Page 94 of Corpse in the Canal

“May I ask how long you were there?”

“A few hours. We had luncheon. I was home by teatime. Why do you ask? Do you seriously suspect me of shooting you?”

“The truth is, we don’t know,” Solomon said steadily. “You lied to us before.”

Everett stiffened, nostrils flaring in offense.

“Don’t,” Solomon said. “We know you were near Dare Hall the afternoon Percy was shot and shoved into the canal.”

“Dear God, not by me!”

“Then why lie?” Constance asked.

A dark flush stained his face. He put down his cup and saucer and rubbed at his forehead as though digging for advice. At last he said shortly, “I did not wish to involve Mrs. Jenkins.”

“Why not? Did you think she was guilty of killing Percy?”

“No!”

Was Everett’s outrage overdone?

“No,” he repeated, more moderately. “But it crossed my mind that you—or, worse, Harvey—might think so. It also crossed my mind that the last thing the poor woman needs is rumors of men skulking around her property.”

“Is that what you were doing?” Solomon asked. “Skulking?”

Everett’s fading flush darkened again. “No. I was making sure no one else skulked.”

“You mean Percy,” Constance said.

Everett drew in his breath. “I knew he pestered her. I knew he’d gone to London because she did. And I knew she was home. I was just making sure she was safe. I didn’t go near her.”

“But did you go near Percy?” Constance asked. “Did you see him that afternoon?”

Everett shook his head. “No, I didn’t. I had matters to attend to on my own land, so I went back there once I saw all was quiet at Dare Hall.”

“Would it surprise you to know that Percy was very probably in Larchford Wood?” Solomon asked. “Cutting up to the path at the top of the hill that leads to Dare Hall?”

“Dear God,” Everett whispered, clutching his hair.

It looked like concern for Adelaide, and a surge of anger for Percy. But it also looked to Constance like shock. As if he really hadn’t known.

His gaze lifted abruptly to Solomon’s. “I wasn’t in the woods that day.”

“Did you have your pistol with you?” Constance asked.

His eyes widened. “No, I did not! Look, I didn’t see him, let alone shoot him.”

“Tell us about Penelope Owens,” Solomon said.

“What?” Everett’s jaw slackened with confusion, as though he were unbalanced by the sudden change of subject. He was meant to be. “She is the doctor’s daughter, of course. What is it you want to know?”

“You are a widower,” Solomon reminded him. “Have you never thought of marrying again?”

“No!” Everett exclaimed. “What business is it of yours?”

“None, of course, under normal circumstances—which these are not. To be vulgar, Sir Felix, you are the local catch, the biggest landowner in the neighborhood, of old and respected family, still in your prime—”

“Yes, and I still have my own teeth!” Everett interrupted. “What exactly are you implying?”