Penelope, Oliver lolling in her lap, looked across at Griselda. “Perhaps, before we set out for Fairchild House, we should take an early luncheon, too. In the nursery?”
Griselda grinned and hefted Megan. “Yes. Let’s.”
The ladies stood, and with Penelope carrying Oliver, Griselda with Megan once more on her hip, and Violet—Auntie Violet—walking between, they headed for the stairs.
CHAPTER 7
Penelope, Violet, and Griselda were in buoyant moods as they climbed the steps to Lady Fairchild’s door. They were admitted by the butler; after inquiring of his mistress, he conducted them into Lady Fairchild’s presence. Her ladyship was seated writing letters at a delicate escritoire, in the conservatory attached to the great house.
“Penelope, dear!” Rising, Lady Fairchild enveloped Penelope in a scented embrace, then looked with patent curiosity at Violet and Griselda.
Penelope made the introductions, not in the least surprised that Lady Fairchild showed no consciousness of the difference in classes.
“My dears,” her ladyship declared effusively, “had I the time, I swear I would be quite prostrate. This business is not at all how I intended to start this Season—everyone is talking of my ball for entirely the wrong reasons.”
“Sadly, that’s true,” Penelope stated. “But we’ve come hoping to winkle out a clue or two to help the authorities—Barnaby is assisting Inspector Stokes, you see.”
“Indeed,” Lady Fairchild said, “and I believe you will find both those gentlemen somewhere around the house. I was told they had called. Edmund is with them.”
Penelope, Violet, and Griselda exchanged glances, then Penelope turned to Lady Fairchild. “We were wondering if we might study the ballroom and the corridors around it, and the terrace and the gardens, too.”
“Yes, of course.” Lady Fairchild spread her arms. “You may have carte blanche, my dears. Go anywhere you please, and by all means, should you so wish, feel free to speak with any of the staff. They are all as eager as I am to have this grisly matter cleared up—it’s not the sort of thing anyone expects in a household such as ours.” Lady Fairchild glanced at her desk. “I regret I cannot accompany you, however. I must get these letters out.”
Penelope assured her that they were quite happy to wander and explore on their own. Taking their leave of her ladyship, they duly headed for the ballroom.
Accessed via a foyer at the rear of the front hall, the ballroom was a massive rectangular chamber, with one long wall devoted to windows and French doors that gave onto a paved area bordered by lawns; the latter rolled down to a graveled path with landscaped gardens beyond. Both shorter walls at each end of the room boasted a central ornate fireplace flanked by two doors; the doors in the wall shared with the entry foyer were clearly the ballroom’s main entrance. The other long wall, opposite the windows, was paneled and hosted a single door set centrally, with two much narrower doors, one at either end of the wall, all but concealed in the paneling.
Halting under the central chandelier, Penelope looked around the empty, echoing space. “Ballrooms feel so strange when there’s no ball.” She turned in a circle, noting all the exits. “Other than the staff entrances”—she pointed to the two narrow doors set into the paneling—“and the doors back to the foyer, there are only three ways anyone could have left the ballroom.”
Griselda glanced at the windows. “That’s not the terrace in question, is it?”
“No,” Penelope said. “That’s the patio, and because it was chilly on the night of the ball, none of those French doors were open. No one went out there, and if they had, they would have been in full view of all those in the room.” She pointed to the wall at the end of the ballroom. “There are rooms beyond on that side, between the ballroom and the side of the house where the terrace in question lies. We’ll go that way in a moment, but first, I wanted to check how many reasonably direct routes there are between the ballroom and the terrace.”
Going to the door in the center of the long paneled wall, she opened it and stepped through. Violet and Griselda followed and found themselves in a corridor that ran the length of the ballroom.
“I think,” Penelope said, strolling down the corridor away from the foyer, “that the withdrawing room was just along here.”
Pausing by a door, she opened it and looked inside. “Yes, this is the room that was used as the ladies’ withdrawing room that night.”
Peering past Penelope, Violet saw a large parlor-like room.
