CHAPTER 6
The next morning, Barnaby and Stokes ran the police surgeon to earth in the morgue.
As it happened, Pemberton had just finished re-examining Lady Galbraith’s corpse. Wiping his hands on a towel, he joined them in the outer office.
A highly experienced practitioner, large-boned, a trifle rotund, and with an air of being worn about the edges, Pemberton fixed them with a jaundiced eye. “Very timely. Young Quale did the examination on your corpse, meaning Lady Galbraith. I read his report and just checked something that struck me as…not quite what we might have been expecting from the description of the means of death you’d noted.” He paused, but before Stokes or Barnaby could demand to know what he’d been checking and why, Pemberton said, “It would help if you described the scene.”
Stokes cast his own jaundiced glance at Barnaby, but complied.
Barnaby added several details for clarity.
Pemberton nodded as if ticking off the elements of the scene in his mind, then proceeded to interrogate them over how the body had fallen.
They tried as best they could but, dissatisfied with their inexactitude, Pemberton stumped over to a battered desk set against the wall, rummaged and found a piece of unmarked paper, slapped it on the top of the reports scattered over the desk’s surface, and beckoned Stokes over. “Draw it—how the body was lying when you first saw it. Pay particular attention to the relative positioning of the body on the path, and also with respect to the terrace.”
Stokes grunted but drew out his pencil and obliged; he was, Barnaby judged, now too curious not to. Barnaby, certainly, was eager to learn just what it was Pemberton had discovered that ran counter to what they’d expected.
When Stokes had completed his sketch, Pemberton looked at Barnaby and arched his brows.
Barnaby studied what Stokes had drawn and nodded. “Yes. That’s as I remember it, too.”
Pemberton studied the sketch for half a minute, then said, “In that case, gentlemen, I have to inform you that I will be adjusting Quale’s report to read: The findings were inconsistent with the ball having been dropped from above onto the victim’s head. Instead, from the position of the primary impact of the ball on the skull, it appears that the ball was thrown down at the victim, presumably from the terrace, with some degree of force.”
“Thrown?” Stokes frowned. “You mean the murderer picked up the ball and threw it down at her ladyship?”
“Precisely.” Pemberton continued, “No matter how you imagine she was holding her head, if the ball had simply been picked up, extended, and dropped strictly vertically, it would have struck higher on the skull. Instead, the point of impact and, even more telling, the line along which the damage lies both show quite clearly that there was some degree of angle away from the vertical to the trajectory of the ball.”
“In short,” Barnaby said, “it was thrown.”
Pemberton nodded. “And if you can get me the exact measurements of the height of the terrace relative to the spot on the path where Lady Galbraith was standing, and the horizontal distance between the edge of the terrace and the point where you estimate her ladyship’s feet must have been when she was struck—essentially the same spot in which her feet were when you found her—then I might even be able to give you some idea of the height of your killer, whether they are short, of average height, or tall.” Pemberton’s eyes gleamed. “If that sort of information is of any interest to you?”
“Oh, it is,” Stokes assured him. “In this case, we’ll be grateful for any crumbs that fall our way.”
“Right then.” Pemberton turned away. “Get me those measurements, and I’ll see what I can do for you. I’ve already got the height of the impact point, and that’s the only other measurement I need.”
Pemberton headed back into the examination room. Stokes turned to Barnaby, who had noticed the murder weapon, the stone ball, sitting balanced on a nearby bench. Barnaby was holding it between his hands and frowning.
“What?” Stokes asked.
“I hadn’t picked it up before—it’s heavy.” Barnaby extended the ball to Stokes.
Stokes gripped the ball—and nearly dropped it; he had to use both hands to hold it. “It’s heavier than it looks.”
“Because, contrary to what we thought, it’s not stone. I think it’s an ex-cannonball, perhaps from the unused ordnance that was made just before the wars ended and the stockpiles became obsolete. Presumably some enterprising gardener looking to replace worn finials came up with the idea to use surplus cannonballs and to paint them to look like stone.”
“So our murderer must be strong enough to hoist one of these.” Stokes returned the ball to the bench.
“Indeed—which leads to my next question.” Barnaby met Stokes’s eyes. “Could a woman have lifted that? More, could a lady have not just lifted that ball, but thrown it? It takes less strength to lift a weight, extend it, and drop it, than to deliberately throw that same weight at someone.” Barnaby grimaced. “Given the weight of that thing, I’m honestly not sure any lady could have been the murderer.”
Stokes looked faintly disgusted. “Before we eliminate the only person we’ve succeeded in placing at the scene in the moment the murder occurred purely on her gender, I suggest we take ourselves to Fairchild House and revisit the scene of the crime. And this time, I’ll take a measuring tape.”
Barnaby waved Stokes to the door. “Lead on.”
* * *
Penelope and Violet were working through Penelope’s translation for the museum, noting where she still had queries as to the original scribe’s true meaning, when the front doorbell pealed.
Looking up and across Penelope’s desk, Violet met Penelope’s eyes. “Are you expecting anyone?”
Penelope frowned. “No.” She looked at the papers spread before her, then waved dismissively at the door. “None of my acquaintances would call at such an hour—everyone knows I never host morning at-homes. Mostyn will handle it.”
“In that case,” Violet said, “we’re up to page sixty-three of your copy.”
