CHAPTER 12
We have to act immediately if we’re to save Monica.
Deep inside, Penelope had known that was true—not just a prediction but a certainty. She didn’t breathe freely until she and the others had taken up positions in the Privy Gardens alongside the river. If Monica had already thrown herself into the murky waters, there was nothing they could do; they had to pray that they’d managed to get ahead of her and plan and act accordingly.
Along that stretch, the river ran south to north; the rectangular gardens, one longer side fronting the river, lay on the western bank. The southern half of the gardens stretched unbroken from Whitehall Road to the low stone wall above the embankment against which the Thames moodily lapped, but the northern half of the gardens, abutting the old Banquet Hall of Whitehall Palace, contained a row of narrow buildings between the gardens and the river. Because there were passageways between the buildings that could be used to reach the riverbank, Penelope, Barnaby, and the others had had to spread out to ensure Monica couldn’t slip past them.
If she succeeded in throwing herself into the Thames, she would be lost. The tide was high, the river darkly murmurous, and the currents along that stretch were strong.
“We have to stop her before she gets close enough,” Penelope muttered to herself. With her back to the river, she stood still as a statue beneath a tree and scanned the sector of the gardens that had fallen to her to patrol. It was the section farthest south. Barnaby stood some way to her right, with Griselda beyond, followed by Stokes, Violet, and Montague.
Desperate to ensure they reached the river before Monica, they’d tumbled out of their carriages in Whitehall. Stokes had spotted a constable and had been about to hail him when Penelope had caught his arm and fiercely whispered, “Don’t!” When Stokes had blinked at her, she’d said, “We can’t treat Monica as if she’s a criminal, not until we’ve proven that she is. And I’m absolutely not sure she is.”
The latter statement had sounded ludicrous coming out of her mouth, of all mouths, yet it had been the unvarnished truth. Her incapacity to make sense of the murder, combined with the strong premonition that something dire was about to befall, left her deeply uneasy. Unexpectedly, unprecedentedly disturbed.
Logical incapacity and premonitions was the province of others, not her.
Folding her arms, she frowned into the night. It wasn’t the blackest night she’d ever been out in, but the leaden clouds had thickened and seemed to press ever lower over the spires of the nearby cathedral, a denser shape among the shadows identifiable more by its bulk than by any discernible features. If there was a moon, they couldn’t see it; what little light there was came from the distant streetlamps, pools of soft, diffused light that didn’t reach as far as the trees.
At least the trees were still largely bare; if they’d been in full leaf, spotting anyone before they got too close to the river to intercept would have been all but impossible.
Although she had donned her pelisse to call on the Galbraiths, the rising wind slid chill fingers past the folds. Dragging in a breath, she steeled herself against the cold and raised her head—
A slight figure wrapped in a cloak came trudging into the park.
Monica—Penelope was sure it was she—walked slowly but steadily nearer. Her gaze on the ground, she seemed completely immersed in her inner world and unaware of anything around her.
She’s already let go. Penelope didn’t know where the thought came from, but she heard the words clearly in her mind.
Monica was following the southernmost path leading through the gardens to the river. Penelope was standing just off that path, ten yards before the embankment wall.
Glancing to her right, Penelope saw that Barnaby had spotted Monica and was silently drawing nearer; she held up her hand palm out, and when he halted, head tilting quizzically, she waved him around and behind her. With a nod, he changed directions, circling to take up station behind her, closer to the river, the better to ensure Monica didn’t slip past.
Looking back at Monica, still half the garden away, Penelope glimpsed Stokes moving swiftly toward the street, keeping to the lawns so Monica wouldn’t hear him. He must have seen Penelope’s direction to Barnaby and had elected to circle around Monica and come up on Penelope’s other side to block access to the next stretch of bank.
Refocusing on Monica, Penelope suddenly realized that, given she had no idea what was going on in Monica’s mind, she had no idea what she herself was going to say. What she should say—what would best serve?
She’d never dealt with a suicidal young lady before.
She couldn’t even think of any of her acquaintance who had.
She waited until the last possible moment to step smartly out from under the tree directly into Monica’s path.
Head still down, Monica didn’t at first see her—then she did. Jerking her head up, Monica recoiled and halted.
And stared.
