CHAPTER 5
Penelope felt positively virtuous. She had spent most of the day slaving diligently over the translation the British Museum had commissioned. She was making good progress; Violet would be pleased.
Her mother, the Dowager Viscountess Calverton, had called early in the afternoon, and Penelope had allowed herself to be distracted enough to take tea and to have all she’d learned about the Galbraiths and Latimers confirmed by her most trusted source on such matters. Yet after seeing her mother into her carriage, she had dutifully returned to her desk and her Greek scribe; in the late afternoon, she had attended the Royal Society lecture as she had promised, before returning once more to her desk.
Now, her metaphorical halo glowing, she settled on one of the twin sofas in her drawing room and prepared to indulge in her reward—dissecting all the information Barnaby, Stokes, and Montague had thus far assembled, ferreting out what clues they had found, and deciding where next to search. “Right, then.” She looked around eagerly—at Griselda, sinking onto the sofa beside her, at Montague and Violet seated on the sofa opposite, and, finally, at Stokes in one of the armchairs flanking the fireplace and Barnaby in its mate. “Where should we start?”
“At the beginning,” Montague said. “Neither Violet nor I—nor, I suspect, Griselda—have heard a full accounting of the murder.” Even as the words left his lips, Montague wondered at himself; there he was, seated alongside his lovely wife and inviting others who were long accustomed to dealing with crime to sully her ears with gruesome details. Then he glanced at Violet’s face, took in her expression—every bit as eager as Penelope’s—and reminded himself that Violet’s happiness was his principal goal, conservative protectiveness be damned.
“I think that’s my cue.” Stretching out his long legs, Barnaby collected his thoughts, then began. “One of my cousins, Hugo, found the body when he went outside to smoke. He came and found me.” Concisely, Barnaby described the body and all he and Penelope had noted about the site and the body itself, and what they had consequently deduced.
Stokes was nodding. “So whoever the murderer is, they were almost certainly one of Lady Fairchild’s guests.”
“But her guest list for that evening is enormous,” Penelope put in, “so combing through it trying to identify the murderer isn’t a way we want to go.”
Stokes grunted. “We’ve made some advance on the murderer’s identity, but as we’re not up to that yet, let’s continue with our recapitulation.”
Barnaby duly described the Galbraith family and what he and Stokes had learned from the interviews carried out in the Fairchilds’ drawing room.
“Precious little,” Stokes muttered.
Barnaby inclined his head and continued, ending with, “However, all of them did deny going outside at any time.” Having completed that section of their report, he cocked a brow at Penelope.
She sat straighter and lifted her chin. “I stayed in the drawing room long enough to confirm that all the Galbraiths’ reactions rang true. I didn’t detect anything unexpected in the way they responded to the news. Subsequently, I went back to the ballroom and questioned a group of Lady Galbraith’s friends.”
In short order, she outlined what she’d learned about the feud between the Galbraith and Latimer families. “After that, I made straight for the Latimers.” She briefly described the family and all she’d observed and deduced about them. “And later I had a chance to speak to some of the grandes dames, and they gave me the ton’s view on Lady Latimer’s shoes, Lady Latimer’s stance regarding Lady Galbraith’s demand, and the resulting feud.”
Frowning slightly in concentration, Penelope recounted the pertinent details of the conversation. “And finally,” she concluded, “Lady Fairchild pointed out that, despite there being no connection between Lady Latimer’s shoes and Lady Galbraith’s murder, society being what it is, fingers will soon enough be pointed at Lady Latimer and her family.”
Ending with a brisk nod, Penelope looked around the group—and discovered that Stokes and Barnaby were regarding her rather grimly. “What is it?”
