Stokes stared at O’Donnell, then shook his head. “You’ve the luck of the Irish, O’Donnell.”
O’Donnell, who was in fact Irish, grinned. “Aye, sir—and you may be sure I got myself to Great Hanway Street as soon as may be. It’s only a short street and I found the right lodging house two doors down.”
“Thank God!” Stokes tipped his head toward Barnaby. “Adair here couldn’t find any trace of Mitchell.”
“Well, sir, that’s really not surprising because our man’s name isn’t Mitchell—it’s Fletcher. Mr. Gordon Fletcher.”
“I knew it!” Barnaby paused, then frowned. “Fletcher. Gordon Fletcher. I’ve heard that name before…” A second later, Barnaby shook his head and looked at O’Donnell. “You perceive us agog, Sergeant. What else did you learn about our mysterious victim?”
“I spoke with the landlady. Luckily I described the gent rather than asked for him by name, and she didn’t guess I was on the force, of course, so she was happy enough to tell me all about Fletcher and his lady-partner, an actress by the name of Katherine Mallard, known as Kitty.”
Stokes and Barnaby exchanged a swift glance, but immediately returned their attention to O’Donnell.
“Seems the lodgings are actually in Kitty’s name, but Fletcher has been living with her for years and, according to the landlady, Kitty now being past her prime as an actress, she assists Fletcher with his schemes. By which I suspect the landlady meant swindles—that was the inference.”
“So what happened when Mitchell—Fletcher—returned four days ago?” Barnaby asked.
O’Donnell reported, “The landlady saw him come in, happy as a grig, and he told her things were looking up in a big way. When the landlady inquired after Kitty, Fletcher said she was still on the job but would be home in a few days.”
Stokes’s eyes had narrowed. “Kitty Mallard is presently playing the role of Kitty Maitland, parlormaid at Finsbury Court.”
O’Donnell nodded. “Seemed certain she’d be there somewhere.”
“Did the landlady know anything more about Fletcher’s movements while he was in town?” Stokes asked.
“Not in detail, but she did say he’d gone out first thing the next day and returned before noon, and when he came in, he was frowning. But when the landlady asked what was wrong, Fletcher said that actually things might be better than he’d initially thought. She said he went up to his rooms deep in thought and later came down with two letters. He took them to the post himself, so she didn’t see the directions.”
“The letter to Gwendolyn Finsbury,” Barnaby said. “And another to someone else.”
“The last the landlady saw of Fletcher was when he left the house about midday the next day—he said he was heading back to deliver his master-stroke and wrap everything up neatly, and that he expected to be back, possibly with Kitty, in time for dinner.” O’Donnell paused, then said, “I decided that as the landlady had told me so much—all we needed to know—that it was worth the risk to see if I could get her to tell me more about Fletcher’s schemes. Took a bit of jollying along, but it seems that Fletcher’s a flimflam man—very good at chiseling wealthy ladies, young and old, out of their pin money and more.”
“That’s where I’ve heard of him.” Barnaby met Stokes’s gaze. “Fletcher’s been active for quite some years—I’ve heard rumors of him and he was, indeed, a gentleman, originally from a good family but an indolent wastrel they’d long ago disowned. The problem was that he was, indeed, charming, and the ladies he charmed gave him their guineas voluntarily—none of the families involved were eager to publicly admit that their young and old dears had been taken for fools.”
“Which, of course, is what men like Fletcher count on.” Stokes paused, then raised his brows. “But what scheme did he engage in this time that led someone to bash in his head?”
“And,” Barnaby said, “did it have anything to do with those wretched Finsbury diamonds?”
CHAPTER 5
Those where the questions uppermost in Stokes’s, Griselda’s, and Penelope’s minds when, after dinner, along with Barnaby, they settled in the drawing room in Albemarle Street to discuss the day’s revelations.
While Barnaby did his best to pay due attention to their deliberations, he was prey to an insistent, underlying distraction—one powerful enough to override all else.