Penelope looked calmly back at her. She had thought Monica was the same height as she, but, in fact, Monica was at least two inches taller.
Monica finally placed her, blinked, then frowned. “What are you doing here?” Understandably, her tone held a great deal of confusion.
Yet even then, Monica didn’t glance around, didn’t register the oddity of Penelope being there alone, almost as if she thought Penelope an apparition that had popped into existence on the path before her.
“Actually,” Penelope said, taking her time and keeping her voice level, “that was the question I wanted to ask you.” She tilted her head, let curiosity show, and asked as if she didn’t know the answer, “Where are you going?”
She’d decided that the best way to handle Monica was to keep her talking and on the path until her family arrived; they couldn’t be that far away.
Several seconds ticked by.
Penelope started to wonder if Monica would answer, but then the blankness that had laid siege to the girl’s features fractured into an expression of such painful intensity—such shattering remorse—that Penelope suddenly couldn’t breathe.
Monica looked past Penelope to the river and, in a fragile voice all the more terrible for still holding echoes of the child she had been, replied, “I’m going where I’m supposed to go.” She gestured to the river, then looked at Penelope. “Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do? Go, and save my family any more horror? It’s the least I can do. They’ve all suffered enough because of what I did.”
Caught—all but paralyzed—by the sheer depth of pain radiating from Monica, Penelope managed to shake her head. “No. They don’t want you to do that—they love you.”
Some emotion akin to frustration crossed Monica’s face. Impatiently, she shook her head. “You don’t understand—I killed Mama. No one can love me after that.”
Penelope forced herself to keep her eyes on Monica’s face and not yield to the impulse to look away and allow the girl her pain. “Actually, I think it’s you who don’t understand. Killing someone by accident isn’t murder.” An accident was the only option that fitted all the facts, the intangible as well as the tangible. Holding Monica’s tortured gaze, Penelope demanded, “Did you mean to kill her?”
“No!” Monica recoiled. “Of course I didn’t mean to—I loved her!”
The pain thrumming through the statement underscored its veracity.
Penelope nodded. “That’s what I thought. And if you didn’t mean to kill her, you can’t have murdered her.”
Monica stared at her.
As Monica searched her face, Penelope started to hope—
“No.” Slowly, Monica started to shake her head. “You’re just trying to confuse me. If I stay, they’ll put me in prison and there’ll be a trial…”
Penelope tried to think of what to say—
Monica lunged for the river.
She broke past Penelope and raced for the wall.
Whirling, Penelope raced after her.
Grabbing up her skirts and cloak, Monica leapt for the top of the wall.
Penelope leapt up, too.
Landing on the wall beside Monica, she fisted her hands in Monica’s cloak and the layers beneath and desperately held on as the pair of them teetered.
After seconds of crazed see-sawing, panting, Monica stopped trying to break free. Turning on Penelope, she glared. “Let me go!”
“No!” Penelope glared back. “If you go over, I’ll go, too. I have a small son—is that fair?” She threw every last card she had on the table and belligerently held Monica’s gaze.
She didn’t want the girl to look down and see Barnaby. While she’d seized Monica, Barnaby had grabbed her. He had a strong grip about her knees; she wasn’t going anywhere. But he’d moved silently and was below Monica’s line of sight as long as Monica kept her gaze on Penelope’s face.
Then Monica looked past Penelope and tensed anew.
Realizing what Monica was seeing, Penelope rapped out, “Stop! Stay back!”
Distantly, she heard Stokes swear.
But he must have obeyed because, after a tense second, Monica swung her gaze back to Penelope’s face. In the faint moonlight bathing the scene, she looked at Penelope as if Penelope was demented. “Why are you doing this?”
Penelope hadn’t thought she’d known, but the answer was there. “Because I’m a youngest daughter, too.” The revelation almost made her blink, but she took the brakes off her tongue and let it run on. “I know what it’s like to be overlooked, to be the last in line for attention.” In her case, she’d encouraged that at every turn. “I know what it’s like to want to please your mother, to have her look at you with pride rather than merely comparing you to your older sisters and finding you less.” Despite Penelope’s unconventional pursuits, her own mother had never stinted in her praise. Had never, ever, been less than wholehearted in her support.
