After a moment, he softly swore. “What Monica needs—what they all need—is your family. Your father, your mother, you, and your sisters. But even though Mama is dead, the stupid feud she started still stands like a brick wall, cutting us off from the comfort and relief all of you would willingly offer and bring us.”
Reaching over and inserting one of her hands into his clasped ones, Cynthia stated, “The wall will come down. You and I will make sure of it.”
Hartley grimaced. “Perhaps in time, but for the moment, Mama being murdered as she was means we must keep the wall in place.” He looked at her. “The last thing we need to do is suggest any link between the feud and Mama’s murder, much less connect that with our betrothal, and if immediately after she’s been…” He swallowed and, facing forward, continued, his tone rougher, “Been removed, everything instantly goes back to the way it used to be…you know what the ton is like. People will talk, and you know how damaging such talk can be.”
Cynthia studied his profile, then gently said, “I’ll be very surprised if there isn’t a degree of talk anyway.”
Hartley dipped his head. “Perhaps. But there’s a difference between vague gossip with no foundation and the sort of talk when people have something definite to point at and whisper.”
Cynthia couldn’t argue that.
Turning his head, Hartley captured her gaze. “That’s part of what I need to warn you about. An Inspector Stokes is handling the case, along with Mr. Barnaby Adair, who I had heard of but not previously met. They interviewed us all briefly at the Fairchilds’, and they called to see me this morning.” He paused, then said, “They had learned—I have no idea how—that I’d been getting my affairs in order and had come to ask why. I told them I was intending to make an offer shortly, but I didn’t tell them for whom. Adair, and Stokes, too, seem decent enough sorts, but—and this is the pertinent point—they are neither of them fools. Not by a long shot. In the circumstances, and given your encouragement, I told them the truth—why we were in the garden and where we met, and then what we saw—all of it.”
Cynthia nodded approvingly. “I’m glad you did. I have to admit I was surprised when you didn’t raise the alarm last night.”
He pulled a face. “I meant to, but…I couldn’t make head nor tail of what we’d seen and…I suppose I was in shock or something. I just couldn’t seem to think—to put two thoughts together.” He shook his head.
Cynthia squeezed his fingers. “Never mind what you did last night—it was a frightful experience all around. Today you rectified yesterday’s mistakes and told the police all you could to help them find out who did this.”
He studied her, trying to read her eyes in the poor light. “I accept that we had to tell the truth, but aren’t you anxious over having your mother and sisters viewed as the prime suspects?”
“I would be if I thought there was the faintest possibility that any of my sisters or my mother could have been the lady we glimpsed on the terrace—the lady who dropped that stone ball on your mother and killed her.” Cynthia held his gaze steadily. “But I know my mother and my sisters. No matter that she was being difficult, we all still loved Aunt Marjorie. My sisters and I have a wealth of fond memories of her. We remember how she used to sit with Mama and brush and plait our hair—years of little things like that. Until recently, we considered her our closest female family, after Mama. As for Mama…if she didn’t still love your mother, she wouldn’t have been so hurt by the feud, as we all know she has been.” Cynthia paused, then, her gaze still locked with his, she gripped his fingers more tightly and said, “I know my family. None of them could possibly have done it. And as I see it, the sooner the police look into their alibis and discount them as possible suspects, the better off we’ll all be.”
He read the determination in her eyes, in the firm set of her chin; it was one of the reasons he was so in love with her—her trenchant devotion to those she held dear. She and he were the quiet, watchful protectors and defenders, each in their own families; it was one trait that had drawn them together from the first—that stalwart, protective stance.
Prompted by her words to consider the likelihood that her sisters and her mother almost certainly would be able to produce alibis for the relevant period, sound ones supported by a small army of other members of the ton with whom they had been dancing or conversing in the ballroom, he felt a lightening of the weight that, after his talk with Stokes and Adair, had settled on his shoulders. Slowly, he nodded. “I daresay you’re right about them having alibis.”
