CHAPTER 10
To visit Mrs. Adair, in order to avoid being seen by others of the ton, Cynthia and Hartley had met in the porch of St. George’s and taken a hackney to Albemarle Street. But when they emerged from the Adairs’ house, there was no hackney in sight.
Pausing on the front step, Hartley looked up and down the street, then met Cynthia’s eyes. “We could go back inside and ask for a footman to be sent to summon a hackney.”
Cynthia held his gaze, then her lips firmed. “I’m fast approaching the point where I no longer care. Should anyone see us together, let them make of it what they will.”
Hartley studied her eyes, read her resolution, then he offered his arm. “In that case, let’s stroll down to Piccadilly. We’ll be able to get a hackney there.”
Taking his arm, Cynthia went with him down the steps. As they set off strolling along the pavement, openly together, she felt a smile tug at her lips. Gradually, she gave in to the impulse, smiling as a degree of happiness—a small degree, perhaps, but definite nonetheless—warmed her. As they neared the end of the street and the busy thoroughfare of Piccadilly, she leaned closer to Hartley and murmured, “It feels good to be able to be together like this. To simply be us, openly, without obfuscation.”
Hartley glanced down and met her eyes. “To stop pretending.” He nodded. “I know.”
Reaching Piccadilly, they paused and considered the passing carriages, then they exchanged a glance and, in mutual accord, turned and strolled on along the street.
Let anyone seeing them make of it what they would.
The ornate entrance of Burlington Arcade lay just past the end of Bond Street; another shared glance and, both smiling to themselves, Cynthia and Hartley let their feet carry them into the enclosed avenue of shops. The arcade was well known as a precinct hosting shops of the best art and antiquities dealers; at that hour, with most of the ton heading home to prepare for their evening entertainments, the arcade was quiet. Only a few other shoppers were idly strolling, peering into this window or that, and most of those looked to be collectors or scholars, not the sort to concern themselves with social gossip.
Ambling past windows stacked with curiosities from Egypt and the Orient, or packed with ancient tomes and scientific devices, Cynthia thought back over the events of the last days—over all that had happened after she and Hartley had met in the folly at Fairchild House. She glanced up at Hartley. “I’m so glad we took the bit between our teeth and went to see Mrs. Adair. If we hadn’t, I never would have recalled all I’d seen of those shoes.” She paused, then, looking ahead, went on, “I knew—in my heart, if you like—that the lady we saw could not possibly have been one of my sisters or my mother, but having the proof of my own eyes to back that up…it’s comforting.”
Hartley nodded. “The mists that have been obscuring who the murderer is are thinning.”
“I believe,” Cynthia said, her voice growing stronger, “that we can safely leave identifying the murderer to Mrs. Adair and her colleagues, and Mr. Adair and the police.”
“I admit,” Hartley said, “that I now feel much more confident that they will, indeed, succeed. And with luck, fairly soon.”
“Which brings us”—Cynthia glanced up and met his eyes—“to our next question. How much longer should we wait?”
Hartley knew she meant how much longer should they wait before telling their families of their wish to marry, of the fact that they already considered themselves betrothed and had for years. How many more days should they wait before they made a push to reunite their families? “Our families, both sides, need each other.”
Cynthia halted and waited until he did the same and faced her, then she said, “Your family might need my family’s support, but my family is aching to be able to give that comfort—it’s hurting them that they can’t.”
Taking her hands, Hartley squeezed her fingers lightly. “And your family’s support would mean immeasurably more to all of us than the superficial condolences extended by those others who have called. Augusta Gresham and Mrs. Foley, for example.” He shook his head. “Both sides, your family and mine, are not just hurting but bleeding.”
Lips firming, Cynthia nodded. “They are—and it’s time we put a stop to it. It’s time we brought them together again so we can all start healing. So we can all be stronger.”
Looking into her eyes, Hartley drew on the strength she always offered him. Taking a breath, he admitted, “My father and my sisters…the funeral’s tomorrow. If they can’t lean on your family for support, I honestly don’t know how any of them are going to get through it—and having half the ton watching is only going to make things so much worse.”
“But if the police haven’t identified the murderer before then…?” Cynthia raised her brows. Her tone steady, she said, “Having my family supporting yours through the ordeal is going to cause a furor. That said, I’m sure my family would do it without hesitation, if your family wished it.”