She was putting the pieces together—all the little snippets she’d heard about Lady Galbraith and her relationship with her daughters—at lightning speed, but it seemed to be working; she seemed to be reaching Monica.
But Monica was still stronger and heavier than she was; Penelope didn’t know whether she could hold her if she jumped. Tightening her grip on Monica’s cloak, she stated in her most definitive tone, in her most authoritative voice, “You cannot do this. If you take your life over this, your family will blame themselves.” She held Monica’s gaze. “Can’t you see? You won’t be saving them—you’ll be condemning them.”
And where the hell were they—her family?
Penelope had done all she could. She’d run out of words.
And Monica still stood on the wall, uncertain. Undecided.
Then crisp footsteps sounded, along with the rustle of an evening gown. Penelope didn’t take her eyes from Monica’s, but Monica glanced at the newcomer—and confusion filled her face.
The lady, whoever she was, halted several paces back from the wall.
Monica blinked. Then, in a small, lost voice, she said, “Aunt Hester?”
“Yes, baby girl.”
Penelope risked a sideways glance and saw Lady Latimer standing there; her face, as always, was set in reserved and uncommunicative lines, but her gaze held a wealth of understanding, and when she spoke, her tone held conviction and pleading.
“We’ve come to take you home. All of us came.” Her eyes glimmering with unshed tears, Lady Latimer waved toward the figures in the park behind her, all gradually drawing nearer. “We don’t want to lose you, baby girl. Please don’t do this. There’s no need—I swear it.”
Monica hesitated, then she raised her gaze and scanned those other figures. Something in her stance, in the way she still held herself ready to jump, reached them, and all halted and waited.
Penelope eased out the breath she’d been holding and softly said, “They’ve all been out combing the streets, searching for you. Everyone wants you home, safe. There’s no danger, truly.”
Monica looked at Penelope and met her eyes.
Sensing the uncertainty that still lingered, Penelope said, “Do you remember Inspector Stokes? He was at the Fairchilds’ that night.” Seeing Monica’s eyes flare, Penelope quickly demanded, “Stokes.”
“If whatever happened was an accident, then there is no murder.” Stokes’s deep voice rang with judgelike certainty.
Monica blinked. Then she glanced at Lady Latimer.
Who managed a smile. “There—you see? There truly is no need for any sacrifice on your part.” Walking closer, Lady Latimer held up a hand. “Come along, baby girl. Let’s go home and you can tell us what happened, and between us all we’ll see everything right. We’ll all stand by you, sweetheart—you’re family, and that’s what families do.”
Lady Latimer’s voice quavered over the last phrase, but still Monica hesitated, her eyes wide, as if the unfolding events were so far from what she’d imagined that she didn’t feel able to trust her senses. Not yet.
Hester Latimer drew breath, and when next she spoke, her voice was stronger. “Cynthia and Hartley are getting married, so we truly will be one family again. And we want you with us, because you’re a part of us.” Holding Monica’s gaze, Lady Latimer reached up and, grasping one of Monica’s hands, drew Monica down from the low wall.
Penelope released her death grip on Monica’s cloak as the girl stepped off the wall and, with a sob, collapsed into Lady Latimer’s arms.
Hester Latimer gathered her in. “There, there, sweetheart.” Dipping her head, she placed a kiss on Monica’s forehead. “Everything will work out, you’ll see.”
Still standing on the wall, Penelope turned away from the river, watching as, now the danger was past, all the other Galbraiths and Latimers gathered around her ladyship and Monica, soothing and comforting and behaving as families should.
Glancing down at Barnaby, who had shifted to sit on the wall beside her, Penelope patted his shoulder. “You can let go, now.” He still held her legs in a viselike armlock.
Barnaby turned his head to look up at her. For a long moment, he held her gaze, then said, “Just as well my hair is fair, or else it would already be showing gray.”
Penelope looked into his eyes. “I didn’t want to do it—I had to.”
After a moment, he nodded. “I know. She moved so fast—I couldn’t reach her in time.”
Penelope understood that, in the fraught instant when he’d had to make a choice, he’d chosen her.
She smiled and leaned down to whisper against his lips, “I know you’re proud of me—and I love you, too.”
She kissed him briefly, then unwound his anchoring arm and stepped down from the wall. He rose as she did, his hand reaching for, then closing about, one of hers.