For a start, while Penelope was normally a surprisingly hearty eater, he’d noticed that she’d consumed barely a mouthful of dinner, yet she didn’t seem bothered, either by the food or her lack of appetite, and she’d been so bright-eyed and enthused while listening to Stokes’s recounting of O’Donnell’s discoveries that Barnaby couldn’t decide whether her lack of interest in food—presumably temporary—was anything to be concerned about.
But then there was her restlessness.
In her usual position beside him on the sofa, she shifted—yet again. Normally she was so focused, her mind so intent on whatever she was thinking, that she remained physically calm, relatively unmoving. Very rarely was she restless.
Over recent weeks he’d noticed that as the burden of the baby she carried grew toward its ultimate stage, she’d been shifting position more frequently. Tonight, she was moving every few minutes.
Yet she didn’t seem to notice, didn’t seem aware of her remarkable restlessness. Instead, she was happily and patently eagerly engaged in teasing out the strands of their unfolding investigation, her dark eyes bright, her features animated, her voice clear and strong.
Nothing to worry about, Barnaby told himself, and tried to concentrate on the discussion.
“The easiest way to ascertain our progress is to reconstruct what we believe must have happened.” Penelope leaned back into the corner of the sofa. “That will highlight the holes in our knowledge most clearly.”
Stokes nodded. “How far back should we start?”
“When Kitty arrived at the house,” Penelope suggested.
“No,” Griselda said, “earlier. What focused Fletcher and Kitty on the Finsbury household?”
Penelope inclined her head. “An excellent point. What was the target of Fletcher’s scheme—at least to begin with? Was it the diamonds?”
Stokes raised his brows and looked at Barnaby. “I should think it must have been. If I’m remembering my timeline correctly, Kitty started at Finsbury Court months ago, well before Fletcher introduced himself to Lord Finsbury’s notice.”
Barnaby glanced at Penelope. “I gather the tale of the Finsbury diamonds would be well-known among the older ladies of the ton.”
Penelope nodded. “Mama confirmed it was the one thing they all knew about the Finsburys.”
“So,” Stokes said, “from one of his old dears, Fletcher hears of this fabulous diamond necklace—”
“And being the sort of scoundrel he is, the details would constitute a definite lure,” Barnaby put in. “A fabulous necklace that hasn’t been worn for decades and that therefore might not be missed for months, if not years.”
Stokes nodded. “So Fletcher and Kitty turn their sights on the Finsburys, and the first step is to get Kitty into the household, which they manage easily enough.”
“And, moreover, they get Kitty into the right position,” Griselda pointed out. “As the parlormaid in a household of that size, she could move through almost any room, searching at will, without anyone thinking anything of it.”
“Exactly.” Behind the lenses of her spectacles, Penelope’s eyes gleamed. “So Kitty searches, discovers the safe—and then what?” She appealed to the others. “How did they open it?”
Stokes frowned. “Neither Fletcher nor Kitty have any record of burglary, but that doesn’t mean that at some point in their respective careers, they wouldn’t have learned some of the tricks of that trade.”
“Indeed.” Barnaby glanced around the circle. “We haven’t seen Lord Finsbury’s safe, but chances are it’s an older type, and for anyone with the right training, opening one of those is simply a matter of knowledge
, patience, and access.”
A second passed, then Penelope said, “For our present purposes, let’s say that Kitty found the safe but that it was Fletcher who possessed the necessary skills to open it. That would explain why he joined the house party—it was the perfect way to spend several nights inside the house.”
Griselda was nodding. “And Kitty was there to tell him how best to manage that. In her position she would have heard all the staff gossip—she would have learned that Lord Finsbury was looking for a wealthy gentleman for his daughter.”
“Precisely,” Penelope said. “The staff always know things like that.”
“So Fletcher knew exactly how to approach Lord Finsbury, knew exactly what story to spin to get himself invited to stay at Finsbury Court.” Barnaby paused, then went on, “So we have both Fletcher and Kitty in residence, and at some point the diamonds make their way into Fletcher’s hands.”