“Just as I’m certain that my family, all of us, want more than anything to have your family with us, at our sides.” He paused, then, features shifting, lowered his voice to say, “Burying one’s mother is always hard, but in this case…”
Cynthia squeezed his hands, then, releasing them, wound her arm around his and started them strolling once more.
After a moment, Hartley closed his hand over hers where it rested on his sleeve. “It’s time to do it.”
Cynthia glanced at him, read the certainty etched in his face, and nodded. “Yes. It is.” She’d already reached that conclusion, but the decision had had to be his.
“We can’t wait any longer for the police to determine who the murderer is. We know who it isn’t—namely, any of your family.” Hartley’s voice gained in strength, in decisiveness. “Our families need to be together to weather the funeral tomorrow. So we bring them together.”
Cynthia had already thought of how to manage it. “It has to be done, accepted, and all in place before the funeral tomorrow afternoon, so I suggest we—you and I—meet in Hanover Square after dinner.” Tipping her head closer to Hartley, as they walked on through the arcade, she explained how she thought they should go about bringing their estranged families together again.
* * *
Penelope, Violet, and Griselda hadn’t needed to fear missing Danny Gibson; the Gibson family lived over the Mercer Street shop, which they had owned for decades. According to the notice hanging in the window, three generations of Gibsons were currently active in providing shoes, boots, and leather goods to the theatrical trades. Danny Gibson’s name appeared to have been penciled in only recently.
A bell tinkled as Penelope led the way inside. The shop was quite different to Myrtle Hook’s establishment; here, walls comprised of wooden pigeonholes reached nearly to the ceiling, dividing the shop into long, narrow aisles. Each pigeonhole in every wall was crammed with shoes, gloves, gauntlets, wristbands, leather ties, bags, and every other conceivable leather-based item. The smell of leather was nearly overpowering.
The walls blocked the light from the wide window facing the street, leaving the interior decidedly gloomy, but the glow of lamplight from deeper in the shop drew Penelope down the center aisle. At its end, she stepped into a narrow space before a long wooden counter that extended across the width of the shop.
Perched behind the counter, a rather ancient personage tipped his head down to peer at Penelope over the top of his spectacles; in his hands he held a gauntlet that he’d been stitching.
Penelope smiled and walked forward.
As Violet and Griselda followed her into the light, the old man’s eyes widened. Setting aside his work, he got off his stool and faced them. “Can I help you, ma’am?” He nodded deferentially. “Ladies.”
“We do hope you can,” Penelope said. “We’re looking for a shoemaker making a particular style of shoe.”
Joining Penelope, Violet had Cynthia’s first sketch ready. Taking it, Penelope glanced at it, then turned the sheet so the old cobbler could see. “This is a partial sketch of the style.”
Resetting his spectacles, the old man looked, then straightened. “That’s similar to a very old style. I used to make shoes like that when I first started.”
Penelope allowed her smile to grow conspiratorial. “We had heard that…your grandson, is it? Danny Gibson? We heard that he’s making shoes in this style.” She widened her eyes. “Perhaps he got the notion from old sketches of yours?”
The old man eyed her with a certain native shrewdness. “Aye. Happen he did. Nothing wrong with that.”
“Not at all,” Penelope agreed. “But we’d like to speak with Danny, if we may?”
The old man studied her for a long moment, then, slowly, he nodded. “Aye—that might be best.” He turned to the screened doorway leading to the rear of the shop. “He’s in the workshop. I’ll fetch him.”
The instant the leather dividing curtain fell back into place, Penelope turned to Griselda. “Damn! He’s guessed there’s something going on. I hope he doesn’t take it into his head to tell Danny to run away and hide.”
Griselda considered, then shook her head. “Families like the Gibsons don’t work like that. This is their trade—Danny will be expected to stand up for his work, especially if he used his grandfather’s designs.”
Penelope blinked, then nodded. “I hadn’t thought of it like that.”
Griselda proved to be correct; three minutes later, the leather curtain was lifted aside and a bright-eyed, rather lanky young man of perhaps twenty summers presented himself. He looked at Penelope, Griselda, and Violet, and gave them all a respectful smile. “Granddad said as you were asking after the new style of shoe I’ve been making. So how can I help you, ladies?”