Together, they walked to where Stokes, Griselda, Violet, and Montague waited, watching with relief and approval as the lost chick was reunited with her brood.
Stokes glanced at Penelope as she halted alongside him. “That was close.” He looked back at the Galbraiths and Latimers. “We still need to hear her story, and that sooner rather than later. As you mentioned, the funeral’s tomorrow.”
Penelope nodded. “Indeed, but let’s give them a few minutes to find themselves again. Now we’ve solved the riddle of the mysterious lady who fled the Fairchilds’ terrace wearing Lady Latimer’s shoes, and we have her safe, we can, if we wish, take all night.”
* * *
Forty minutes later, they re-gathered in the drawing room of Galbraith House.
Lady Latimer sat at the end of one sofa, with Monica beside her. Millicent Latimer, fetched from her home across the square to support her dearest friend, sat on Monica’s other side, Monica’s hand clutched firmly in hers. Because of the feud, the girls hadn’t spoken for the past year, but after several minutes of teary reunion in the front hall, Millicent had firmly taken Monica’s hand, marched into the drawing room, and they’d sat side by side, transparently prepared to face any inquisition.
Together.
Settling with Griselda and Violet on the sofa opposite, Penelope noted Millicent’s trenchant support of Monica with an approving eye. Regardless of what was to come, with such friends, Monica would do.
Montague came to stand behind the sofa, behind Violet, while Barnaby and Stokes took up positions before the hearth.
Lord Latimer and Lord Galbraith occupied the armchairs flanking the fireplace. Geraldine and Primrose sat on straight-backed chairs facing the hearth, while alongside the pair, Cynthia accepted the chair Hartley set for her. Hartley stood behind the chair, and finally, everyone gave their attention to Stokes.
Stokes let his gaze travel the faces turned his way. It was nearly midnight, but after the last hours of tension, everyone was wide awake and as ready to learn the truth as they’d ever be. He looked at Monica. Her head bowed, she sat staring at her lap. Despite everyone’s assurances and the support of her family and friends, Monica remained uncertain, not just of her future but, Stokes sensed, of her right to be heard, of her worth, of her standing.
Her face, finally fully revealed in the light of the front hall, had struck even him; the sheer misery and pain…so much—too much—for someone so young to be carrying.
Before Cynthia and Hartley had followed Monica, Millicent, and the others into the drawing room, they’d drawn Stokes aside and told him that Monica was much frailer than she normally was; although Hartley had spoken to her several times since their mother’s death, Monica had always been in bed when he’d seen her—he was deeply shocked by how gaunt and wan she was. Having witnessed Lord Galbraith’s reaction to his first sight of his youngest daughter’s state, Stokes had assumed as much. Now, in the gentlest voice he could muster, he said, “Perhaps it will be easiest for you, Monica, if Mrs. Adair leads you through the questions we need you to answer for us.”
Monica glanced at him, then looked at Penelope, sitting directly opposite.
As mildly as she could, Penelope raised her brows in question. In light of the rapport she had shared with Monica on the low wall above the murky waters of the Thames, Stokes had suggested that she was better placed than he to lead the questioning.
After a moment, Monica moistened her lips and nodded. “Yes. All right.”
Her voice was a hoarse whisper.
“We need to understand what occurred as completely as possible,” Penelope said. “So perhaps you could start by telling us how you came to learn about Danny Gibson and his version of Lady Latimer’s shoes.”
She had chosen that as the place to start because the events were distanced from Lady Galbraith’s demise but were, she suspected, critical to all that had subsequently happened.
Monica nodded and in a quiet, raspy voice said, “I’d just returned home after staying with friends. My maid, Susie, and I had finished unpacking and repacking for the next day—I was to go with Hartley to our home in Sussex. Susie went off downstairs, and I went to the window—we’d opened it to air out the room. I was reaching to close the sash when I heard a young man speak—he was talking to Millwell at the back door.” Monica met Penelope’s eyes. “My room looks out that way.” When Penelope nodded, Monica went on, “I heard the young man say that he’d made some special shoes that he thought Mama might be interested in…”
They listened as the tale unfolded as they already knew it to be, yet, rendered in Monica’s own words, the events came alive.