“So.” Closing the door, Penelope walked on. “Quite aside from anyone else who might or might not have come out of the ballroom, we know that at least four guests did—Hartley Galbraith’s intended, Hartley himself, Lady Galbraith, and the lady seen fleeing from the terrace.”
Together with Griselda, Violet followed Penelope down the long corridor to where a second corridor, running parallel to the end of the ballroom, crossed it. Penelope turned left, walked a few paces on, then halted at the entrance to yet another corridor, this one running perpendicular to the one they were currently in; leading away from the ballroom, it passed between two rooms to end in a small hall. As Violet and Griselda joined her, Penelope pointed down the corridor to where it ended in a wall of tall windows with a central glassed door. “The side terrace is out there—you can see the stone balustrade. That’s the door through which Hartley, and most likely also Lady Galbraith and Hartley’s intended, left the house. The lady on the terrace also almost certainly came this way—she certainly returned via this route.”
After looking down the corridor for several seconds, Penelope glanced at Violet and Griselda. “To reach the side terrace via any other exit would have taken considerable time, and would also have required a certain knowledge of the house. If I had been Hartley’s intended, I would have excused myself to go to the withdrawing room, but instead of stopping there, I would have continued along the way we just walked, slipped into this corridor and so outside.”
Violet nodded. “And it being so early in the evening, she wouldn’t have been likely to encounter any other guests.”
“And,” Griselda said, “with that schedule the staff adhered to so strictly, she could easily have walked out as the footmen started serving the champagne, in the period when all the staff on this level were in either the ballroom or the foyer.”
Penelope nodded. “Yes, exactly. And once he’d seen her go, Hartley followed, but he left the ballroom via that door.” Penelope pointed further along the corridor in which they stood, to the door near the end that gave access to the ballroom. “He had to have come that way, because the footman who saw him was leaving the ballroom and heading back to the kitchen, which is that way.” She pointed along the corridor past the intersection through which they had come. “The footman followed Hartley from the ballroom, saw him turn down this corridor, and when the footman reached this intersection, he glimpsed Hartley outside on the terrace, just going down the steps to the right.”
Griselda looked down the corridor. “Could the footman have seen Hartley?”
Penelope considered. “Good question, but yes, I think he could have. This corridor was unlit—Hartley gave that as the reason he and his intended didn’t get much of a look at the lady as she fled back inside.”
A quick survey confirmed that the corridor was devoid of lamps. Penelope nodded. “So that adds up. There was moonlight outside, and Hartley would have been illuminated enough for a sharp-eyed footman to spot. So we can accept that, indeed, that is what happened.” She glanced again at the glassed door at the end of the corridor. “So how did Lady Galbraith leave the ballroom?”
“If we accept that she was following Hartley,” Violet said, “then presumably she left the ballroom via the same door he did.”
Penelope was nodding. “And if we posit that the lady, whoever she was, followed Lady Galbraith, then presumably she, too, came via that door.” Satisfied, Penelope met Violet’s and Griselda’s eyes. “If it comes to having to question any guests, be
they Galbraiths, Latimers, or any others, then that is the exit we need to focus on. We’ll need to ascertain who left the ballroom early in the proceedings via that door.”
“What about when the lady returned?” Griselda asked.
Penelope grimaced. “That’s going to be more difficult, especially as she could have used any door, including the main doors from the foyer, and there were lots of other guests entering the ballroom at that time.” She tilted her head. “Of course, the lady—and, later, Hartley’s intended—might have paused in the withdrawing room to recover their composure. Remind me to speak with the maids who were on duty in the withdrawing room before we leave.”
Violet nodded.
“Now—onward.” Penelope set off down the corridor toward the side terrace.
Opening the glassed door, she heard the rumble of male voices rising from the area below the terrace. With Violet and Griselda at her back, she walked to the balustrade and looked over.
Barnaby, Stokes, and Lord Fairchild were standing on the grass bordering the path where they had found Lady Galbraith’s body. Their hands sunk in their coat pockets, the men appeared to have been staring moodily at the gravel, but, hearing Penelope’s heels on the flags, all three glanced up.