Stokes grimaced. He glanced at Barnaby, then said, “Let’s continue to take this step by step.” Stokes looked at Montague. “As our first foray this morning, Barnaby and I called on Montague and asked him to check the Galbraith’s finances, thinking to at least eliminate money as a motive.” Stokes looked at the others. “While Montague was doing that, Barnaby and I returned to Fairchild House and interviewed the staff. No one saw Lady Galbraith leave the ballroom, or go out onto the terrace, and none of the staff noticed her having any altercation or even a conversation with anyone. However, thanks be, we turned up a footman who’d been serving champagne in the ballroom and had seen Mr. Hartley Galbraith leave the ballroom and go outside via the side terrace.”
“So Hartley lied about going outside.” Griselda frowned. “Did he go outside before or after his mother?”
“Before.” Stokes glanced at the notebook he’d extracted from his pocket and was balancing on his knee. “This was quite early in the evening—about half past nine.”
Violet asked, “Do we have any idea of when, exactly, her ladyship met her end?”
Stokes looked at Barnaby. “From your description when you first found her and what I saw when I got there, I’d say she was killed around ten o’clock.”
Fingers steepled before his face, Barnaby nodded. “I agree. But as it happens, we got confirmation of the time later.” He looked at Penelope and Griselda. “After learning that Hartley had gone out via the terrace yet had denied doing so during our interview in the Fairchilds’ drawing room, a second interview with him was in order, but first we stopped at Montague’s to steer him more specifically toward Hartley.” Barnaby looked at Montague. “And…”
“It so happened that I had already received information on Hartley Galbraith’s recent financial activity.” Montague paused, amused by the way both Penelope and Griselda hung on his words, waiting…
Violet flicked his arm with her fingers. “Stop teasing.” She looked at Penelope and Griselda. “Hartley Galbraith was putting his affairs in order, most likely either in pursuit of a business venture or because he planned to make an offer for some lady’s hand.”
Penelope blinked, then swung her gaze to Stokes. “And…”
Stokes grinned at her imperious tone. “And so we went and asked him which it was. But first we had to track him down.” With a nod, Stokes passed the reporting baton to Barnaby.
“Hartley had given an address in Jermyn Street.” Barnaby glanced at Penelope. “Near where I used to live. As it transpired, Hartley wasn’t there, but his landlord, Lord Carradale, was.” Briefly, Barnaby recounted their conversation with Carradale. “For all his faults, Carradale is someone I would class as acutely observant and very hard to gull. If Carradale says Hartley was deeply cut up over his mother’s death, then he was.”
“I also got the impression that Carradale liked Galbraith—that he would consider him a friend,” Stokes put in.
Barnaby nodded. “Indeed. Which tells us something of Hartley’s character.” Barnaby paused, then went on, “As Hartley had gone to stay in Hanover Square, we trundled around there and soon had his stated reason for returning home confirmed—Hartley is holding the household together entirely by himself.”
Stokes snorted. “I wasn’t expecting to approve of the man, much less respect him, but unless he’s the greatest actor ever born, he truly is struggling to hold his family together over what is unquestionably a terrible time. His father is prostrate, and so are his sisters.”
“I would have to agree,” Barnaby said. “I went there thinking that Hartley might be our murderer, but by the time we left…even his excuses for not speaking at the Fairchilds’—that he was in shock and couldn’t think and was stunned by the implications—rang true. And, of course, there was the tale he had to tell, which is simply so dramatic and fits the other facts we’ve learned so well that, despite wanting to be suspicious of him and his account, I found myself believing it.”
Stokes reluctantly nodded.
Penelope looked from one to the other. “What tale? Was Hartley out in the garden when his mother was murdered?”
“Yes, he was.” Succinctly, Barnaby recounted all that Hartley had divulged.
The others stared.
Predictably, Penelope recovered first. “So he saw his mother murdered?”
Barnaby nodded. “And assuming he’s telling the truth, so did his intended.”
All six fell silent, dwelling on what Hartley and his mysterious intended must have seen.
After a moment, frowning, Montague looked at Penelope. “It would help if I knew what these Lady Latimer’s shoes looked like.”
Stokes grunted in agreement.