“And then he engineers his departure in such a way that no one suspects that he’s simply up and left.” Penelope arched her brows high. “Actually, that was a very clever move. It left everyone focused on Frederick and Gwen—and I will never believe that when Fletcher pressed his attentions on Gwen, he didn’t know that Frederick would be hovering. That entire scene smacks of being carefully staged.”
Stokes grunted. “It was a typical chiseler’s sleight of hand—make everyone look at the drama over there while he steals the silver—or in this case the diamonds. No one even thought of the diamonds.”
“As witnessed by Lord Finsbury’s shock when they were returned to him.” Crossing his ankles, Barnaby leaned back. “But let’s not get ahead of ourselves—Fletcher now has the diamonds and has left the house without raising any suspicions likely to bring anyone after him.”
“I can understand why he would have wanted it that way,” Stokes said. “If the Finsbury diamonds are even half as fabulous as advertised, Fletcher would need a top-quality fence to handle them, and those gentlemen won’t touch any item that’s the subject of a hue and cry.”
Penelope sat up. “So he needed not just to steal the diamonds but to keep it quiet, presumably for as long as he could—and combined with the fact that the diamonds are very rarely worn, managing to leave the house as he did was utterly perfect for his plans.” She wriggled, then settled again. “So that accounts for his excellent spirits subsequently—everything was going his way.”
“And,” Griselda said, “that also explains why Kitty remained at Finsbury Court and didn’t disappear at the same time.”
“No need to raise questions, even on that score.” Stokes pulled a face. “They really were very good at what they did.”
“So it seems,” Barnaby said. “But we now have Kitty biding her time at Finsbury Court and Fletcher with the diamonds in his pocket in London, and he’s all but dancing a jig. What happened next?”
Penelope held up a hand. “The next morning he took the diamonds to his fence…and came back much less happy.” She frowned. “Why?”
After a moment, Stokes shrugged. “It could have been one of several reasons—the fence telling him that the diamonds were too well-known to fetch what Fletcher was expecting leaps to mind. Also that he couldn’t cut them up because much of the value was in the piece as a whole. We often find burglars left with their loot in their hands and their high hopes dashed, so to speak.”
“But,” Griselda said, “although deflated…what was it Fletcher said to his landlady? That things might be even better than he’d initially thought?”
Barnaby was nodding. “And later he sent a letter to Gwendolyn Finsbury asking to meet her the following afternoon because he had something to show her—by which he must have meant the diamonds—and the following day, Fletcher set off in good spirits once more, clearly expecting his scheme to end on a high note and expecting to return with Kitty that evening—which suggests that something he learned at his fence’s—”
“Or from someone he met while he was out that morning,” Penelope put in.
Barnaby inclined his head, accepting the qualification. “True. But regardless, something Fletcher learned that morning made him rejig his scheme. He was no longer going to steal the diamonds, which was why he took them back.”
“He was going to use them in some other way,” Penelope said. “And given that he had arranged to meet Gwendolyn Finsbury rather than her father, I suspect we can guess what that way was and who had become his new target.”
Griselda frowned. “But he told his landlady that he expected to return that evening with Kitty. But wouldn’t Kitty have been upset if Fletcher intended to transfer his affections to Miss Finsbury?”
“Not necessarily,” Stokes said. “Fletcher was a chiseler—convincing impressionable young ladies that his affections were deeply engaged was part of his stock-in-trade, and Kitty must have known that. And, by all accounts, Miss Finsbury has lived a relatively quiet life—she would have appeared an excellent target for Fletcher’s charm.”
“And yet…” Penelope tilted her head. “Griselda’s right. What if, in this particular instance, part of what influenced Fletcher to change his plans was, in fact, that he’d been smitten by Gwendolyn Finsbury? For all we know he might have been—with someone who pretends all the time, how can you tell when they’re sincere?—and Kitty, who knew Fletcher so well, might well have realized that he was in danger of succumbing before he left Finsbury Court. Kitty would have heaved a huge sigh of relief when he adhered to their original plan and left. But then how would she have felt when she learned via the servants’ hall that Fletcher was expected back the following afternoon, and that he’d arranged to speak with Miss Finsbury?”