They watched as Violet and Griselda appeared beside Penelope, then the three men smiled—Stokes and Barnaby in wry resignation, Lord Fairchild with open delight.
“Penelope, my dear.” His lordship beamed. “What brings you and your companions here?”
“We came to check the routes between this terrace and the ballroom, and also to check that the information we’ve been given makes sense.” Penelope fixed her gaze on Barnaby and Stokes. “But what brings you two back?”
The pair exchanged a glance, then Barnaby looked up and said, “Fresh evidence from the surgeon. As it happens, we were wanting to conduct an experiment—one you three can help us with.”
Penelope wanted to ask what fresh evidence the police surgeon had found, but she was equally curious over the—intentionally distracting, she was perfectly sure—carrot Barnaby had dangled; she decided to play along. “What experiment?”
As if appreciating her dilemma, Barnaby grinned. “You first.” He pointed to the stone ball resting on the top of one of the pillars in the balustrade. “Go to that pillar, stand directly behind it, and see if you can lift the ball.”
Obediently walking to the pillar, Penelope examined the ball; it was indistinguishable from the one that had rested on the pillar at the top of the steps, which had been the ball used to kill Lady Galbraith. Because Penelope was so short, the ball was almost level with her shoulders. Obediently setting her hands to its sides, she gripped and lifted—or tried to, but although not anchored to the pillar’s top, the ball was far heavier than she’d imagined. Lips setting, she tried again, but… Exhaling, she let go of the ball. “I can’t lift it. Why is it so heavy?”
“They’re old cannonballs, you see,” Lord Fairchild said. “The original finials had quite worn away—deuced ugly, they were—so the gardener sawed them off, ground down the tops of the pillars, and set old cannonballs on top.”
“How…enterprising,” Penelope said.
Stokes waved. “Violet—you next.”
Taller than Penelope but shorter than Griselda, Violet took Penelope’s place. For Violet, the ball was at mid-chest height. She gripped the ball and strained to lift it, but she could only just shift it. Setting it back, she shook her head. “I can move it a fraction, but I can’t really lift it clear.”
Barnaby nodded. “Thank you. Griselda?”
Taller and larger-boned than either Violet or Penelope, and with the strong hands of a professional milliner, Griselda stepped up; for her, the ball was almost at waist-height. She grasped the ball and lifted it several inches off the pedestal, but then she let out her breath in a whoosh and set the ball down hard. She looked at Stokes. “Yes, I can lift it, but truly, even in a rage, I doubt I could hold it well enough to reach out and drop it on someone.”
Penelope frowned. “Perhaps the ball that used to be there”—she pointed at the empty pillar at the top of the steps—“is lighter.”
“It isn’t,” Stokes said. “We’ve checked—they’re all the same.”
Penelope blinked. “Then…that means no woman—well, short of a strong-woman from some circus—could have lifted and extended that ball and dropped it on Lady Galbraith’s head. So there had to have been someone else—some man—who actually murdered her.”
Stokes grimaced and looked at Barnaby.
Barnaby grimaced back. He looked up at the ladies. “I think we might be getting a trifle ahead of ourselves.”
Penelope opened her mouth to ask why, but at that moment, the butler arrived with a summons for Lord Fairchild.
His lordship excused himself, shook hands with Barnaby and Stokes, paused on the terrace to gallantly kiss all three ladies’ hands and thank them for their assistance, then followed the butler back into the house.
Once his lordship had disappeared inside, Penelope narrowed her eyes on her spouse. “What have you learned?”
Barnaby glanced around, then tipped his head toward the gardens. “Come down and join us while we check out the lie of the land, so to speak. We can talk while we do.”
Perfectly ready to do just that, the three ladies quickly went down the steps and met Barnaby and Stokes on the path. “This way.” Barnaby waved to another set of steps cut into the raised bank opposite the terrace. “Essentially we’ll be retracing the route by which Hartley said he and his intended returned to the house.”