Penelope grimaced. “I really should have thought to take a closer look when I spoke with the Latimers last night, but from all I’ve heard, in style the shoes are ordinary ballroom pumps, but their fabric is embroidered with metallic thread, and then crystals are stuck on in various patterns. As I understand it, getting the crystals to stick is the difficulty—normally crystals don’t stay stuck on fabric or leather, especially not in the atmosphere of a ballroom and with the flexing of shoes while dancing. At the beginning of last year when Lady Latimer’s shoes first became all the rage, others tried to copy the effect, but their crystals fell off and got under everyone’s feet and scratched the floors. Ultimately, all such attempts ended in disaster.”
Violet tilted her head, clearly visualizing such shoes. “So imagining what Hartley and his intended saw, given there was moonlight, I could see the crystals flashing on the shoes and drawing their eyes as the lady disappeared into the house.”
“Actually,” Penelope said, “that’s another point—did Hartley notice what color the shoes were?” Immediately upon voicing the question, she grimaced. “He didn’t, did he?”
Barnaby met her gaze. “Given the quality of the light at the time, even had he noticed, I doubt he could have distinguished any color beyond ‘light’ or ‘dark.’”
“We might get more information from his intended,” Penelope said. “Clearly at some point you will have to interview her.” Seeing Stokes’s and Montague’s puzzled looks, she elucidated, “Generally, ballroom pumps are covered in the same fabric as the gown with which they’re worn. A light-colored gown could be worn by anyone, but a dark material would not be worn by a young lady, and only certain matrons wear darker hues, so if we knew the color, it would reduce the suspects.”
Griselda shifted to look at Penelope. “Can you remember the colors of the gowns the Latimer ladies were wearing last night?”
Penelope closed her eyes and reeled off the names, along with the relevant color and style of gown.
When she opened her eyes again, Griselda grinned. “I see your point.”
“Indeed, but as we don’t know the color of the shoes, and as Barnaby says, the quality of the light wasn’t conducive to identifying any hue accurately—” Penelope broke off as Mostyn entered. She arched her brows. “Dinner?”
Mostyn bowed. “Indeed, ma’am. Dinner is served.”
The six had developed the habit of putting aside their investigative deliberations over their shared meals, the better to appreciate the food and each other’s company. By general consensus, the next hour and a half was filled with conversation on more pleasant subjects.
But immediately the meal was over, and they were settled once more in what had rapidly become their accustomed positions in the drawing room, all refocused on the crime that lay before them, waiting to be solved.
“Can I suggest,” Stokes said, “that we take our usual approach and list what we feel we know about the events leading up to and immediately following the murder?”
“And then see what questions that leads to.” Penelope nodded. “I second the motion.”
Along with the others, she looked at Barnaby, who was usually the most concise in drawing the disparate threads of an investigation together. Settling in his armchair, he accepted the unvoiced invitation. “The first relevant fact is that Hartley Galbraith left the Fairchilds’ ballroom at about half past nine. He was seen going out onto the side terrace and down the steps into the garden. We don’t know when Lady Galbraith left the ballroom—earlier or later—but if it had been earlier, her daughters would most likely have noticed.” Brows rising, Barnaby met Stokes’s eyes. “Indeed, it’s unlikely that Lady Galbraith could have quit the ballroom before Hartley. That would have meant her disappearing very soon after she’d arrived, and with three unmarried daughters present, one of whom is not even formally out, that would certainly have been noticed, by her daughters if no one else.”
Stokes lightly shrugged. “I’ll take your word for that.”
Fleetingly, Barnaby grinned. “So…Lady Galbraith most likely left the ballroom sometime after her son. We don’t know why she left, what reason she had for going out onto the terrace and subsequently down onto the path. We have no sightings of anyone else leaving the ballroom, but it’s entirely possible that someone could have.”