Penelope showed him Cynthia’s first sketch. “This is the style of shoe we’re interested in, but the shoes we want to know more about are the Lady Latimer’s version.” Danny’s gaze had dropped to the sketch, but at Penelope’s last words, he looked up and met her eyes. She smiled intently. “The ones covered with the special crystals you buy from Olson’s Emporium.”
Danny looked from Penelope to Griselda, then at Violet. “Ah…I’m not sure I know—”
“Danny.” Penelope waited until he looked back at her. “We already know that you are creating this new style of Lady Latimer’s shoes. There’s nothing wrong with that. But we need to know the name of the lady or ladies you’ve supplied with these shoes. It’s important.”
Danny frowned. “It was supposed to be a secret—an exclusive secret license, just like Lady Latimer has with whoever’s making the shoes for her. She—the lady—said I wasn’t to tell anyone, or show anyone else the shoes, or the deal couldn’t be made. She had to have an exclusive supply, or there could be no guarantee of me selling the shoes to her family for the special exclusive price.”
Griselda stepped to the counter. “Danny, I’m a milliner to the ton. I know all about exclusive licenses. We’re not here to ask you to break faith with any deal you’ve made with your client. But we do need information about her.”
Violet, too, fronted the counter on Penelope’s other side. “Just think—it’s not Lady Latimer’s identity that’s a secret. There’s no reason to keep your exclusive customer’s name a secret, either. And if you tell us her name, we promise not to tell anyone else about you making this new version of Lady Latimer’s shoes.”
“Well,” Penelope amended, “we won’t tell anyone other than the police.”
“The police!” Danny goggled at her.
Penelope grimaced. “Sorry.” She glanced at Griselda and Violet. “That just slipped out. The downside of having a too-logical brain.”
Danny blinked. He glanced at the leather curtain, then, facing them, leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Why do the police want to know about my shoes?”
Penelope pointed to the sketch. “These shoes were worn by a lady the police want to speak with in relation to a murder.” She waited until Danny looked up, and caught his gaze. “It’s vitally important, Danny. We don’t want or need to cause any problems for you. We just need to know who—which ladies—you’ve supplied with these shoes.”
Danny searched her eyes, then he swallowed and straightened. “It’s just one. One lady. A young lady. I’d heard about Lady Latimer’s shoes—well, who in the trade hasn’t? And the exclusive deal that shoemaker has with Lady Latimer must be worth a pretty penny—who wouldn’t want a deal like that? So I thought I should try to see if I could make my own version, and eventually, I did. Took me months and months, but I got it right. I asked around quiet-like, and heard that a Lady Galbraith was the lady most interested in getting her own version of Lady Latimer’s shoes—she’s been asking around lots of shoemakers. So I thought that, if I wanted an exclusive deal, she—Lady Galbraith—was the one to go and see.”
He paused, then went on, “Only she wasn’t at home. Wasn’t in London, apparently. This was early December, you see. So I was walking away, a bit hangdog, from the Galbraiths’ house, when this young lady came pelting after me. She asked me about the shoes. She said she was Lady Galbraith’s daughter and that if the shoes were as I said, proper Lady Latimer’s shoes, that she would show them to her mother and help to arrange an exclusive deal, just like I wanted. I wasn’t sure, but she was really convinced, and I thought, why not? She was heading off to the country the next morning, but I always have my tape with me, so we did a quick measurement in the park there, and I agreed to make her a pair in white satin, and to hold off offering the shoes to anyone else until she came to get the shoes in February.”
He shrugged. “As most of the nobs seem to go off to the country for December and January, it wasn’t likely I’d get any other chance to get the sort of exclusive deal I wanted, so I decided I’d do better to be patient and see what this Miss Galbraith could arrange.”
“And…?” Penelope prompted.
“She came back in February and tried on the shoes. Like a little princess, she was, twirling and swirling. She was that thrilled with the shoes. She assured me her mother—Lady Galbraith—would definitely be interested in doing an exclusive deal, just like I wanted, but that I had to let her, Miss Galbraith, present the shoes to Lady Galbraith in the best possible way. And to do that, she’d have to wait until about now. Late March, she told me. Meanwhile, she ordered two more pairs, one in pale pink and the other in pale green.” Danny pulled a face. “Truth to tell, I’ve been waiting for her to come in and pick them up. She hasn’t paid for any of the pairs and those crystals…they’re expensive.”
