CHAPTER 4
The address Hartley Galbraith had given was of a lodging house in Jermyn Street. Prior to his marriage, Barnaby had lived several doors down on the opposite side of the street.
Stokes knocked on the door of the narrow house. A manservant opened the door, but on being asked for Mr. Galbraith, he shook his head. “Not here at present. He’s had a death in the family.”
“Do you know where he is?” Stokes asked.
“I’m sure I couldn’t say, sir.” The man started to edge the door closed.
Barnaby, who had been getting his bearings, turned to face the man. “Does Lord Carradale still own this house?”
The man paused. “Why, yes, sir.”
Reaching into his coat pocket, Barnaby drew out a card and handed it to the man. “Knowing Carradale, at this hour he’s still having breakfast. Give that to him and tell him Adair would like a word.”
Having studied the embossed gold lettering on the thick ivory card, the man nodded. “Yes, sir. Ah…”
“We’ll wait here,” Stokes said. “Just leave the door open and fetch Carradale.”
Reacting to Stokes’s tone of reined patience, the manservant did as he was bid; a minute later, a long, lanky figure swathed in a multicolored velvet dressing robe came ambling out of the shadows of the hall. Carradale nodded to Barnaby, then eyed Stokes, transparently waiting for an introduction.
Barnaby obliged. “Inspector Stokes of Scotland Yard.”
With only the most infinitesimal of pauses, Carradale inclined his head. “Inspector.” Lounging against the door frame, he looked at Barnaby and arched his brows. “I’m only half here, but what can I do for you?”
Fleetingly, Barnaby grinned; Carradale was about Barnaby’s age, but he had remained unmarried and, clearly, had not changed with the years. Sobering, Barnaby said, “We’re looking for Galbraith.”
Carradale winced. “I heard about the murder. The news did the rounds of the clubs last night.”
“Have you seen Hartley since?” Barnaby asked.
Carradale nodded. “I came home after I heard, and he was here—it was the early hours by then. He was…well, holding it in, of course, but he was cut up and in something of a state underneath. Well, who wouldn’t be? He was packing—”
“Packing?” Stokes said.
Carradale looked at Stokes curiously. “Yes, packing.” Carradale met Barnaby’s eyes. “He told me his father and his sisters were in a dreadful way, and so he was moving back home for a while to lend them his support.”
Barnaby nodded. “Home as in Galbraith House in Hanover Square?”
Carradale’s brows rose. “So I assumed. I can’t imagine he’d be thinking of transporting three females all having hysterics down to Sussex anytime soon. Regardless, he took a hackney. I had my man get it for him.” Turning, Carradale called, “Johns! What address did Mr. Galbraith give the hackney driver?”
From the rear of the hall, Johns replied, “Hanover Square, m’lord.”
“So there you are.” Carradale looked at Barnaby, then at Stokes. “I hope you find whoever did for Galbraith’s mother, Inspector. I didn’t know her at all, but Galbraith is a decent chap, and things like this shouldn’t happen to such as him.”
Studying Carradale’s steady, if faintly bloodshot, gaze, Stokes inclined his head. “With luck and help from the right quarters, we will.”
Carradale’s lips lifted in a fleeting—stunningly beautiful—smile, then he straightened and reached for the door. Pausing, he looked at Barnaby, then his lips lifted once more and he drawled, “Marriage clearly suits you, Adair. No doubt I’ll see you around the traps.”
Barnaby raised a hand in salute. He and Stokes turned away as Carradale shut the door.
“Hanover Square?” Stokes said.
“Indeed,” Barnaby replied.
* * *
Galbraith House was a substantial family home that communicated a sense of quiet prosperity. Sitting in the middle of a long line of similar houses lining the west side of Hanover Square, the only feature that distinguished it from any of its neighbors was the fact that the curtains in all the windows facing the street were drawn. That and a sense of stillness, of the lack of any movement within.
Despite the pervasive feeling that they were intruding unforgivably, Stokes and Barnaby climbed the steps to the porch and rang the bell. They could hear it echo hollowly inside.
Several minutes passed before footsteps neared, then an elderly butler who looked as if he hadn’t slept all night opened the door and tiredly asked, “Yes?”
Stokes showed his police identification, and Barnaby handed over one of his calling cards. They were left to wait in the front hall for less than a minute before being shown into a room that was plainly the library.
Behind a desk, Hartley Galbraith rose to his feet. “Thank you, Millwell,” he said to the butler, then waved Barnaby and Stokes to the chairs before the desk. “Mr. Adair. Inspector.” As Barnaby and Stokes sat, Hartley said, “I’m afraid my father is currently indisposed.”
