Miss Cecilia Anders chuckled. Lady Penelope cast her an icy glare.
“The servants unaccounted for during the entire time the others were together,” Lord Vitor said, “include the kitchen maid, the cook, three footmen, and Lady Iona’s personal servant. They will remain in the castle until the mystery of Mr. Walsh’s death is solved. His highness’s guards will also remain.”
Lord Whitebarrow scowled. “This is an outrage.”
“Ach,” the duchess said. “If ye didna do it, whit’s got ye worried?”
“I beg your pardon?”
The duchess’s eyes twinkled with the same devilish light in her daughter’s. “Mebbe ’tis no’ my pardon ye should be beggin’, but the dead man’s.”
“Well, I—”
“Now, now,” Prince Sebastiao said with an expansive swing of one arm. “Who knows but an intruder did not arrive while we were all drinking champagne and stumbled upon the man by accident?”
“In the name of Zeus, who was this unfortunate fellow Walsh?” Sir Henry said. Beside him, his timid daughter ducked her head.
“A distant friend of the family,” the prince replied with a swift glance at Lord Case, then tipped his drink to his lips. “Why, Sir Henry? Did you know him? Perhaps well enough to wish him dead?”
Sir Henry’s heavy brow cut down. “Now, see here, your high—”
“Papa,” Ann Feathers whispered. “Please.”
Her mother rose to her feet with a creaking of stays. “Well, I’ve never heard of such alarming goings-on. But if your highness requires an interview from us all, I’ll be the first to agree to it. I think we all should, so the murderer can be found lickety-quick and we can all sleep at night.” Lady Margaret affected a shuddering shiver of dread that rattled her jewels anew.
“I cannot imagine how she sleeps at all after eating both Sir Henry’s and her own pastillage at dinner,” Penelope whispered to her sister.
The spots of red on Ann Feathers’s round cheeks bloomed hotter.
“That won’t do, Margaret,” Sir Henry protested. “I cannot allow a man to interrogate you, even a gentleman.”
“You will allow it, monsieur,” a small man said from the doorway. His ginger moustaches jittered as he perused the assembly. “If you do not, his highness will have you and your family incarcerated in your rooms until we have discovered the murderer’s identity. Sommes-nous bien d’accord?”
Lord Whitebarrow’s face reddened. “Upon my word, who are you?”
“Gaston Sepic,” he said with a tight bow. “Maire de Chevriot these six years. The closest gendarmerie quarters on the other side of the mountain. The snow will not allow passage. So, in the absence of the police detectives, I will supervise cette enquête. This is Monsieur Paul, my deputy.” He gestured behind him. Loose-cheeked and red-eyed, the man standing there wore a long canvas coat and worn boots like he had donned them in January and forgotten about them. “He will assist me,” Monsieur Sepic said.
Monsieur Paul tugged off his cap, revealing lank hair and a loutish look about the eyes.
“I will not allow it,” Lord Whitebarrow stated.
“Come now, my lord.” Prince Sebastiao offered the earl a cajoling smile. “Let us follow the mayor’s wishes and have this all finished as swiftly as we may and get on with our entertainments. Yes?”
Finally, Lord Whitebarrow nodded reluctantly.
“Alors,” said the mayor. “I will call the first suspects to interview cet après-midi.” He snapped about to face the prince and Lord Vitor, turning a shoulder to the room full of lords and ladies.
Conversation rose in murmurs among the guests. Ravenna moved toward Lord Vitor and the mayor. “Monsieur Sepic,” he was saying as she approached, “the prince’s guards have been instructed to stand watch at all points of exit and entry into the castle and village.”
The mayor leaned in to speak quietly, casting his deputy a narrow glance. “Unfortunately, monseigneur, I am hampered by the possession of this single deputy. He is, I regret, incompétent for such a weighty task, but we must bear with such limitations.” He shook his head. “Mais bon, as soon as I possess the facts, I will instruct him to return to the village and interrogate the servants you have sent there.” He studied Lord Vitor. “That was wisely done, monseigneur. But now you must leave this investigation to the professionals.” He turned to the butler nearby. “A présent, Monsieur Brazil, take me to the body. I will begin my work at once.” The butler led him and the deputy away.
“Wretched business,” Prince Sebastiao shook his head as though in sorrow. Then his face brightened and he clapped his hands. “Now, who’s for cards?”
Several guests followed the prince from the room. Lord Case came forward.
“Saving that boy’s skin again, are you, brother?” Lord Case drawled, glancing at Prince Sebastiao’s departure. He turned to peruse Ravenna with appreciation, then he bowed to her. “Or perhaps your confidential conversation with Monsieur le Maire just now was intended merely to impress the lady here?”
“That’s unlikely,” she said. “The other night he tried to kiss me and I attacked him with a pitchfork.”
The earl’s mouth curled into a grin. “Well done, Miss Caulfield. Shall I call him out on your behalf? It’s not the thing, really, shooting one’s brother in the heart. But for a lady’s sake I could not do otherwise.”
“Thank you. I can defend myself. And I intend to help Monsieur Sepic in his investigation.”
“Yet he wishes no help,” Lord Vitor said, turning his unsettlingly warm, dark eyes upon her. “How do you hope to surmount that obstacle?”
“However you do, I suppose.”
He offered her a slight smile.
“What do you imagine Walsh was doing here at Chevriot, brother?” Lord Case said. “At precisely the time we are?”
“I’ve no idea. Perhaps you do?”
“I don’t.” The earl’s eyes were narrow upon his brother, then they shifted to the remaining guests in the room. “Interesting . . . suspects. Does the prince have any idea?”
“No more than you or I.”
A silent communication passed between them. Ravenna watched it like a tennis game, the surprising anger in Lord Case’s eyes and the steady acceptance of it in his brother’s.
“Did Sebastiao or his father invite Walsh to this party?” Lord Case finally said.
“He tells me that they did not.”
“Ah.” A moment’s pause. “Did you, Vitor?”
“Why, do you imagine, would I have, Wesley?”
A cry of distress sounded at the doorway. Mademoiselle Dijon stood there, her lovely eyes wide, a pale hand covering her mouth. “Ma petite Marie is gone!” she exclaimed through her fingers. “My dog has been stolen!”
MONSIEUR SEPIC AND his deputy studied Mr. Walsh’s body and luggage, and declared that nothing had been taken. How they could determine that, Ravenna hadn’t any idea. But she had little faith in the mayor’s intelligence and less in his deputy’s. This mystery needed a wiser head.
She spent the afternoon and evening consoling Arielle Dijon about the loss of her dog and drinking cup after cup of tea while encouraging gossip among the ladies. When evening fell, as Monsieur Sepic enjoyed an aperitif with the gentlemen, Monsieur Paul began interviewing the ladies. Ravenna responded to his monosyllabic questions honestly. Within a quarter hour he dismissed her and reached for a decanter of wine on the table.