“I was so excited and thrilled!” Even now, Monica’s weary eyes lit, reflecting the emotion she’d experienced when she’d brought her pair of Lady Latimer’s shoes home. “They were perfect, and I couldn’t stop thinking about how pleased Mama would be.”
Monica stalled at that point, all joy fading as she realized that hadn’t come to pass.
Understanding that she couldn’t allow Monica to dwell too much on things, not if they wanted to hear the whole story that night, Penelope gently prompted, “But you didn’t tell your mother immediately. Why was that?”
She appreciated the reason Stokes had asked her to put the questions, but interrogating such a fragile person was unquestionably a challenge, and she wasn’t known for her delicacy.
Drawing in a deeper breath, Monica replied, “I wanted it to be a grand occasion. Mama had pushed to get us such shoes for so long—she’d wanted them with such a passion—that I couldn’t just go to her and say: Look what I found.” Monica paused, her gaze distant as she examined the recent past, then her lips twisted. “And I wanted her to…to acknowledge me. She didn’t usually pay attention to me, not beyond making sure I was dressed appropriately and that I was where I was supposed to be, doing something of which she approved. She was always too busy fussing over Geraldine or Primrose, and, of course, Hartley was her first concern. With the four of us…well, I was always last in line and she rarely had time left over for me. Even though it was my come-out year, she’d barely started thinking about my come-out ball.” Monica drew in a huge breath, then looked at Penelope. “So I wanted the shoes to focus her on me—just for once, I wanted her complete and undivided attention.”
Penelope nodded encouragingly, her gaze steady on Monica’s face, but from the corner of her eye, she’d caught the stricken looks on Geraldine’s and Primrose’s faces, the hardening of Hartley’s features, and the look Monica’s older sisters had turned in their chairs to share with Hartley. Penelope doubted Monica had ever voiced her feelings of being fourth-best to her siblings, yet the picture her words were painting was one they recognized.
Monica dragged in a tight breath and went on, “The Fairchilds’ ball seemed the perfect opportunity for revealing the shoes. I thought of how to do it, imagined how it would go—I didn’t want the shoes to be obvious right away but, instead, to be able to show them off, so I had the hem of my new gown made lower so that the gown hid the shoes as long as I stood straight. I wasn’t going to be dancing anyway. So on that evening, everything was in place—I’d planned to go down to the drawing room before dinner and make a grand entrance and show Mama the shoes then, before we left for the ball…I knew just how she would react. I rehearsed it like a play. I could imagine her looking at me—really looking and seeing me. I could hear her saying how proud she was of me—” Monica broke off, swallowed, then drew a shaky breath and said, “But Mama accepted a last-minute dinner invitation. She was gone from the house before I knew about it. So there was no meeting in the drawing room, and Geraldine, Primrose, and I met up with Mama in the foyer of Fairchild House.”
Her gaze growing distant once more, Monica went on, “I’d worn the shoes anyway. I thought I would be able to find a moment with her—engineer one if I had to—because, after all, the Fairchilds’ ball was still the most perfect venue in which to reveal the shoes to all the ton. But when Mama joined us in the foyer, she was distracted with greeting her friends and checking that Geraldine and Primrose had their dance cards, and with everyone milling about, there was no chance for me to speak with her. So I waited.”
Monica lifted her head. “We went into the ballroom and did the rounds, greeting people. I waited until that was all over and we settled at one side of the ballroom, then I tried to draw Mama aside—just enough to be able to speak with her, to make her focus on me while I showed her the shoes for the first time—but she wouldn’t come.” Monica glanced at Hartley. “Hartley had escorted Geraldine, Primrose, and me in the carriage, and waited with us in the foyer until Mama and Papa arrived, but he parted from us when we entered the ballroom.” Monica looked at Penelope. “Mama saw Hartley moving through the crowd. She brushed me aside, told me to just wait with the others, and she set off, following Hartley.” Monica drew breath, then continued, “I didn’t wait—I followed her. I hoped she might step out of the ballroom and then I could speak with her—all I needed was five minutes of her time. She got stopped by some of her friends, but she must have seen Hartley go out of the ballroom, because as soon as she could, she excused herself and slipped out of the ballroom, too.”
“Which door?” Penelope quietly asked.
