“I suppose you’re right,” Emma conceded. “But he must have known about Lex’s drinking habits. And everyone knew how wild he was. Richard once said that Lex would do anything on a dare. So, when opportunity knocked ...”
“... Grayson simply arranged for Lex to kill himself.” Derek nodded. “Very convenient. Who’s Richard?”
“An old friend,” Emma said, too carelessly. “He was a big fan of Lex’s.”
“Poor chap. Tone-deaf?”
Emma suppressed an unseemly snort of laughter and ignored the question. “So what have we come up with? Grayson arranges Lex’s death and embezzles his money—electronically. Susannah, looking for a way to avenge her father’s suicide, roots out Winslow—your boyhood friend, the banker—and Winslow discovers something funny about Lex’s books. Susannah comes to Penford Hall bent on blackmail—”
“To punish the House of Penford for her father’s death,” Derek put in.
“And she ends up with her head caved in.”
“That seems to be the gist,” said Derek.
Emma frowned. “But it’s been five years since Lex died. Why did Susannah wait so long to make her move?”
“Had to woo a cooperative banker?” Derek suggested. “It’d take some time to sweep old Winslow off his feet.” Sighing, he finished the last of his whiskey and set the glass on the mantelpiece. “What a tangled web we’ve woven, Emma. And not a single strand to show to the police.”
“I’m not so sure about that.” Emma tapped a finger against the side of her glass. “Susannah wouldn’t have come to Penford Hall empty-handed, not with a score like that to settle. I think Winslow told her more than she let on. I’m willing to bet that she came here with some sort of hard evidence to flaunt in Grayson’s face.”
“A pity she can’t tell us where to find it,” Derek commented. “What do you make of Susannah’s amnesia, by the way? Could she be faking it?”
“Possibly. The smartest thing she can do is pretend she’s forgotten everything. She’s at their mercy, after all.” Emma swirled the whiskey in her glass. “I had an interesting conversation with Kate after you left. She’s just as crazy about Penford Hall as Grayson is.”
“Unfortunate choice of words,” Derek said, “but I see your point. It would make sense for Susannah to approach Grayson through Kate. She does act as his lieutenant.”
“I was thinking ... Maybe Kate scheduled a meeting in the chapel garden to discuss Susannah’s demands. And maybe the meeting got out of hand.” Emma quickly recounted the scenario she’d envisioned: the confrontation in the garden, the angry exchange of words, the sudden grab for the hoe’s long handle, the tearing of the oilcloth, the silent fall, the panicked escape. “Whoever tore the oilcloth from the wheelbarrow knows something about Susannah’s accident,” Emma concluded. “I’d hoped we might be able to dust the oilcloth for fingerprints or something. But when I checked with Bantry this morning, he’d already cleaned it.”
Derek had strolled away from the fire and was standing very near Emma’s chair. He looked down at her in silence for what seemed a long time, then nodded, as though confirming something. “You’re very good at that, you know.”
“At what?” Emma touched a hand to her glasses self-consciously.
“Thinking things through. Imagining what it must have been like. Not my strong point, imagination.”
“It’s not mine, either,” Emma protested. “I just try to think logically.”
“Nonsense,” Derek chided gently. “You’ve a very creative mind. A logical one, as well, but what good is logic without intuition?” Shoving his hands into the pockets of his faded jeans, he turned to face the fire. “Why didn’t you tell me about the oilcloth last night in the nursery?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” The firelight made Derek’s blue eyes sparkle as brightly as they had the night before. “It just didn’t seem to be the right time or place, I guess.”
“Suppose not,” Derek agreed. “Had a splendid evening, though.” He glanced shyly at Emma. “You?”
Emma’s energetic nod sent whiskey sloshing onto the Persian carpet. As Derek knelt to wipe it up, Emma shrank back in her chair, crimson with embarrassment.
“Meant to thank you for the swift kick, by the way,” Derek said. “I was drifting, wasn’t I. Nell’s complained of it before, but I thought she was just ... being Nell. Don’t understand what she’s getting at half the time. A kick on the shin, though. Hard to ignore.” He sat back on his heels, and his gaze was level with Emma’s. “Was I really that bad?”
Emma wanted to comfort him, but couldn’t. From everything she’d seen and heard, Nell’s complaints seemed sadly justified. Carefully placing her whiskey glass on the end table, she said, “You must miss your wife terribly.”
Derek looked down at the damp handkerchief in his hands. “Sometimes—when I’m working—I forget.”
“Is that why you work so much?” Emma asked, very gently.