Subsiding into the chair behind the desk, Hartley went on, “My mother’s death has been a huge blow to us all, of course, but to my father most of all. He—they—were devoted, and he’s taken it very hard. The doctor has given him a sleeping draft, and he’s lying down upstairs…” Hartley dragged in a tight breath; his hands, linked on the blotter, clenched tight. “So if there’s anything you need to know, perhaps you’ll allow me to stand in his shoes for the moment, at least until he recovers enough to…well, make sense.”
Hartley’s voice was passably even, but a tremor of exhaustion, compounded by shock and sorrow, lay beneath. His face—handsome with long planes and well-set features—was wan and etched with concern, and the expression in his eyes was harrowed.
Both Stokes and Barnaby had been studying Hartley, absorbing each sign, every little clue projected by how he looked and moved, how he spoke, his tone.
His gaze steady on Hartley’s face, Stokes quietly said, “Actually, Mr. Galbraith, it’s you we’ve come to see.”
Hartley’s eyes widened. “Oh?” There was an instant’s pause, as if Hartley looked beyond them and debated how to respond; both Barnaby and Stokes noted it. But then Hartley refocused, raised his chin fractionally and, his gaze steady again—indeed, more controlled than previously—said, “In that case, how may I help you?”
Stokes glanced at Barnaby. Understanding the implied suggestion, Barnaby opened his mouth—
A rap on the library door had him pause.
Hartley grimaced. “Excuse me.” Looking faintly harassed, he called, “Come!”
The rumpled elderly butler came in, a black silk shawl overflowing his hands. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Mr. Hartley, but Mrs. Forecastle is insisting we must put black ribbon on the knocker—that it’s scandalous that we haven’t already done so—but we don’t have any black ribbon in the house. Tabitha, Miss Geraldine’s maid, wondered if this might do.” The butler held up the shawl.
Hartley stared blankly at the shawl…then, weakly, he waved. “Yes, Millwell.” His voice sounded distant and somewhat strained. “Use that for now, and ask Mrs. Forecastle if she can send one of the maids out for…however many yards of black ribbon she thinks we need.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Millwell bowed, turned, and plodded toward the door. “Oh.” Pausing, the old butler turned back to Hartley. “And Miss Primrose and Miss Monica’s elocution master has arrived.” When Hartley looked even more blank, Millwell added, “For their weekly lesson, sir. We—Mrs. Forecastle and I—wondered if you wanted them to be summoned, although I don’t know what good that will do, as both are exhausted, what with all their weeping, and can barely speak at all. Or should we send Mr. Phineas away?”
“Send him away,” Hartley said.
“Very good, sir.” The butler bowed, straightened, but then simply stood there, staring vaguely into space.
Hartley drew in a steadying breath. “Is there anything else, Millwell?”
There was—a veritable litany of minor household decisions, ranging from how many Cook should expect to sit down to dinner that evening, to the advisability of getting in an extra dozen bottles of the port Lord Galbraith favored.
Barnaby watched Hartley Galbraith keep a tight rein on his own emotions and deal with the old servitor with a degree of patience that was remarkable under the circumstances. That Hartley’s presence was essential in providing a steady hand on the household tiller was demonstrably true.
At last, Millwell’s querulous queries were all dealt with, and he plodded out of the room.
As the door closed, Hartley exhaled, then he refocused on Barnaby and Stokes. “My apologies. As you can see, the household is at sixes and sevens. The staff are as shocked as the family. While my father and sisters are prostrated, the staff seem paralyzed and unable to deal with all the minor matters they would normally take in their stride.”
It was a compassionate exculpation, one neatly made without drawing attention to the fact that Hartley was the only member of his family making any effort to hold the fort.
Clasping his hands before him, Hartley settled his somewhat grave attention on Barnaby. “I’m sorry. You were about to say…?”
Barnaby wasn’t sure that he was happy the interruptions had occurred—and given him and Stokes a better understanding of Hartley Galbraith’s position in the family—but Barnaby was certain that the interruptions and their inevitable coloring of Hartley’s character hadn’t been staged. After a second’s consideration, he said, “We wanted to ask whether you had had any recent disagreements with your mother.”
Hartley’s eyes widened fractionally, but he shook his head. “No. None.” He paused, then added, “I’m nearly thirty years old. I haven’t lived under this roof for quite some time.”
Which was something of a non sequitur.
“But you’re residing here now,” Stokes observed.