“The one at the end of the ballroom, closer to the windows.” Monica moistened her lips. “I followed her. I thought at last I would be able to have the moment I wanted…I saw her turn down a corridor and went after her. At the end of the corridor, she stepped out onto a terrace—I thought for a moment that I was wrong about her following Hartley and that she might be meeting someone…I hung back in the corridor. Mama went to the balustrade and looked out over the gardens. She seemed to be searching for something, then she turned and went down the terrace steps.
“I rushed to the terrace door, but quietly. When I stepped outside, I could hear her walking on the gravel, a few steps this way, a few steps that. I was puzzled, but there wasn’t anyone else about. This seemed like the opportunity I’d been waiting for, so I seized the moment and walked to the steps and went down. She heard me and glanced across.” Monica’s face clouded. “She frowned. Angrily. I…faltered, but then I asked what she was doing there. She said she was looking for Hartley and that I was to turn around and go inside again—back to the ballroom—immediately. I left the steps and walked to her—just a few steps along the path. She glared at me. And then…she lost her temper.
“She hissed at me to turn around and go back inside immediately, that she didn’t have time for me and”—Monica dragged in a shuddering breath; her grip on Millicent’s hand tightened—“that she didn’t know what silliness I’d taken into my head to dare follow her outside, but she didn’t want to hear a word of it. She waved me back to the steps. She said she didn’t want to see me again until I was in the ballroom talking to some eligible young gentleman. I stood there, trying to find words…and then she made that furious sound she sometimes makes, and she reached out, grabbed me by my shoulders, turned me and pushed me back toward the steps. She said: ‘Go! Now.’”
Monica’s voice hitched and broke. Her expression was a medley of disillusionment and pain. “I was so…upset.” Her voice had faded to a thready whisper.
Along with everyone else, Penelope leaned forward the better to hear.
“I’d gone to all that trouble to get the shoes she so badly wanted and she wouldn’t even let me show her. I was…not just angry, although I was that, but at myself as much as at her for ever believing that I’d get any attention from her, not even when I was wearing my very own pair of Lady Latimer’s shoes. I…I lost my temper, too. And I said that aloud—that I was a fool for believing she’d ever look at me, not even when I was wearing Lady Latimer’s shoes. And I rushed back up the steps.”
Her gaze faraway, Monica stilled, then on a rush of shattering emotion, her voice weak and breaking, she gasped, “Those stupid shoes! I wasn’t used to the heel and I’d had my hems lowered—I trod on my hem on the last but top step.” Her breathing shallow, she dragged in a breath, horror seeping into her voice. “I half tripped. I flung out my hand to catch myself and I pushed against the ball on the pillar there—the one at the top of the steps.” Her voice quavered. “The ball…fell. It rolled off the pillar and just fell…” She gulped, then, her voice shaking, went on, “I’d stumbled a few steps toward the door, but I turned back…and heard the…the horrible thud.”
Monica closed her eyes tight; her face was etched in indescribable sorrow and stark pain. “I said, ‘Mama?’ When she didn’t answer, I rushed to the balustrade and looked over and saw…”
Monica’s voice suspended. She started to shake; tears leaked from beneath her lashes and dripped down her face. With an immense effort, she whispered, “I was so horrified, so frightened, I fled.”
With sounds of distress, Lady Latimer and Millicent drew nearer, putting their arms around Monica as she crumpled. Spontaneously, Geraldine and Primrose left their chairs to rush behind the sofa and, leaning over, enfolded their younger sister in their arms, murmuring soothingly as they patted and stroked.
After several moments, Monica drew a shuddering breath and, with tears glistening on her cheeks, looked not at Penelope but at Lord Galbraith. “I didn’t mean to do it, but I killed Mama.”
With that pronouncement of self-judgment, Monica dissolved into tears.
Raising her head, Penelope discovered that she, too, had to drag in her next breath. Straightening, she sat back, her gaze going to Barnaby; he was watching Monica, his expression reserved, but his gaze held a wealth of compassion. After a moment, Penelope looked at Stokes; he was quietly scribbling in his notebook, as he had been throughout, but then he looked up and exchanged a troubled glance with Griselda.
What a horror this case had turned out to be.
As if despite her tears and the emotional turmoil Monica still sensed Barnaby’s regard, she gulped, used the handkerchief someone had pressed into her hand to wipe her eyes and blow her nose, then, heroically composing herself, she looked at Barnaby and Stokes. “Are you going to arrest me? Will I have to stand trial?”