He looked increasingly despondent. “We don’t do much on tick here—Granddad’s against it. But even though those shoes have costly materials and are hellishly time-consuming to make, I figured the potential return was worth taking a risk on them—and that giving Miss Galbraith the shoes without demanding payment first was worth it to get her to show them to her mama.” He grimaced. “I guess she didn’t. Or at least, she hasn’t yet.”
The comment confirmed that Danny had no notion that it was Lady Galbraith who’d been murdered, but his words made Penelope blink as a completely novel perspective on the case unfolded in her mind.
Noting Penelope’s sudden abstraction, Griselda said to Danny, “I don’t think you’ll have any difficulties recouping your costs and establishing a very viable line of business with those shoes.”
Recognizing the voice of experience, moreover of one who supplied the ton, Danny started to look more hopeful. “You think they’ll want them?”
“I think,” Griselda said, “that if and when you choose to make your shoes generally available, you’ll have ladies literally beating a path to your door.”
“So not an exclusive deal, then?” Danny inquired.
Griselda considered, then said, “If I were you, I’d talk to your father and grandfather and see what they think. An exclusive deal will be easier to manage with a small workforce, but if you make your shoes in limited numbers and sell to whoever is willing to pay the best price, then I suspect you’ll be able to charge a very high price and still find ladies willing to pay it.” She held Danny’s gaze. “In the end, it’s a balance, but I believe you’ll do better without an exclusive license.”
Danny looked much struck by Griselda’s wisdom.
Shaking free of her thoughts, Penelope refocused on the young shoemaker. “The last thing we need from you, Danny, is the name of the Miss Galbraith for whom you made those shoes.”
Danny blinked. “She just said Miss Galbraith. Is there more than one?”
Penelope nodded. “There are three. But if you don’t know her name, perhaps you could describe her?”
Danny had the eye of a craftsman; he rattled off a description that could only have fitted one Miss Galbraith.
After thanking Danny and departing the shop, then climbing into her carriage, Penelope tipped her head back against the squabs and heaved a troubled sigh. “There are times when I wish my logical mind wouldn’t come to such disturbing conclusions.”
Now free of the need to reassure poor Danny, both Violet and Griselda were also looking grim.
“Griselda and I haven’t yet seen any of the Misses Galbraith,” Violet said, “but I assume that Danny’s description fits only one.”
Griselda said, “The one who would naturally ask for the first pair of shoes to be made in white satin.”
Penelope nodded. “Exactly so. And no, I cannot for the life of me understand what it means. I had no inkling that this murder was a case of matricide. And I cannot conceive of what situation could have driven Monica Galbraith to murder her mother.”
* * *
After a short discussion, the ladies detoured to Greenbury Street. They were largely silent as Penelope’s carriage rumbled north, each busy with their own thoughts—none of which, Penelope felt certain, were likely to be cheery. Matricide was shocking enough in concept, as an abstraction, but to have to genuinely face it in real life—that was something else again.
They halted at Griselda’s house just long enough for Griselda to gather little Megan and her nursemaid, Gloria. Then, in Griselda’s carriage, the three followed Penelope and Violet back to Albemarle Street, where they had arranged to dine with their husbands.
Mostyn admitted them into the front hall. As they divested themselves of their coats and bonnets, Penelope inquired after Oliver, only to have Mostyn say, “The little master’s in the back parlor with Mr. Adair, Mr. Montague, and the inspector, ma’am.” When Penelope, Violet, and Griselda all turned surprised looks on him, Mostyn elaborated, “I understand there have been developments and that they’re waiting to speak with you.”
Penelope exchanged a wide-eyed look with Griselda and Violet, then turned and made for her garden parlor. Likewise intrigued, Violet followed, and—after taking Megan from Gloria and releasing the maid to join Oliver’s nursemaid, Hettie, upstairs—Griselda, with Megan on her hip, brought up the rear.