“For the moment.” Hartley paused, then said, “It’s only temporary. I just threw a few things in a bag last night—well, early this morning—and came here.” He gestured to the door. “As you saw, someone has to deal with things. My father wouldn’t be able to, anyway, and my sisters aren’t up to coping.”
Barnaby searched, but found no hint of anything resembling guilt in Hartley’s demeanor. Of course, Hartley might have a very good poker face. To test that hypothesis, Barnaby ventured, “We were given to understand that you’re in the process of organizing your affairs.”
Hartley was stunned, yet the only change in his near-blank expression—Hartley’s way of hiding the emotions evoked by his mother’s death, Barnaby realized—was a faint widening of his eyes and a slackening of his otherwise rigidly controlled jaw. After a long moment, Hartley blinked, then, refocusing on Barnaby, he nodded. “Yes. I’m expecting to make a formal offer for a lady’s hand very soon.” He paused for only a second before adding, “And, please, do keep that under your hats for the moment. I haven’t yet told my family or, indeed, anyone else, other than my man-of-business. My intended and I…” Hartley paused, then gave a faint sigh. “There are reasons she and I have thus far kept our attachment a secret, although we consider ourselves betrothed.”
An awkward silence ensued while the obvious question hung in the air, then Stokes simply voiced it. “Why the secrecy? Do you have any reason to believe that your family wouldn’t approve?”
Frustration flashed briefly in Hartley’s face, then he considered them again, but as if he were examining them, evaluating and deciding whether or not he could trust them. Barnaby got that impression quite clearly, that he and Stokes were being weighed with regard to their discretion.
Then Hartley grimaced; his features eased, his shoulders and spine slumped from their previous rigidity. He sighed, rubbed his eyes with one hand, then said, “I know I should have told you this straightaway—as soon as it happened—and even more later, when you questioned us…my only excuse is that I was so shocked I couldn’t think. I couldn’t decide what to do for the best.” His gaze now openly weary, he met Stokes’s, then Barnaby’s eyes. “It wasn’t only me—wasn’t only Mama—involved, you see.”
Stokes frowned, but kept his voice unchallenging as he asked, “Involved in what?”
“What happened last night in Lady Fairchild’s garden.” Re-clasping his hands on the blotter, Hartley went on, “Let me tell it from the beginning. I arrived at the ball with my family. My intended was already there with her family. We’d arranged to meet in the folly overlooking the ornamental lake. As soon as we spotted each other in the crowd, she left the ballroom. I waited for five minutes or so, then I followed her out to the garden.”
“So a tryst,” Stokes said.
“No.” Hartley’s lips firmed. “At least, not in the sense you’re implying. We met to discuss what our next steps should be. As you’ve already learned, I was getting my affairs in order preparatory to making a formal offer. She, too, has had to keep our attachment a secret from her family. We decided a few weeks ago that we’d had enough of secrecy. We’ve been working out, step by step, how best to break the news to both our families…” Hartley paused, then, voice firming, went on, “We decided some time ago that we wanted to be married by my thirtieth birthday, which now is only a few months away. We decided to hold to that date, to use it as a deadline by which to achieve what we’ve set our hearts upon.”
Hartley stopped. Then his expression hardened. “But you need to know what happened last night, and I’m rambling. As I said, my intended had left the ballroom, and I went out to meet with her. She and I both know how events such as the Fairchilds’ ball unfold—we knew we’d be safe if we met in the garden early. Later, and there would have been more people about, so that’s why we’d arranged to meet at that particular time.”
“When you got to the folly,” Barnaby asked, “was she there?”
Hartley nodded. “Yes. She was waiting, as I’d expected.” He looked at Barnaby. “You’ll understand that she could only safely be out of the ballroom for about twenty minutes without risking someone noticing and commenting, raising questions we would rather not have asked, so we had to make the moments count. We talked. We went over where we were and what our next steps needed to be, then we headed back to the house.”
Stokes’s brows rose. “Together?”
Hartley hesitated, then, lips tight, inclined his head. “Our families are acquainted. If I was seen escorting her in from the garden, it wouldn’t cause any great consternation. The assumption would be that I was being chivalrous.”
“Family friends?” Barnaby slipped in.
Hartley nodded before he could catch himself. Lips twisting, he confirmed, “As you say. Regardless, no one would expect to hear of our betrothal.”