Barnaby glanced at Stokes, who almost imperceptibly shook his head, then Barnaby looked at Monica and met her anguished gaze. “As I understand it, you have committed no crime. You have nothing to answer for. Your mother died by accident. You couldn’t have foreseen it, and you could not have prevented it. You are not to blame.”
Monica’s eyes widened. “But I knocked that ball onto her!”
“Did you intend to?” Barnaby asked.
“No! Of course not. I had no idea it would fall…”
Barnaby nodded. “Exactly. Not only did you not intend to harm your mother, but you had every reason to believe that the ball was attached to the pillar and wouldn’t have moved, no matter how hard you pushed against it.” Barnaby paused to let his words sink in—for Monica to hear them clearly and start to accept. Believing would take longer. Understanding that, when comprehension started to dawn in her eyes, he said, “We all do understand, and I know this won’t be easy, but you cannot go through life blaming yourself for what was an unprecedented and entirely unforeseeable chain of events.”
Monica stared at him for a long moment, then she bowed her head and wept.
Feeling very much that his and the others’ presences were no longer required, Barnaby met Penelope’s gaze and arched a brow. She nodded and glanced at Stokes, then she, Griselda, and Violet quietly rose.
Stokes, Montague, and Barnaby followed their ladies from the room.
“That,” Stokes said, as they gathered in the front hall, “was not what I was anticipating, but it is unquestionably the truth. It fits all the facts. Both about that night and about those shoes.”
Accepting coats, cloaks, and bonnets from Millwell and the footman, the others nodded.
The drawing room door opened, and Hartley Galbraith stepped out. Shutting the door behind him, he inclined his head to them all. “I can’t thank you enough. Without the assistance of all of you, we would never have got to the bottom of this. We would have lost Monica on top of everything else…and then no one would have known what to think.”
“It was a conundrum unlike any other.” Penelope pulled on her gloves. She glanced at Stokes. “But once the police make their announcement—”
“Actually”—Hartley turned to address Stokes—“that was one point I wanted to clarify. What, exactly, will happen next?”
Settling his greatcoat on his broad shoulders, Stokes said, “As far as the police are concerned, this case is closed. I’ll report to the chief commissioner in the morning, and he’ll issue a statement that the Yard has completed the investigation and that we are entirely satisfied that Lady Galbraith’s death came about through an unfortunate and unforeseeable accident.”
Hartley nodded. “Thank you. But, you see, the funeral is tomorrow afternoon. I was wondering…” Hartley clearly didn’t like to voice his request—that, or he didn’t know what words to use.
Barnaby and Penelope understood. Barnaby offered, “Perhaps, Stokes, we can get a statement in tomorrow morning’s news sheets.” Hauling out his watch, Barnaby consulted it. “We still have a few hours before the presses run.”
Given Barnaby’s contacts and the welling public interest in the case, getting the editors to include a last-minute announcement wouldn’t be difficult.
Comprehending, Stokes nodded. “Yes, we can do that.” He glanced at Hartley. “I can see that it will help if the mourners know the situation before they gather.”
Hartley’s relief was palpable. “Thank you.”
He wrung Stokes’s, Barnaby’s, and Montague’s hands.
When he turned to Penelope, she patted his arm. “A word of advice. If I were you, I would delay putting your own notice in the Gazette for at least a week. No sense raising unnecessary hares.”
“No, indeed.” Hartley shook her hand and found a smile. “Thank you so much for your help. My family—our families—will always be in your debt.”
Penelope smiled and stepped back. After thanking Griselda and Violet, Hartley showed the group to the door.
As they went down the steps to their waiting carriages, Penelope felt her customary satisfaction over having solved a difficult case well, but this time the sense of fulfillment went deeper.
Opening the door of his carriage, Stokes glanced at the others. “While the mystery of Lady Galbraith’s murder-that-proved-not-to-be-a-murder might be solved, we’re not finished for the evening yet. Given you volunteered me to compose a piece for tomorrow morning’s news sheets, I deem it only fair that you all help me write it.”
The others laughed softly, smiled, and obligingly climbed into the carriages for the short drive back to Albemarle Street.