Cynthia softly snorted. “Georgina was parading proudly—and being proudly paraded—around the ballroom on Fitzforsythe’s arm. Cecilia was dancing with Mr. Brandywell and otherwise chatting with his acquaintances. I was with you, and Millicent was absorbed with a group of her friends. As for Mama, she was in a group with Lady Lachlan and Mrs. Ferris the entire time.” She grimaced, wryly, self-deprecatingly. “I checked when I returned to the ballroom, and Georgina and Cecilia were still fixed with their beaux, and neither Mama nor Millicent appeared to have shifted from where they’d settled earlier, before I slipped away to go outside.”
Drawing in a deeper breath, she definitively stated, “So I know the lady we saw on the terrace wasn’t one of us. But I have no idea who she was, much less where she had found a pair of Lady Latimer’s shoes.”
After a moment, Hartley nodded. “All right. So the police now know what we saw, and all we can do is fervently hope that they quickly discover who the lady was, why she had those shoes, and why she killed my mother.” He refocused on Cynthia’s face. “So to return to our own affairs, ours and our families’, given the situation with the murder, with my family’s need for comfort and your family wanting to help, what’s the best way forward?”
Cynthia considered, weighing their options. Hartley watched her, but his gaze grew abstracted; he was thinking, assessing, evaluating, too.
Eventually, she stirred and glanced at his face. “Much as I would like to ignore that brick wall and just pretend it had never been, I agree that we can’t do that, can’t move that fast without occasioning a great deal of misinformed gossip. Likewise, matters being what they are, it would be inviting trouble to announce our engagement now, prior to the funeral and a decent period of mourning. Regardless, our first goal should be to remove your mother’s murder, and both our families, from the ton’s most-talked-about list. So correct me if I’m wrong, but as far as I can see, the best thing we can do to advance all our interlinked common causes is to do whatever we can to assist the police to bring their investigation to a speedy and successful conclusion. Indeed, that’s possibly the only tack we can effectively take at this point.”
Hartley was nodding. “Once the police apprehend the real murderer, thus proving that it wasn’t one of your family, the case will be closed, and the ton will quickly move on to the next scandal.”
“Exactly.” Cynthia’s tone was definite and determined. “So the question is: What can we do to hasten that much-desired end?”
Hartley wracked his brains. Eventually, he offered, “The shoes are the key—they’re what ties your family to the murder. Perhaps if we nudge the police into looking into how the lady got such shoes…” He broke off on a grimace. “Frankly, my mind boggles at trying to convince Stokes, or even Adair, to look into the supply of ladies’ shoes.”
Cynthia held up a hand. “Wait—Adair. Last night toward the end, just before we left the ballroom, a Mrs. Adair came up—rather boldly, I thought—and spoke with us. She was very direct, almost shockingly so, but…she was also sympathetic.” Cynthia met Hartley’s gaze. “She said she was Adair’s wife.”
Hartley thought back. “There was a lady who followed Stokes and Adair into the Fairchilds’ drawing room. Dark-haired. Short in stature, but quite striking. I can’t remember the color of her gown, but it was darkish—perhaps purple or blue—and she wore spectacles and a diamond necklace.”
Cynthia nodded. “Yes—that was her.”
Hartley frowned. “Now I think of it, I’ve heard that Adair’s wife is an original and occasionally assists with investigations, among other rather unusual pastimes. She’s Calverton’s sister, so very well connected.”
“Indeed?” Cynthia’s expression turned calculating. “Adair might be difficult to convince, but I wonder if his wife might be interested in learning more about Lady Latimer’s shoes?”
CHAPTER 6
The next morning, Barnaby and Stokes ran the police surgeon to earth in the morgue.
As it happened, Pemberton had just finished re-examining Lady Galbraith’s corpse. Wiping his hands on a towel, he joined them in the outer office.