“Someone did,” Penelope said. “From our wander around the garden, it’s difficult to see how anyone could have come from outside and calmly climbed up to the terrace in order to drop that stone ball on Lady Galbraith. But someone must have met Lady Galbraith outside, either on the terrace or on the path below.”
Barnaby nodded. “And all indications are that that someone came from the ball, from the ballroom.”
“But,” Penelope said, “surely the critical point is what moved Lady Galbraith to go outside. Was she alone when she left the ballroom? Or was her killer with her?” Penelope glanced at Stokes. “She couldn’t have been killed in the manner she was if she hadn’t been out on the path—so why was she there?”
Violet frowned. “Might she have followed Hartley?” She met Penelope’s eyes. “To see where he was going, who he was meeting in the gardens.”
Penelope blinked. “You mean she noticed… Well, yes, that’s possible, isn’t it?” She glanced around the circle. “Lady Galbraith might well have noticed Hartley slipping away to meet secretly with someone. If she suspected something of a clandestine nature was going on—and she sounds like the sort to leap to the conclusion that he’d formed a tendre for someone entirely unsuitable—then at the Fairchilds’ ball, she might have been watching him, and when she saw him slipping away so very early, she naturally went after him.” Behind her spectacles, Penelope’s eyes gleamed. “And that would explain why she so cavalierly abandoned her three daughters, leaving them to fend for themselves. In Lady Galbraith’s eyes, Hartley, her firstborn and her husband’s heir, and who he is to marry, would unquestionably take precedence over her daughters’ futures.”
Barnaby frowned. “All right—so now we have Hartley leaving the ballroom at about half past nine to meet with his intended, who is already waiting in the folly by the lake. And Lady Galbraith follows him…why didn’t she go further? Because Hartley saw her and stopped and confronted her?”
Stokes stirred. He caught Barnaby’s eye. “That raises a rather disturbing possibility. At present, we have only Hartley Galbraith’s word for what he says happened. What if, instead, Lady Galbraith came after him and caught up with both him and his intended on the path below the terrace, or even as they were returning to the house. There’s a confrontation—there’s some reason Hartley and his intended have kept their attachment a secret, after all—and Lady Galbraith declares that she will never allow Hartley to marry the lady—over her dead body and all that. Leaving Hartley and his mother on the path, the lady involved storms up the steps, then, in a fury, she pauses at the top, picks up the stone ball, and drops it on Lady Galbraith’s head.”
Feeling rather pleased with his hypothesis, Stokes refocused on Griselda and Penelope, then, when they said nothing but just looked steadily back at him, he glanced at Violet, but she, too, remained silent. Unconvinced. “What?” Stokes said, straightening in his chair.
Rather primly, Penelope said, “I really don’t think any young lady would imagine that killing her mother-in-law-to-be in front of her prospective husband was likely to smooth her path into matrimony.”
“Ah.” Stokes held up a hand. “But we don’t know what Hartley’s relationship with his mother was. We do know that he hasn’t lived at home for years—perhaps there was some deep antipathy between them? Regardless, I can’t see him as being the sort to kill his own mother, but perhaps his intended knew how the land lay, and that removing Lady Galbraith wouldn’t, ultimately, turn Hartley against her—especially if his mother was determined to stand in the way of their marriage.”
“And we have to remember,” Montague said, “that Hartley did not report his mother’s death. He left the body lying on the path, returned to the ballroom, and kept mum.”
The ladies remained patently unconvinced, and even Barnaby didn’t look swayed. “Hartley,” Barnaby said, “claimed that he didn’t report finding the body because he was so shocked by what he’d seen that he couldn’t think past the conundrum posed by the lady fleeing the terrace wearing Lady Latimer’s shoes.”
“I would think,” Penelope said, tilting her head as she considered, “that given his lifelong connection with the Latimers, for him, seeing a lady wearing those shoes in that setting would create something of an emotional clash.” She paused, then added, “I can understand why he might have been unable, then and there, to decide what to do.”
