Everyone from the house attended, bar only the handful of servants left to prepare the wake.

As for the county, the surrounding families were represented by the patriarchs; none of their ladies attended.

Therein lay a message Portia, Simon, and Charlie could read with ease. Standing back, ready to lend an arm should Lady O or Lord Netherfield require one, they watched as the usually jocular neighbors, many of whom they’d met at Kitty’s luncheon, somberly came forward to speak with the family, to murmur condolences, then, clearly uncomfortable, walk away.

“That doesn’t look good,” Charlie murmured.

“They’re reserving judgment,” Portia replied.

“Which means they believe there’s a reasonable chance one of the Glossups…” Simon let his words trail away; none of them needed to hear the truth stated.

The service had been the usual sober affair, somewhat abbreviated given the circumstances and of a darker tone. As if a cloud now hovered over them all, or at least over Glossup Hall. A cloud that would only be dissipated by the unmasking of Kitty’s murderer.

When the right words had been said, all condolences offered and received, the gathering broke up. After seeing Lady O and Lord Netherfield into the carriage they were sharing, Simon handed Portia up into his curricle, followed, and took up the reins as Charlie clambered up behind; with a flick of his wrist, he set his bays in motion, stepping smartly down the lane.

Minutes went by, then Charlie swore.

Portia turned to look at him.

“Sorry.” He grimaced. “I was just recalling James’s face. And Henry’s.”

“Let alone Lord and Lady Glossup’s.” Simon’s tone was tight. “They’re all trying to put a brave face on it, yet they can see what’s coming, and there’s precious little they can do to avoid it.”

Portia frowned. “It’s not fair. They’re not the only ones who might have murdered Kitty.”

“Given Kitty’s performance at the luncheon party, doubtless repeated, embroidered, and spread far and wide, polite society will see no reason to look further.”

Charlie swore again, this time with more feeling. “That’s just what I meant. No matter that they were the victims of Kitty’s antics in the first place, dashed if now they aren’t the victims of her murderer.”

Portia felt forced to point out, “It could be one of them.”

Charlie snorted. “And pigs might fly.”

She glanced at Simon; he kept his eyes on the road, but from the grim set of his mouth, she assumed he agreed with Charlie. Understandable, she supposed; they were such close friends of James’s, and of the family, too.

Facing forward, she thought about what she felt, not with her head but with her heart. When the gates of the Hall loomed ahead, she said, “Actually, everyone here, excepting you both and me, and the younger girls, Lady O, Lady Hammond, and Mrs. Archer, are in similar straits, even if they haven’t understood that yet.”

Charlie humphed. “If the silence over the breakfast table this morning was anything to judge by, most have realized-they’re just avoiding thinking about it.” After a moment, he added, “Not every day one attends a house party and finds oneself embroiled in murder.”

Simon drew up in the forecourt; a groom came running. Simon handed over the reins, then helped her down. The first of the other carriages was coming slowly up the drive; Simon exchanged a glance with her, then caught Charlie’s eye-the three of them moved off, taking the path into the pinetum.

Reversing the route she and Simon had walked prior to her stumbling on poor Kitty’s body… Portia caught herself up. Poor Kitty?

After a moment, she linked her arm in Simon’s; he glanced at her face, but said nothing. They walked slowly under the trees, Charlie trailing, equally pensive, behind them.

In their indignation over their friends’ being tarred with unwarranted suspicions, they, and very likely all others, had forgetten that Kitty was indeed poor Kitty; Kitty was dead. No longer able to walk under trees with a man by her side, to wake in his arms, filled with a soft urgency that blossomed into bliss.

She had it all, and Kitty had nothing.

Poor Kitty, indeed.

“We have to find out who the murderer is.” She looked up, looking ahead. “Surely we must be able to do something to help Stokes.”

“Can we?” Charlie asked. “I mean… will he let us, do you think?”

“He was at the funeral.” Simon paced by Portia’s side. “He was watching everyone, but he’s guessing where we know enough to be sure.” He caught Portia’s eye. “Perhaps we should offer our services?”

She nodded, determined. “We should.”

“But before we do that”-they’d reached the lake path; Charlie came up beside them-“we’d better head back to the house and put in an appearance at the wake.”

They did. The gathering was held in the drawing room, curtains half-drawn. With a meaningful nod to them both, Charlie went to talk to James, standing a little apart, a glass in his hand.