They walked into the parlor and beheld a scene of unusual domesticity. Montague was sitting on the sofa, leaning forward, his forearms on his knees, a smile wreathing his face as he watched and encouraged Oliver, who was kneeling on the rug before the sofa; assisted by Barnaby and Stokes, both of whom lay sprawled on the rug, Oliver was constructing a multi-towered edifice out of wooden blocks.
Penelope had crept the last little way. The men, talking in their deep, rumbling voices, hadn’t heard her, but Oliver’s sharp ears picked up her familiar footsteps; he saw her and crowed, “M’ma! See!”
Penelope smiled and felt the darkness that had closed about her lift. Walking forward, eyes only for her son, she beamed with proud affection. “Yes, darling.” She crouched on the other side of the structure and dutifully examined it. “What a wonderful building.”
Oliver beamed back and raised his arms. “Up!”
Unable to stop smiling, Penelope closed her hands about his sturdy body and, rising, lifted him up. Reaching out, Oliver closed both chubby hands in her upswept hair and held her face steady so he could lay a smacking kiss on her lips—something he’d recently learned he could do. “M’ma home.”
“Yes, my son. Mama is, indeed, home.” Settling him on her hip, Penelope looked at Barnaby, who was getting to his feet.
Stokes had already scrambled to his and gone to take Megan from Griselda; he was currently throwing his one-year-old daughter into the air and catching her, much to Megan’s shrill delight.
Montague, meanwhile, had gone to greet Violet and kiss her check.
Capturing Penelope’s gaze, Barnaby leaned forward and placed his lips where his son’s had been.
For a moment, Penelope clung to the kiss, savored it.
Straightening, Barnaby smiled. “Welcome home.”
Her lips still curved, Penelope started to smile back, but then her thoughts caught up with her and she felt the expression fade. Her eyes on Barnaby’s, she hugged Oliver a trifle tighter and said, “We have to speak with Monica Galbraith.”
Barnaby frowned. “How did you know?”
Penelope blinked, then frowned back. “Know what?”
The others had all turned; all exchanged glances.
“Let’s take this chronologically,” Barnaby suggested. “This morning, Stokes and I went to see what we could learn at Galbraith House, while Montague worked to learn what he could of any rumors of another exclusive license being offered for a different version of Lady Latimer’s shoes, and Violet and Griselda went off to search for any clues from the crystal suppliers.”
Sitting on the sofa, waving the others to the various chairs, Penelope settled Oliver in her lap. “You and Stokes first. I think we’ve discovered what you ought to have learned by a different route, but tell us anyway.”
Between them, Barnaby and Stokes outlined their findings. “So,” Stokes concluded, his expression turning grim, “we now know that a young shoemaker called at the Galbraiths’ house intending to make some offer regarding shoes, but Lady Galbraith and most of the family were not in residence at the time, except for the youngest daughter, Monica Galbraith, who may have had the opportunity to speak with the shoemaker, but as yet we don’t have any evidence that she did.”
Penelope nodded. “We have such evidence, but as Barnaby said, we should take this step by step.” She looked at Montague. “From what we learned an hour or so ago, you shouldn’t have found anything—no rumors, no whispers of a second source of Lady Latimer’s shoes.”
Sober, Montague nodded. “There was no hint anywhere about a second supplier of those shoes.”
Penelope looked at Griselda and Violet. “You two and your hunt through the crystal suppliers comes next.”
Violet detailed their search, and Griselda filled in the details of what they’d discovered through Mr. Olson of Olson’s Emporium. Griselda bumped Stokes’s shoulder. “We had to invoke your authority to make him see the necessity, but he did, in the end, give us the information we were after—that a young shoemaker of the name of Danny Gibson has been buying the right crystals.”
“In the expected quantities and over the right time frame,” Violet added. “Gibson and Sons is off Long Acre, so we came back to tell Penelope.”
“Meanwhile”—Penelope pushed her glasses back up; Oliver had dislodged them again—“I was wrestling with my Greek scribe’s outpourings when Hartley Galbraith and his intended came to call. They had decided that it was time they dispensed with their veil of secrecy in pursuit of what I was given to understand is their overriding goal.” Meeting the three men’s intensely curious gazes, Penelope explained, “The pair intend to reunite their families—and as Hartley’s intended is Cynthia Latimer, their reasons are self-explanatory.”