“But,” Violet said, frowning slightly, “returning to Stokes’s point about us only having Hartley’s word about what he saw, do we even know that he and his intended saw Lady Latimer’s shoes at all? Or is that pure invention, in the circumstances the perfect suggestion to divert the investigation into an arena that will likely be rife with possibilities, given that all the Latimer ladies were at the ball?”
“Come to that,” Stokes said, “if you entertain the notion that what Hartley told us is a fabrication, we also have no reason to believe that his intended exists, and that it wasn’t he, himself, and no one else, who murdered his mother.”
A pause ensued, then Penelope grimaced. “Well, against that we have yours, Barnaby’s, and Carradale’s readings of Hartley as an honest and honorable man. On the other hand, no one else was seen leaving or returning to the ballroom, but that hardly means no one did.”
Montague stirred. “I feel compelled to point out that Hartley’s tale of having an intended meshes with him putting his affairs in order.”
“True,” Penelope said. “And, what’s more, there’s another hole in the theory that either Hartley or his intended felt moved to kill his mother. Namely that, as Hartley is nearly thirty years old, who he decides to marry is not subject to his mother’s approval.” Penelope looked at Montague. “I assume Hartley is independent enough financially to marry whom he pleases?”
Montague nodded. “That would be my understanding.”
“So,” Penelope expounded, “although Lady Galbraith might have created a great deal of unpleasantness and fuss, she couldn’t have prevented Hartley from marrying his intended. Thus, from either Hartley’s or his intended’s point of view, killing Lady Galbraith would not have been in their best interests. Indeed, it’s hard to see what might have motivated them—and if one is involved, then both are—to do such a thing.”
Barnaby shifted, stretching out his long legs and crossing his ankles. “I would have to agree. However, that said, we all know that the motive for murder can be, at first glance, very obscure.” Meeting Penelope’s eyes, he said, “As much as I’m inclined to believe Hartley, at this point I don’t think we can accept his version of events as uncontestable fact.”
Penelope wrinkled her nose. “All right.” She paused, her gaze growing distant as she rapidly reviewed their findings, then she refocused. “Either Hartley is lying, or he’s telling the truth. If he’s lying, then either he or his intended killed his mother—for some as-yet obscure reason—and subsequently Hartley concealed the crime. If that is the case, then his story of seeing a lady wearing Lady Latimer’s shoes leaving the terrace immediately after his mother had been struck down is pure invention, a distracting smokescreen with no basis in fact.”
Barnaby nodded. “Thus far, that’s sound.”
Penelope inclined her head. “Which leaves us with the alternative—that everything Hartley told you and Stokes is the unvarnished truth.”
“And that means,” Griselda said, “that the murderer is a lady wearing Lady Latimer’s shoes who followed Lady Galbraith out of the ballroom and onto the side terrace. From there, the lady dropped the stone ball on Lady Galbraith’s head, then turned and walked quickly back into the house.”
“Ah—but did the lady in Lady Latimer’s shoes commit the murder?” Violet asked. “Or did she follow someone else—or perhaps she came out intending to speak with Lady Galbraith but someone else was before her—and so she, the lady in Lady Latimer’s shoes, saw the murderer drop the ball on Lady Galbraith’s head? That might have been why the lady in the shoes rushed back into the ballroom and said nothing about the murder—she might have recognized the murderer and been frightened. As for the murderer…” Violet paused, then asked, “I know you said it was unlikely that the murderer could have reached the terrace above Lady Galbraith if the murderer had come via the gardens, but could the murderer have come from the ballroom and left via the gardens?”
Penelope, Stokes, and Barnaby exchanged glances, then Penelope pulled a face at Violet. “I hate it when we have a multitude of perfectly believable but entirely different scenarios for a murder.”
Violet shrugged. “The question had to be asked.”
Stokes was frowning. “If the lady in the shoes saw the murderer and was frightened of him, surely the safest thing she could do is tell the authorities what she saw.”