Before Barnaby could think of the right question with which to pursue the identity of Hartley’s intended, Hartley continued, “So we walked back to the house together.” His gaze grew distant, as if he were back in the garden, seeing what he had then. “We came over the bank above the lake, still well away from the house but following the path to the side terrace—we’d both come out that way. We looked ahead…” Locked in the vision only he could see, Hartley paled. After a second, he swallowed and, his voice growing hollow, went on, “My mother was standing on the path below the terrace. We could see her quite clearly—she wasn’t in shadow, as we were. We were under the trees bordering the path at that point, and there was an overhanging branch that blocked the terrace itself from our sight, but Mama was down on the path, and we could see her.”
Neither Stokes nor Barnaby said a word. Neither so much as blinked.
Without prompting, his expression no longer blank but instead filling with mounting horror, Hartley continued, “Just as we saw her, she turned to look up at the terrace, toward the top of the steps…” Hartley’s voice suspended. After a second, still patently lost in the awfulness of the memory, he dragged in a breath and, his voice hoarse, said, “We saw the ball fall and strike her down.”
He’d only just managed to get the words out. Neither Stokes nor Barnaby interrupted; neither shifted their sharp gazes from Hartley’s face.
Hartley bowed his head for a moment, then dragged in another tortured breath and, raising his head, looked at them, anguish etched in his eyes. “We froze. Both of us. You know how it is, in that instant when something you can’t believe could possibly happen occurs before your eyes. Then both of us started forward. We rushed out of the trees. But there was nothing we could do. She was already dead.”
Hartley’s gaze dropped to his hands, the fingers tightly clenched, knuckles showing white; he stared at them, but Barnaby doubted he was seeing anything, at least nothing in the here and now.
Glancing at Stokes, Barnaby found his friend looking his way. He read the question in Stokes’s eyes and nodded. Returning his gaze to Hartley, Barnaby gently asked, “Did you see anything—hear anything—of the person who dropped the stone ball?”
Hartley blinked. Slowly, he raised his eyes, but his gaze remained distant as, frowning, he grimaced. “We both did—and more than anything else, that’s why I didn’t raise the alarm or say anything to anyone last night. I simply couldn’t understand what it meant.” He paused, then, in an empty voice, added, “I still don’t.”
Stokes had his notebook out and was scribbling. He glanced pointedly at Barnaby.
Quietly, Barnaby asked, “What did you see?”
“I saw—we both saw—a lady’s shoes and the swish of her hem as she went quickly back inside.” Hartley finally refocused on Stokes and Barnaby. “You have to remember we were on the bank, above the stone steps leading down to the path in front of the side terrace. Our eyes were level, more or less, with the terrace’s flagstones. The glimpse we caught was through the stone balusters. There was moonlight at the time, enough to see anyone on the terrace itself, but the shadow of the house closed in around the door and the little hall beyond, and the corridor, too, were unlit. The woman—the lady—was disappearing into darkness, but the last thing to pass into shadow was the flicking hem of her gown and the backs of her shoes.”
Barnaby was frowning. “You said you couldn’t understand what you saw. It seems plain enough. A lady dropped a stone ball onto your mother’s head and killed her.”
Hartley met Barnaby’s eyes; Hartley’s gaze was direct and rock steady. “No—or, rather, yes, but that’s not all. Not the part that’s so confounding.” He paused, then said, “The shoes. They were Lady Latimer’s shoes.”
* * *
It took the combined descriptive powers of Barnaby and Hartley Galbraith a good ten minutes to impart to Stokes the full meaning of the term “Lady Latimer’s shoes.”
Even then, Stokes remained incredulous. He stared at Hartley. “So although you saw a lady wearing a pair of these Lady Latimer’s shoes leaving the scene of the murder less than a minute after you had seen your mother struck down, that doesn’t mean that it was Lady Latimer who murdered your mother.”
“No.” Lips compressing, Hartley paused, then conceded, “But as far as I know, logically speaking, the lady must have been either Lady Latimer or one of her four daughters, but even that I can’t—simply don’t—believe.”
Settling back in his chair, Barnaby studied Hartley’s face. “Why?” When Hartley glanced at him, Barnaby elaborated, “Why do you find that so hard to believe?” Blessing Penelope’s investigative skill and the fact that she had not only learned all about Lady Latimer’s shoes and the resulting inter-family feud but had also thought to explain the whole to him, he added, “I understand that there’s no love lost between your families.”