A highly experienced practitioner, large-boned, a trifle rotund, and with an air of being worn about the edges, Pemberton fixed them with a jaundiced eye. “Very timely. Young Quale did the examination on your corpse, meaning Lady Galbraith. I read his report and just checked something that struck me as…not quite what we might have been expecting from the description of the means of death you’d noted.” He paused, but before Stokes or Barnaby could demand to know what he’d been checking and why, Pemberton said, “It would help if you described the scene.”
Stokes cast his own jaundiced glance at Barnaby, but complied.
Barnaby added several details for clarity.
Pemberton nodded as if ticking off the elements of the scene in his mind, then proceeded to interrogate them over how the body had fallen.
They tried as best they could but, dissatisfied with their inexactitude, Pemberton stumped over to a battered desk set against the wall, rummaged and found a piece of unmarked paper, slapped it on the top of the reports scattered over the desk’s surface, and beckoned Stokes over. “Draw it—how the body was lying when you first saw it. Pay particular attention to the relative positioning of the body on the path, and also with respect to the terrace.”
Stokes grunted but drew out his pencil and obliged; he was, Barnaby judged, now too curious not to. Barnaby, certainly, was eager to learn just what it was Pemberton had discovered that ran counter to what they’d expected.
When Stokes had completed his sketch, Pemberton looked at Barnaby and arched his brows.
Barnaby studied what Stokes had drawn and nodded. “Yes. That’s as I remember it, too.”
Pemberton studied the sketch for half a minute, then said, “In that case, gentlemen, I have to inform you that I will be adjusting Quale’s report to read: The findings were inconsistent with the ball having been dropped from above onto the victim’s head. Instead, from the position of the primary impact of the ball on the skull, it appears that the ball was thrown down at the victim, presumably from the terrace, with some degree of force.”
“Thrown?” Stokes frowned. “You mean the murderer picked up the ball and threw it down at her ladyship?”
“Precisely.” Pemberton continued, “No matter how you imagine she was holding her head, if the ball had simply been picked up, extended, and dropped strictly vertically, it would have struck higher on the skull. Instead, the point of impact and, even more telling, the line along which the damage lies both show quite clearly that there was some degree of angle away from the vertical to the trajectory of the ball.”
“In short,” Barnaby said, “it was thrown.”
Pemberton nodded. “And if you can get me the exact measurements of the height of the terrace relative to the spot on the path where Lady Galbraith was standing, and the horizontal distance between the edge of the terrace and the point where you estimate her ladyship’s feet must have been when she was struck—essentially the same spot in which her feet were when you found her—then I might even be able to give you some idea of the height of your killer, whether they are short, of average height, or tall.” Pemberton’s eyes gleamed. “If that sort of information is of any interest to you?”
“Oh, it is,” Stokes assured him. “In this case, we’ll be grateful for any crumbs that fall our way.”
“Right then.” Pemberton turned away. “Get me those measurements, and I’ll see what I can do for you. I’ve already got the height of the impact point, and that’s the only other measurement I need.”
Pemberton headed back into the examination room. Stokes turned to Barnaby, who had noticed the murder weapon, the stone ball, sitting balanced on a nearby bench. Barnaby was holding it between his hands and frowning.
“What?” Stokes asked.
“I hadn’t picked it up before—it’s heavy.” Barnaby extended the ball to Stokes.
Stokes gripped the ball—and nearly dropped it; he had to use both hands to hold it. “It’s heavier than it looks.”
“Because, contrary to what we thought, it’s not stone. I think it’s an ex-cannonball, perhaps from the unused ordnance that was made just before the wars ended and the stockpiles became obsolete. Presumably some enterprising gardener looking to replace worn finials came up with the idea to use surplus cannonballs and to paint them to look like stone.”
“So our murderer must be strong enough to hoist one of these.” Stokes returned the ball to the bench.
“Indeed—which leads to my next question.” Barnaby met Stokes’s eyes. “Could a woman have lifted that? More, could a lady have not just lifted that ball, but thrown it? It takes less strength to lift a weight, extend it, and drop it, than to deliberately throw that same weight at someone.” Barnaby grimaced. “Given the weight of that thing, I’m honestly not sure any lady could have been the murderer.”