A pause ensued while the others considered, then Penelope sighed. “In any other case, yes, but in this one? We have to assume, as I believe Hartley has, that the lady he and his intended saw fleeing the terrace is one of the Latimer ladies. And that being so, then no—to her, telling the authorities would not feature as her wisest course. If she speaks up, she stands a very good chance of being accused of Lady Galbraith’s murder, and regardless of any facts, that would be the ton’s verdict.”
Stokes growled, “Why is it that murders within the ton are never straightforward?”
Barnaby grinned fleetingly. “You love the challenge.”
Stokes grunted. “So what are our questions, and what do we do next?”
A lively discussion ensued. It was decided that Stokes and Barnaby would check with the police surgeon to verify the time of Lady Galbraith’s death and also that it was, as everyone had assumed, the ball falling on her ladyship’s head that had crushed her skull enough to kill her. Such details, Penelope pointed out, were important.
Montague was delegated to look more deeply into Hartley Galbraith’s finances to eliminate any other possible motive lurking there. He also volunteered to confirm the financial bona fides of the Latimers, given that, quite aside from the existence of the feud, the lady on the terrace, assuming she was real, had drawn the family into the investigation.
For their part, Penelope, Violet, and Griselda exchanged glances and merely agreed to meet on the morrow to define what investigative areas they might best address. Their husbands eyed them with a certain wariness, but did not venture any comment.
The evening broke up shortly afterward. A sense of camaraderie and expectation, of shared purpose and determination, followed the six into the front hall. Hettie, who had been watching over Megan, Stokes and Griselda’s barely one-year-old daughter, in the nursery, was summoned and brought the swaddled, peacefully sleeping bundle down. Griselda took Megan, and Penelope and Violet gathered around to peek and then drop soft kisses on one delicate rosy cheek.
Stokes looked proud and hovered protectively. Barnaby and Montague smiled.
Eventually, Penelope and Barnaby stood at the top of their front steps and waved the other couples, each in their own carriage, away.
Returning into the warmth and light of the front hall, Penelope paused, head tilted; her gaze grew abstracted, a frown slowly crimping her dark brows.
Barnaby halted beside her. He studied her expression, then reached for her hand and twined his fingers with hers. “What is it? Don’t try to tell me you’re not thrilled to have another case you can help investigate.”
Penelope blinked. “Heavens, no—it’s not that.” Glancing up, she met Barnaby’s eyes. “I was just thinking that my maxim about such investigations is continuing to hold true—a case is invariably more complicated when a romance is involved.”
Lips quirking, Barnaby arched his brows. “In this case, that’s proving to be an entirely valid observation.”
* * *
At eleven o’clock that night, Hartley Galbraith strode down the pavement bordering Hanover Square. Shoulders hunched against the chill breeze, he kept his head down and continued south into George Street. Glancing forward, he noted the dark bulk of St. George’s church ahead on his left.
Lips thinning, Hartley inwardly owned to amazement verging on disbelief at how many hurdles life had managed to strew in the path of what should have been the most straightforward of romances.
Drawing level with the church, he glanced around, then crossed the street and went quickly up the steps into the dark shadows of the pillared porch. At this hour, with the church closed for the night and no lamps burning along its façade, the porch was wreathed in near darkness and helpfully deserted except for the lady he had come to meet.
He’d sent her a note that morning, telling her of his change of address and stipulating this time, this place; she’d replied confirming the meeting, and had also urged him to reveal all to the police, regardless of the implications and possible repercussions. The truth, as she’d so eloquently stated, had to be paramount. Had to be their guide through this maze.
He glanced around as he strode to join her where she waited on one of the stone benches set in alcoves flanking the main doors. Her maid should have been somewhere nearby, keeping watch over her mistress, but Hartley couldn’t see anyone else.
His intended rose as he neared. He slowed and opened his arms, and she came to him with her usual directness. Halting, he closed his arms around her. She lifted her face, inviting his kiss, but he held back. Peering deeper into the shadows, he asked, “Where’s your maid?”