Penelope linked arms with Barnaby, while Stokes took Griselda’s hand.
Violet led the way up the steps. “Hartley and his intended met in some folly by a lake, didn’t they?”
“Yes,” Barnaby said, “but we don’t need to go that far. Let’s see if we can find the spot where Hartley and his intended first saw Lady Galbraith standing below the terrace.”
“The spot where their view of the terrace itself was obscured by some overhanging branch,” Stokes said.
Gaining the top of the bank, they set out along the path that led deeper into the gardens, more or less directly away from the house.
“So,” Penelope said, “what did you learn from the surgeon that brought you back here? It was something about the cannonball, I take it.”
“In a way,” Stokes replied. “According to the surgeon, the ball wasn’t dropped on Lady Galbraith—at least, not as we’d envisioned. The trajectory was wrong for that—according to Pemberton, the ball hit her ladyship’s head too much to the side. He concluded that the ball was thrown, but, as we’ve just confirmed, no woman could have lifted that ball and then thrown it at someone.”
Penelope frowned. “So…we’re now looking for some gentleman who we otherwise have found no evidence for?”
“Well, no,” Barnaby said. “Pemberton also asked for various measurements—the height of the terrace above the path, the horizontal distance of Lady Galbraith from the terrace. He thought to estimate the height of the murderer—or at least how high the murderer lifted the ball. However, while we were measuring, we worked out some angles on our own.” Glancing at Penelope, meeting her dark eyes, Barnaby said, “We now think the ball was pushed off its pillar—shoved hard toward Lady Galbraith. When we get back to the terrace, we’d like you to try it with one of the other balls.”
“Hmm.” Penelope’s frown hadn’t lifted. “All right.”
Walking just ahead, Violet had been glancing back at the terrace every few yards. Now she halted and turned to face the house. “This is the spot, or close to it.”
The others gathered around. Standing behind Violet, Stokes studied the limited view of the terrace, then he took one step back. When the others glanced at him, he said, “Hartley Galbraith is close to my height. If I had been standing here, on this spot, that evening, I would have been able to see exactly what Hartley described—his mother clearly visible on the path below the terrace
, and that branch there”—Stokes pointed at the thick branch extending over the path—“completely blocks my view of the terrace itself.”
Penelope bustled back to stand just behind Stokes’s shoulder; she studied the house, then looked at Violet. “Violet—you’re about average lady height. Can you come and stand here beside Stokes and see what you can see?”
Violet obliged, and duly reported, “I can almost see the terrace surface, but not quite.”
Penelope sighed. “So it’s likely that Hartley’s intended saw no more than he.”
She eyed the house, then touched Stokes’s and Violet’s shoulders. “Why don’t you two lead the way back and stop when you can see all of the terrace?”
They discovered that, due to the curves and dips in the path, and interference from the stand of trees growing alongside, they had to go more than ten yards closer to the house before the view of the terrace was sufficient for Hartley and his intended to have been able to glimpse the lady fleeing into the house.
“What about the steps leading down to the garden?” Griselda asked. “Would they have seen someone fleeing that way?”
Violet and Stokes shook their heads. “There are several tree trunks in the way,” Stokes said.
“So,” Barnaby concluded, “a gentleman doing the deed and leaving that way is still—at least theoretically—a possibility.”
Penelope pushed her spectacles higher on her nose. “By my estimation, the lady on the terrace would indeed have had time to shove the ball off the pillar at Lady Galbraith, then rush back across the terrace and be stepping into the dark of the corridor by the time Hartley and his intended glimpsed her.”
“Indeed.” Stokes sounded grim. “Theoretical possibilities aside, it looks like we truly are looking for a lady murderer.”
“And it does seem,” Penelope continued, “that all Hartley told us is true. If he hadn’t been here, on this path, when his mother was struck down, he wouldn’t have known about that branch obscuring the view, and, well”—she gestured to the distance they’d had to come before they could clearly see the terrace—“everything else fits, too.”