Hartley blinked, then slowly shook his head. “That’s…not really the case.” He met Barnaby’s gaze, then briefly glanced at Stokes, before looking back at Barnaby. “You need to understand that the feud, as people call it, was entirely of my mother’s making. Aunt Hester—Lady Latimer—is the kindest soul, but Mama’s demand to be given access to the shoes placed her—Aunt Hester—in an invidious position. Mama refused to see that. She and she alone was the architect of the feud. For the rest of us?’ Hartley shrugged. “Even my sisters weren’t all that concerned. Yes, they would have liked to have had Lady Latimer’s shoes, but they were happy enough to wait. Aunt Hester told them from the first that of course she would make them—my sisters and my mother, too—gifts of Lady Latimer’s shoes as soon as her own daughters were on the way to being settled.” Hartley glanced at Stokes. “In ton terms, that was fair dealing.”
Stokes still wasn’t sure he fully appreciated the importance of Lady Latimer’s shoes and, indeed, wasn’t at all sure he wished to—shoes, for heaven’s sake—yet when it came to the ton and matters of family, he was long past the age of being surprised. “You refer to Lady Latimer as Aunt Hester. Why?”
Hartley’s jaw tightened. “We’re not related by blood, but if anything, the ties go deeper. Mama and Lady Latimer—Aunt Hester—grew up together in the country. They were neighbors. They made their come-outs together, were chief attendant at each other’s wedding, and through all the years, our families have been very close. We—the children—were one big tribe. We were in and out of each other’s houses all the time.” Hartley angled his head toward the front of the house. “The Latimers’ town house is just across the square, almost directly opposite. And in summer we were always together, either at their country house in Surrey or at ours in Sussex.” He paused, then added, “I consider the Latimers family. So do my sisters and my father. In instigating and then perpetuating the feud, Mama trampled rough-shod over all our feelings. We tried to remonstrate, but she refused to listen. She’d caught a bee in her bonnet and was not about to let it go. Courtesy of my mother’s actions, my sisters have been cut off from their closest friends for the past year and more.”
Hartley hesitated, then more quietly said, “The feud hurt us all, us just as much as the Latimers, but caught in her obsession, Mama refused to even see that, much less consider it.”
A short silence fell, then Hartley stirred and looked at Stokes.
Glancing down at his notebook, Stokes asked, “The young lady—your intended. Her name?”
Hartley debated; Barnaby noted that Hartley’s expression had grown easier to read the more he focused on facts and not emotions. Eventually, Hartley said, “If it should become necessary, I will give you her name, but until that time, I would prefer not to reveal it. As I mentioned, we are striving to break the news of our betrothal to our families in the least disruptive way, so…no. Not at this moment.”
His gaze on Hartley’s face, Stokes considered that.
Hartley didn’t wilt. Instead, he offered, “The most she can do is corroborate all that I’ve told you. She was by my side throughout those minutes, so saw no more than I did. Unless you truly doubt my word, there’s little point in me telling you her name.” He hesitated, then added, “And regardless of all else, I see no reason why she should be subjected to an unnecessary inquisition.”
Stokes’s lips quirked cynically at that “inquisition,” but after a second of further deliberation, he inclined his head. “Very well. For the moment, I will allow you your veil of secrecy. However, if we do need her testimony, and most likely at some point we will, then we will ask again, and you will need to answer.”
Hartley acknowledged the concession with a nod. “Thank you, Inspector.”
Barnaby unfolded his long legs and rose.
Stuffing his notebook into his pocket, Stokes got to his feet, too. They parted from Hartley Galbraith on equable terms. Millwell, appearing even more distracted than he had earlier, showed them out and shut the door on their heels.
Glancing back at the door, Barnaby saw that the knocker was now decently swathed in black silk. Facing forward, he said, “I have to own to a rabid curiosity over who Galbraith’s intended is.”
Halting on the pavement, Stokes humphed. “Just ask your wife. I’m sure she’ll work it out in three blinks.” A second passed, then he glanced at Barnaby. “Speaking of which…”
Barnaby grinned. “Indeed. We may as well accept the inevitable and head directly to Albemarle Street. There’s no sense in going all the way back to the Yard just to read the note-cum-summons that, no doubt, is by now residing on your blotter.”
Stokes sighed and raised an arm to hail the hackney just rounding the square. “Any bets that Griselda and Megan are already there—and Violet and Montague, too?”
“Not Violet and Montague.” Barnaby opened the door of the hackney as it drew to a halt before them; waving Stokes in, he met his gaze. “It’s too early for them, but I’m sure they’ll arrive in good time for dinner.”
Stokes laughed and climbed in. Grinning, Barnaby looked up at the jarvey. “Number twenty-four, Albemarle Street.” Then he followed Stokes into the carriage.