“She and Samuel, the undergardener, are standing just around the corner where they can’t see us, but they will hear if I call.” Through the dimness, his beloved searched his face. “Now kiss me.”
Thus adjured, Hartley complied, bending his head and covering her lips—lips of soft rose just made to be kissed—with his. She responded as ardently as she always did, and for several long seconds—which could have been minutes for all he knew—his senses spun, giddy with the taste of her, with the unvoiced promise not just conveyed but underscored by the svelte female form pressed so firmly, so trustingly, and so deliberately provocatively against his harder body.
They had always been intended for each other. That was why the phrase “my intended” leapt so readily to his lips when referring to her. From their earliest years, they had known there was a link, some special connection between them. Despite the closeness of their families and the fact that they thought of all the others as sisters, neither he nor she had ever viewed what lay between them, even in the years before it had fully blossomed, as anything even vaguely sibling-like.
From the very first they had known that, at some point, they would wed. Had known that their futures were inextricably linked, that them getting married wasn’t a possibility but rather a certainty. Yet even as they’d matured and the link had only grown stronger, more assured, they’d realized and had accepted that they would have to wait—that he would have to wait until she was deemed old enough to make her choice. Which had meant until she’d had her first Season and had seen what the ton had to offer in terms of eligible gentlemen.
Her affections had never wavered, any more than his had with the passing years.
He’d expected to ask for her hand at the beginning of last Season. That had been their plan.
Until the falling out—ridiculous and unnecessary but so very real—that had separated their families.
So they’d waited again, hoping, expecting, that it would blow over, that the rift was temporary and would soon enough be healed.
But that hadn’t eventuated; if anything, the situation had only grown worse.
Two weeks ago, they’d decided that they had waited long enough, that they could not put their lives and the future they were determined to share in abeyance forever. That they had a responsibility to themselves and that future to secure it.
He’d asked his man-of-business to get all in readiness for him to make a formal application for her hand. Neither he nor she foresaw any difficulty in gaining her parents’ permission, indeed, their support.
It had been his parents, his mother in particular, who would have planted herself firmly in their way.
And then they’d seen her killed.
Not even the sweetness of his beloved’s kiss could yet counter the horror, sadness, and sorrow of that memory.
Hartley drew back from the kiss; raising his head, he drew in a tight breath.
Her palm cradling one lean cheek, Cynthia Latimer searched his face, then softly said, “I am so very, very sorry. No matter how difficult she was being, she didn’t deserve to die.”
Catching her hand, Hartley gently squeezed her fingers, then pressed a kiss to her fingertips. “I know. I’m still…” He grimaced. “Well, I would still be reeling if I had the time to do so.”
Releasing her, he waved her to the bench in the alcove. He glanced around, but there was no one passing, no one to see them. “I hate this,” he muttered. “All this sneaking around in the shadows.”
Gathering her skirts, Cynthia sat and sighed. “I know, but we can put up with that—we have for the last year and more.” They’d previously met at his lodgings, before he had moved back to Hanover Square, the better to take care of his family. She fully understood and accepted that necessity, but neither she nor, she knew, he was in any way accepting of the utterly unexpected turn of events. Quite aside from having to deal with the shock and the grief occasioned by his mother’s death, her demise would mean an unavoidable setback to their plans, but how much of a setback—how much of an obstacle it might prove to be—they had yet to divine; it was the latter uncertainty that weighed on them both. She studied Hartley’s face as he settled beside her. “How difficult has it been?”
“More or less what you would expect. Geraldine and Primrose ended in near-hysterics, and the doctor had to give them something to calm them. They’re still keeping to their beds. The pater, too, has been…unable to cope, but he’s starting to rally.” Clasping his hands, leaning his forearms on his thighs, Hartley went on, “But it’s Monica who worries me the most. She’s been weeping uncontrollably, and in between bouts, she just stares blankly at the wall.”
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?”