“Cynthia Latimer?” Stokes looked faintly stunned. “But…that means she saw…”
“Exactly.” Penelope nodded. “She was the one who saw the shoes of the lady fleeing the terrace most clearly, but as it happens, Cynthia actually saw far more than she’d realized. Courtesy of Griselda’s milliner’s tricks, we discovered several notable points about those shoes—they had a different arrangement of the crystals, a different cut, and had a distinctly different heel to those on the original Lady Latimer’s shoes, meaning all the shoes made for the Latimer ladies. Cynthia’s description, corroborated by the information we subsequently got from Danny Gibson and his grandfather, confirms that the lady fleeing the Fairchild’s terrace immediately after Lady Galbraith was killed could not have been one of the Latimer ladies but was, in fact, Monica Galbraith.”
Barnaby held up a hand. “Griselda and Violet had joined you by this time? All three of you heard this?”
“Yes.” Penelope nodded decisively. “Everything came together in a rush.” She paused, clearly casting her mind back. “Before Violet and Griselda came in, I had questioned Hartley and Cynthia on several matters, but in light of our subsequent discoveries, the only point that remains relevant is that both Hartley and Cynthia believe that Lady Galbraith came out to the side terrace and down onto the path because she was following Hartley, wanting to learn who he was meeting with clandestinely.”
Barnaby arched a cynical brow. “Motherly concern?”
“I gathered from Hartley that his mother had some notion of managing his marriage, a notion he didn’t share.” Penelope frowned. Oliver squirmed and she set him down on the rug. Immediately, Megan wriggled off Griselda’s lap and joined him. “Where was I?”
“When we came in and Griselda got Cynthia to describe the shoes,” Violet supplied.
“Ah, yes. Well,” Penelope went on, “Cynthia described a style of Lady Latimer’s shoes that matched the single pair Danny Gibson later confirmed he’d completed and passed on. Cynthia doesn’t know anything about Danny Gibson, not that he’s making a different version of Lady Latimer’s shoes, let alone their style, so she must be telling us the truth of what she saw. She saw the shoes Danny Gibson had made, and the person to whom Danny Gibson supplied those shoes—one pair made of white satin—is Monica Galbraith.”
Penelope looked at Stokes. “Monica did, indeed, race after Danny when he was turned away from the Galbraiths’ house. He knew her only as Miss Galbraith, but he described her accurately. He gave her the shoes in February and, as he understood it, she was going to present them to her mother in the best way to convince Lady Galbraith to give him an exclusive license of the same sort Lady Latimer has with her shoemaker.”
Silence fell as they all revised their constructions of what had happened at the Fairchilds’ ball.
Stokes stirred. “Answer me this—if Monica Galbraith wore these fantastical shoes to the ball, why is it that no one noticed? I thought the point of the shoes was that they attract attention.”
Penelope blinked. She looked at Violet, then Griselda. “I’m not sure…”
“It depends on the length of the gown.” Griselda’s tone indicated that she knew of what she spoke. “Modistes generally set the hems of gowns worn to dance in at ankle level, but if Monica had her hems set lower—”
“She wouldn’t have been dancing,” Penelope said. “She wasn’t out yet, so no dancing, at least not at an event like the Fairchilds’ ball.”
Griselda nodded. “So she could easily have had her hems almost to the ground. And if she didn’t dance, there would be little likelihood of anyone noticing her shoes, not unless she raised her skirts.”
“As she did when she fled the terrace and stepped up into the house.” Penelope looked at Stokes as if asking for his next question.
Stokes grimaced and looked down at Megan, playing with the blocks alongside Oliver.
Montague sighed. “So we now believe that Monica Galbraith followed Lady Galbraith outside.” He looked around the circle of faces. “Do we have any idea why?”
Violet looked at Penelope. “Do you think it might be connected with what Monica told Danny Gibson—that she, Monica, had to pick the right time to present the shoes to her mother? I assume she meant for greatest effect, and she did tell Danny that she would need to wait until late March.”