“Kitty would have felt very, very uncertain,” Griselda said. “She would have tried to meet Fletcher before he reached the house, to find out what was going on and where she stood.”
“Indeed.” Penelope’s eyes gleamed. “So let’s say she truly fears the worst, that she suspects Fletcher intends to throw her over for Miss Finsbury and—and we shouldn’t forget this point—returning to the social circle into which he’d been born. Kitty is furious. She’s a woman betrayed. So she sets the foot-trap, leaves the hoop-hammer in the bushes nearby, and waits for Fletcher further down the path, closer to the village.”
“Fletcher arrives.” Stokes took up the tale. “They meet and Kitty taxes him with her fears. Fletcher confirms those fears, then, literally as well as figuratively, he puts Kitty aside and walks on—and she watches him walk into the trap, then she follows and uses the hoop-hammer to wipe out his charming—but deceiving—face.”
“Oh!” Penelope wriggled. “That fits the facts so much better than anything else. I always said this was a crime of passion.”
Barnaby didn’t look quite so convinced. “I suppose Kitty’s reaction—her subsequent distress—might have been the result of a combination of emotions.”
“Including,” Stokes somewhat grimly said, “fear for her own skin. Murder, after all, is a hanging offense.”
“Before we get to the hanging,” Barnaby dryly observed, “we need to line up the evidence. We already know Kitty has no alibi for the critical time, and given she’s been at the house for months, she might have stumbled across the hoop-hammer and the foot-trap at any time over the past weeks.”
“Hmm,” Penelope said. “As it’s a crime of passion, there won’t be any other evidence, not that I can see.”
Stokes slapped his hands on his thighs and stood. “We’ll need to rattle her.” Expectant satisfaction lighting his expression, he met Barnaby’s eyes as he, too, got to his feet. “Kitty’s had another day to dwell on her actions—let’s go back tomorrow morning and see what we can shake out of her.”
Barnaby’s brows rose as he turned to give Penelope his hands. “It seems we’re nearing the end of the case and it’s proved to be reasonably straightforward after all.”
Grinning, Penelope grasped his fingers and let him haul her upright. “The Chief Commissioner—not to mention the Finsbury
s—will be relieved.”
Griselda stood with her arm wound in Stokes’s. “Indeed. And it’s only taken the pair of you two days—with our help.”
The emphasis she placed on the last words left them all grinning.
With Penelope and Griselda making plans for later in the week and Barnaby telling Stokes that he would pick him up in his curricle to drive out to Finsbury Court in the morning, the four ambled out into the front hall.
* * *
Although it was still early, Penelope elected to be wise and retire. She wasn’t surprised that Barnaby chose to join her; he would be leaving early to return to Finsbury Court and tie up the case—so he could return to hovering over her.
She didn’t need to ask to know that, regardless of the lure of the case, that was his underlying motive.
After he had helped her to disrobe, don her now voluminous nightgown, and then awkwardly climb onto their big bed, she lay back against her small mountain of pillows and, having left her glasses on for the purpose, watched him undress.
When the show was finally over and he doused the lamp and joined her under the covers, setting her glasses aside, she turned his way and focused as well as she could on his face. “Did you ever get a look at the diamonds?”
“No.” Turning onto his back, Barnaby drew up the covers. Closing his eyes, he shrugged lightly. “Other than being Fletcher and Kitty’s original target, they don’t seem all that relevant now.”
After several seconds of staring into the shadows, Penelope stated, “I think that, if at all possible, you should try to get a look at them.”
Although he was already sinking into sleep, the comment made Barnaby wonder…sufficiently for him to rouse himself enough to ask, “Why?”
“Well…” Penelope half-turned and snuggled a little lower—a trifle closer. Her hand slid beneath the sheets and came to rest, warm and familiar, on his upper arm. “I just thought you should grasp the opportunity to seek a little inspiration for the right gift to get me to commemorate the event—and to placate me and restore your manly self to my good graces—when I deliver your heir.”