Sebastian used a mouthful of food as an excuse to make no reply.
Most were eating in silence, with only a few soft-voiced conversations among the ladies springing up and then quietly fading. As he ate, he studied the faces—as Antonia was doing. Cecilia was clearly saddened and sorrowful but not distraught. Virtually everyone else looked unsettled and uncomfortable; none were sure how they should behave, and most showed signs of lingering shock and not a little uncertainty.
A few of the men, like Filbury, were hovering on the brink of belligerence, but Sebastian judged that was nothing more than their way of dealing with a situation they didn’t understand and couldn’t control.
He’d just pushed his empty plate away when sounds from the hall suggested Sir Humphrey had arrived.
The company exchanged glances, very much of the “What do we do?” variety, but before any answer was formulated, Sir Humphrey walked through the open doorway.
A tall, thin, middle-aged man garbed in a neat but undistinguished suit accompanied the magistrate; the man, presumably the inspector, had a long, thin face and a long, thin nose, and his brown eyes were sharp and watchful. Both men halted just inside the room and waited for those about the table to turn and face them.
Sir Humphrey greeted them all with a crisp nod and a brisk, “Good morning.” He waved to the man beside him. “This is Inspector Crawford of Scotland Yard. He will, henceforth, be in charge of the investigation.”
Crawford stepped forward. “Lady Ennis.” He half bowed to Cecilia, then, with a more general nod, let his gaze travel around the table. “Ladies and gentlemen. I understand you will wish to know how the investigation into Lord Ennis’s murder stands, and I will endeavor to answer that question as soon as may be.” The inspector had a dry, precise way of speaking that was curiously calming. “But first, I need to examine the study in which his lordship was killed. Subsequently, I will interview each of you, one by one, in the estate office. Purely routine—we need to determine where each of you were over the critical period, which I understand to be between nine thirty and ten o’clock last evening. Until you are called to the estate office, I would ask you to remain in this room, the music room, or the drawing room. Once you’ve been interviewed, you will be free to move about the house and grounds, but at this stage, it’s imperative that you all remain here, at this house.”
Several mouths opened, no doubt to protest, but before a word was uttered, Crawford smoothly rolled on, “Rest assured we will release you as soon as possible.” He nodded to the company—a nod that was nicely gauged to be civil and appropriate, yet in no way servile. “Thank you for your forbearance. We will attempt to minimize the disruption to your day.”
With that, the inspector turned to Sir Humphrey, and together, the pair walked out.
“Well!” Mrs. McGibbin said. After a moment, she added, “At least he seems a sensible-enough person.”
By which, Antonia wryly thought, returning her gaze to her teacup, you mean the man was wise enough to appear conciliatory.
She’d been the second of the party to arrive in the breakfast room. Only Worthington had been before her. She’d sat toward one end of the table and had paid particular attention to the faces of all the men as they’d joined the gathering. She felt that a man who’d murdered his host the evening before should carry some sign of guilt in his countenance.
Sadly for her theory, while all the men appeared somber and even rather grim, none had looked remotely guilt-ridden. Several looked worried, even anxious, but more in the way of being concerned that they might be looked at askance by the other members of the company; all of the men seemed to have realized that suspicion might, at some point, focus on them, and they were all watching each other closely, searching, as she was, for some hint of who was the guilty party.
No one stood out. There was nothing to distinguish one from the other.
Now that the inspector had made his appearance, several members of the group eased back their chairs, preparing to rise.
Before anyone did, Cecilia cleared her throat and raised her head. In a voice made husky and scratchy by weeping, she said, “I fear I must apologize—such a dreadful business to engulf us all.”
Instantly, there was a chorus of disavowals and assurances that no one could possibly blame her, not at all.
Cecilia smiled weakly. “Thank you, my friends, not just for your understanding but also your support.” She smiled at Mrs. Parrish and Mrs. McGibbin in particular.
Seated beside Cecilia, Mrs. Parrish patted Cecilia’s hand. “There’s no need to worry your head over us, my dear. I’m sure we’ll all cope.”