Head tilting, Penelope considered, then said, “We know Lady Galbraith was beyond keen to have her own Lady Latimer’s shoes, and yes, I agree it’s possible that given the timing—when the family returned to town and the start of the Season—then the Fairchilds’ ball might well have seemed the most obvious choice for Monica’s big revelation. Everyone who was anyone in the ton could be counted on to be there…but I can’t see why Monica didn’t tell Lady Galbraith of the shoes before they reached the ball. Why wait until during the ball?”
Barnaby shifted. “Let’s assume that, for some reason, Monica couldn’t tell her mother about the shoes earlier. Monica then notices Lady Galbraith slipping out of the ballroom and sees an opportunity to speak with her mother alone, and so follows her outside.” His features hard, uncompromising, he went on, “Even if Monica’s reason for following her mother outside was something quite different, it seems we’re certain now that Monica did, indeed, follow Lady Galbraith out onto the terrace, and possibly even down the steps and onto the path.” He paused, then said, “What we don’t know is what happened next.”
After a moment, Stokes said, “But we do know that, within a minute of Lady Galbraith being struck down, Monica fled the terrace, and she has subsequently said nothing at all about that, not even admitting that she had been there.”
Penelope grimaced. “In Hartley and Cynthia’s opinion, there wasn’t sufficient time for someone standing inside the terrace door to have seen someone else drop the ball on Lady Galbraith, then to have rushed to the balustrade, looked over, and fled back to the terrace door before Hartley and Cynthia reached the point of being able to see the terrace.”
“Time is often difficult to judge in such situations,” Barnaby said. “Nevertheless…”
“Nevertheless,” Violet said, “we appear to be dealing with a case of matricide.” She glanced at Montague. “Again.”
Barnaby shook his head. “This isn’t a family like the Halsteads.” The Halstead case was one in which he, Stokes, Penelope, and Griselda had assisted Montague; it was the case that had brought Violet into Montague’s life, and, indeed, all their lives. “The Halstead case was a matricide, but the Halsteads were a distinctly aberrant family. The Galbraiths are entirely normal.” He paused, then dipped his head. “Admittedly, Lady Galbraith had her faults, but they lay well within the norm of a ton matron with a large family.”
“Which,” Stokes said, “brings us back to the critical questions. What happened on the terrace, or on the path below it, between Lady Galbraith and her daughter Monica, and did Monica subsequently kill her mother?”
“Hmm,” Griselda murmured. “I’m still tripping over why Monica didn’t tell her mother, and her sisters, too, about discovering a new source of Lady Latimer’s shoes. In their terms, it was a huge coup.” She looked at Penelope. “Monica is the youngest daughter, isn’t she?”
“Yes…and perhaps that’s relevant.” Penelope paused, then said, “I haven’t yet inquired about how Lady Galbraith got on with her daughters, but it’s certainly true that with all the fuss and excitement of ton balls and the marriage mart, younger daughters do sometimes get short shrift, certainly when it comes to their mothers’ attention.” Penelope arched her brows. “I can’t say I ever felt that way, but then I was never interested in balls and the marriage mart.”
“But Monica most likely is,” Violet said. “Could she have seen the shoes as her opportunity to shine in her mother’s eyes?”
“Very likely,” Penelope returned. “And that fits with her waiting to make her revelation on the evening of the Fairchilds’ ball. For the purpose of focusing not just her mother’s but all of society’s attention on her, that ball was the perfect moment, the most glittering stage, with the crème de la crème of the ton in attendance. In terms of a grand revelation of the sort Monica would have wanted to make, there could have been no better venue.”
After a moment, Stokes sighed. “We’re going around and around, circling the one point we still do not know. Let’s say that Monica followed her mother out onto the terrace to show her the shoes. What happened next? Did Monica kill her mother? And if so, why?”
Barnaby heaved a sigh. He met Penelope’s eyes, then looked at the others. “As far as I can see, the only person who knows the answer to those questions is Monica herself.”
Entirely sober, Penelope nodded. “Which is why we need to speak with her.”
The door opened and Mostyn came in, Hettie and Gloria at his heels. “Dinner is served, ma’am.”
Penelope glanced at the others, then looked at Mostyn. “As ever, your timing is impeccable, Mostyn.”
Relinquishing the children to their nurses to be carried to the nursery and put to bed, the adults rose and, setting aside the disturbing case for later consideration, followed Mostyn to the dining room.