Simon and Portia circulated; few of the local gentlemen had come back to the house-the company was primarily composed of the houseguests. Portia stopped to chat to the Hammond sisters, subdued and somewhat crushed. Simon left her and moved on, eventually coming up beside Stokes.

The “gentleman from Bow Street” was hanging back by the wall, consuming a pastry. He caught Simon’s eye. “Lord Netherfield suggested I attend.” He took another bite, looked away. “Seems a nice old codger.”

“Very. And no, I don’t think he did it.”

Stokes grinned, and met Simon’s gaze. “Any particular reason for thinking so?”

Thrusting his hands into his pockets, Simon looked across the room. “He’s of a type and a generation where stooping to murder someone as essentially powerless as Kitty-Mrs. Glossup-would be seen as very bad form.”

Stokes munched on the pastry, then quietly asked, “Does ‘very bad form’ still matter?”

“Not to all by any means, but to those of his ilk, yes.” Simon met Stokes’s questioning look. “To him, it would be a matter of personal honor, and that, I assure you, matters to him very much.”

After a moment, Stokes nodded, then pulled out a handkerchief and dusted his fingers. He didn’t look up as he said, “Do I take it you’re willing to… assist me in my inquiries?”

Simon hesitated, then replied, “Perhaps in interpreting any facts you might find, attaching the correct weight to anything you might hear.”

“Ah, I see.” Stokes’s lips curved. “You’re a very old friend of Mr. James Glossup, I hear.”

Simon inclined his head. “Which is why I, and Miss Ashford and Mr. Hastings, are all eager the murderer-the real murderer, whoever he is-be unmasked.” He met Stokes’s gaze. “You’ll need us to get anywhere. We need you to get a result. A fair enough bargain, to my mind.”

Stokes mulled it over, then stuffed his handkerchief back in his pocket. “I’ll be conducting interviews all afternoon-I haven’t yet spoken to all who were here. Then I’m going down to the gypsy encampment. I doubt I’ll be back before dinner, but perhaps we can talk when I return?”

Simon nodded. “The summerhouse-it’s down by the lake. You can’t miss it. It’s private, and no one else is likely to wander that far at dusk. We’ll wait for you there.”

“Agreed.”

With an inclination of his head, Simon moved away.

He, Portia, and Charlie decamped to the summerhouse the instant tea, served as soon as the gentlemen returned to the drawing room, had been dispensed with. Normal custom having been observed, most guests retired to their rooms, although a light still burned in the billiard room; with the library inhabited by Bow Street’s best, it had become the gentlemen’s retreat.

Stokes had spent all afternoon interrogating the rest of the houseguests, then disappeared. There’d already been a curious tension in the air, as if the desperate fiction that the murderer was, of course, one of the gypsies was already wearing thin; Stokes’s unexplained absence only ratcheted that tension one notch tighter.

Beside Simon, Portia walked down the lawns and onto the path around the lake, puzzling, as she had since quitting his bed that morning in great measure restored to her customary spirits, over why Kitty’s murder had come about.

“You have to admit Stokes was mightily brave to specifically interview Lady O.” Charlie followed in their wake, frowning as he ambled.

“He seems very thorough,” Simon replied.

“And determined.”

“That, too.”

“Do you think he’ll succeed?”

Simon glanced at Charlie. “For the Glossups’ sakes-for everyone’s sakes-I hope so.” He seemed to catch something of Charlie’s concern. “Why do you ask? What is it?”

They paused, as one turning to confront Charlie.

Halting, he grimaced. “I spoke to James at the wake, and again this afternoon. He’s… not his usual self.”

Portia raised her brows. “I wouldn’t be my usual self either if I knew I was a prime suspect for murder.”

“Yes, well, it’s rather more than that.” Charlie looked at Simon. “You know how close James and Henry really are. This business, if anything, has drawn them closer…” Charlie ran a hand through his hair. “Point is, James feels guilty over Kitty-not because he harmed her, but over her preferring him to Henry. Even though he never encouraged it… well, it was pretty clear how it was. Deuced awkward enough while she was living-hell now she’s not.”

Simon had stilled; Portia sensed the change in him.

“What exactly are you saying?”

Charlie sighed. “I’m worried that James will do something foolish-especially if things look to be going badly for Henry, and heaven knows, it already looks bad enough. I think he might confess to spare Henry.”

Simon exhaled. “Damn!”

Portia looked from one to the other. “Would he really do that?”