Stokes looked faintly disgusted. “Before we eliminate the only person we’ve succeeded in placing at the scene in the moment the murder occurred purely on her gender, I suggest we take ourselves to Fairchild House and revisit the scene of the crime. And this time, I’ll take a measuring tape.”
Barnaby waved Stokes to the door. “Lead on.”
* * *
Penelope and Violet were working through Penelope’s translation for the museum, noting where she still had queries as to the original scribe’s true meaning, when the front doorbell pealed.
Looking up and across Penelope’s desk, Violet met Penelope’s eyes. “Are you expecting anyone?”
Penelope frowned. “No.” She looked at the papers spread before her, then waved dismissively at the door. “None of my acquaintances would call at such an hour—everyone knows I never host morning at-homes. Mostyn will handle it.”
“In that case,” Violet said, “we’re up to page sixty-three of your copy.”
Penelope humphed. “I will have to clarify that passage at the bottom of the page with Jeremy Carling. It’s an obscure use of words, as far as I can tell, but—”
The door opened. Penelope glanced up.
Violet turned to look as Mostyn entered.
Shutting the door, he approached the desk. “I’m sorry to trouble you, ma’am, but there’s a caller asking to consult with you, and I rather think you might want to see her.”
Penelope pushed her spectacles higher. “Her who?”
“She says she’s Lady Latimer, ma’am.” Mostyn proffered his salver, on which rested an embossed calling card.
Penelope all but pounced on the card. She read it, then handed it to Violet.
“Well, well.” Penelope’s eyes gleamed brightly behind her lenses. “I wonder, Violet dear, if in the circumstances, we shouldn’t take a short break from this boring Greek scribe and find out what her ladyship wishes to consult with me about?”
Violet grinned and started tidying the sheaf of papers in her lap. “Yes, I definitely think we should. In the interests of furthering your dear husband and Stokes’s investigation, if nothing else.”
“Indeed.” Glancing at Mostyn, Penelope smiled. “Thank you, Mostyn. Where have you put her?”
“Anticipating your interest, ma’am, I have shown her ladyship into the drawing room.”
“You are a gem among majordomos, Mostyn.” Rising, Penelope headed for the door. “Violet?”
“Right behind you.” Smiling, Violet followed her
friend, employer, and colleague out of the door.
Penelope paused in the front hall to straighten her gown and check her hair, then after a nod to Mostyn to open the drawing room doors, she swept into the room, Violet gliding in her wake.
Lady Latimer rose from one sofa. She clutched a reticule rather tightly at her waist. Her gown was a subdued gray, not a color that particularly suited her but clearly donned as a measure of mourning. In Penelope’s eyes, the most telling point about her ladyship’s appearance was that she had come alone, with no daughter or friend to support her—or to bear witness as to what she might say.
Assessing the above in a single glance, Penelope kept her smile muted and advanced; she held out her hand. “Lady Latimer. I would say that it’s a pleasure to see you again, but I suspect the matter that brought you here is a somber one.”
“Indeed, Mrs. Adair.” Lady Latimer touched Penelope’s fingers. Her gaze deflected to Violet as, courtesy of Mostyn, the doors softly clicked shut.
“This is Mrs. Montague. She’s my secretary and works on all my projects, including our investigations. You may speak before her as you would before me.” After her ladyship and Violet exchanged polite nods, Penelope gestured for Lady Latimer to resume her seat. She and Violet moved to sit on the opposite sofa.
Once they were settled, Penelope and Violet with politely inquiring gazes fixed on Lady Latimer, her ladyship’s expression, rarely communicative, seemed to harden. For a moment, Penelope wondered if, after all, Lady Latimer would balk, but, all but visibly stiffening her resolve, her chin rising a fraction, her ladyship began, “I have heard, Mrs. Adair, that—as you mentioned—you engage from time to time in investigations. Of crimes. Especially those within the ton.”
When her ladyship paused, Penelope nodded. “Yes. That’s correct.”