his interrogation to Simon.

It was easier to appreciate Stokes’s art when it wasn’t directed at her. She watched and listened as he drew a highly detailed and factual account from Simon, then turned his attention to Charlie; Stokes was really very good. All three of them had come prepared to tell him all, yet there remained a reticence, a barrier over which they would speak, but not cross; Stokes was not of their class, not of their world.

They’d all entered the room reserving judgment. She exchanged a glance with Simon, noted Charlie’s more relaxed pose; both of them were revising their opinions of “the gentleman from Bow Street.”

He’d be fighting an uphill battle if they didn’t reach over that barrier and help him understand what had truly been going on, what concerns drove the various members of the house party, what tangled webs Kitty had been weaving before she’d come to grief.

Stokes himself was intelligent enough to know it. Clever enough, now he had their measure, to openly acknowledge it. He’d taken them to the point where others had rushed in and Kitty’s death had become more widely known. Setting aside his map, he looked up, let his gaze linger, then gravely asked, “Is there anything you can tell me-any fact you know, any reason at all you can even imagine-that might have led one of the guests here, or the staff, or even one of the gypsies, to kill Mrs. Glossup?”

When they didn’t immediately react, he straightened in the chair. “Is there anyone at all you suspect?”

Portia glanced at Simon; so did Charlie. Simon met her gaze, read her decision, checked with Charlie, who almost imperceptibly nodded, then looked at Stokes. “Do you have a list of the guests?”

At the end of an hour, Stokes ran his fingers through his hair, and stared at the network of notes he’d made around Kitty’s name. “Was the damned woman looking to get herself strangled?”

“If you’d known her, you’d understand.” Meeting Portia’s gaze, Simon continued, “She seemed incapable of seeing how her actions were affecting others-she didn’t think of others’ reactions at all.”

“This is not going to be easy.” Stokes sighed, waved his notebook. “I’m usually searching for motive, but here we’ve motives aplenty, opportunity for all the household to have done the deed, and precious little to tell us which of them actually did.”

He searched their faces again. “And you’re sure no one has given the slightest sign since-”

The library door opened; Stokes swung around, a frown gathering, then he saw who it was; his expression blanked as he rose to his feet.

As did the others as Lady Osbaldestone and Lord Netherfield, looking like a pair of aged conspirators, carefully shut the door, then-as silently as two largish people using canes could-swept across the room to join them.

Stokes tried to assert his authority. “My lord, ma’am-if you don’t mind, I really need to-”

“Oh, posh!” Lady O declared. “They’re not going to play mum just because we’re here.”

“Yes, but-”

“We came to make sure they told you all.” Leaning on her cane, Lady O fixed Stokes with her best basilisk stare. “Have they told you about the serpent?”

“Serpent?” Stokes’s face was a study in impassivity; he shot a glance at Simon and Portia, clearly hoping they’d rescue him…

When they didn’t immediately respond, his eyes narrowed; he looked back at Lady O. “What serpent?”

Simon sighed. “We hadn’t got that far yet.”

Naturally, there was no getting rid of Lady O after that. They all sat again, Simon relinquishing his seat on the chaise to Lady O and Lord Netherfield and taking up a stance by the hearth.

They related to Stokes the tale of the adder found in Portia’s bed which, by sheer luck, she’d not attempted to lie in having fallen asleep in a chair instead. Stokes accepted the explanation without a blink; Portia exchanged a glance with Simon, relieved.