Penelope humphed. “I will have to clarify that passage at the bottom of the page with Jeremy Carling. It’s an obscure use of words, as far as I can tell, but—”
The door opened. Penelope glanced up.
Violet turned to look as Mostyn entered.
Shutting the door, he approached the desk. “I’m sorry to trouble you, ma’am, but there’s a caller asking to consult with you, and I rather think you might want to see her.”
Penelope pushed her spectacles higher. “Her who?”
“She says she’s Lady Latimer, ma’am.” Mostyn proffered his salver, on which rested an embossed calling card.
Penelope all but pounced on the card. She read it, then handed it to Violet.
“Well, well.” Penelope’s eyes gleamed brightly behind her lenses. “I wonder, Violet dear, if in the circumstances, we shouldn’t take a short break from this boring Greek scribe and find out what her ladyship wishes to consult with me about?”
Violet grinned and started tidying the sheaf of papers in her lap. “Yes, I definitely think we should. In the interests of furthering your dear husband and Stokes’s investigation, if nothing else.”
“Indeed.” Glancing at Mostyn, Penelope smiled. “Thank you, Mostyn. Where have you put her?”
“Anticipating your interest, ma’am, I have shown her ladyship into the drawing room.”
“You are a gem among majordomos, Mostyn.” Rising, Penelope headed for the door. “Violet?”
“Right behind you.” Smiling, Violet followed her friend, employer, and colleague out of the door.
Penelope paused in the front hall to straighten her gown and check her hair, then after a nod to Mostyn to open the drawing room doors, she swept into the room, Violet gliding in her wake.
Lady Latimer rose from one sofa. She clutched a reticule rather tightly at her waist. Her gown was a subdued gray, not a color that particularly suited her but clearly donned as a measure of mourning. In Penelope’s eyes, the most telling point about her ladyship’s appearance was that she had come alone, with no daughter or friend to support her—or to bear witness as to what she might say.
Assessing the above in a single glance, Penelope kept her smile muted and advanced; she held out her hand. “Lady Latimer. I would say that it’s a pleasure to see you again, but I suspect the matter that brought you here is a somber one.”
“Indeed, Mrs. Adair.” Lady Latimer touched Penelope’s fingers. Her gaze deflected to Violet as, courtesy of Mostyn, the doors softly clicked shut.
“This is Mrs. Montague. She’s my secretary and works on all my projects, including our investigations. You may speak before her as you would before me.” After her ladyship and Violet exchanged polite nods, Penelope gestured for Lady Latimer to resume her seat. She and Violet moved to sit on the opposite sofa.
Once they were settled, Penelope and Violet with politely inquiring gazes fixed on Lady Latimer, her ladyship’s expression, rarely communicative, seemed to harden. For a moment, Penelope wondered if, after all, Lady Latimer would balk, but, all but visibly stiffening her resolve, her chin rising a fraction, her ladyship began, “I have heard, Mrs. Adair, that—as you mentioned—you engage from time to time in investigations. Of crimes. Especially those within the ton.”
When her ladyship paused, Penelope nodded. “Yes. That’s correct.”
Lady Latimer drew a tight breath and confessed, “I have come to inquire whether you would be willing to undertake to investigate Lady Galbraith’s murder with a view to apprehending her killer.”
Penelope blinked. She’d expected to hear some incriminating revelation. After a moment of staring, she asked, “Why? Why are you so keen to have the murderer of a lady who, as I understand it, had broken with you entirely, caught?”
Lady Latimer’s lips pinched, but after a second’s hesitation, she replied, “The why is simple enough. The disagreement between Lady Galbraith and myself is common knowledge. I’m perfectly certain—and no doubt you are, too—that the whispers have already started, rumors that this tragedy is somehow linked to that falling out. Cynthia—one of my daughters—mentioned this morning that she had even heard some speculation last night, and, of course, this being the ton, speculation and more are inevitable.”
Her ladyship paused, her blue gaze steady on Penelope’s face, then went on, “My daughters—the three still at home—and I discussed the matter over breakfast this morning. My husband was there, too, of course. We felt that, although the loss is the Galbraiths’, we, too, are very likely to be badly damaged by this situation. We all agreed that the best way forward—the only way to limit damage to ourselves and, along the way, cut short this dreadful ordeal for the Galbraiths—is to do all we can to assist the authorities in finding the murderer and bringing this distressing situation to an end.”
Penelope nodded. “I see.”
“Indeed.” Lady Latimer drew in a deeper breath and, transparently steeling herself, continued, “And as for breaking with the Galbraiths—that, I assure you, was no doing of mine.”
When Penelope, her gaze locked with Lady Latimer’s, raised an encouraging brow, Lady Latimer paused, then, lips thinning, went on, “I am sure you have heard that Marjorie and I were children together. We…” Her gaze growing distant, Lady Latimer proceeded to impart a more detailed, more personal account of the long friendship between her and Lady Galbraith and, eventually, their entire families, and the rupture over Lady Latimer’s shoes and the subsequent cutting of all ties by Lady Galbraith.
Despite the rigid control over her expression Lady Latimer habitually maintained, through the course of her lengthy recitation, in looking back at past comforts and contrasting them with the present pain, her control slipped and her features reflected both the deep contentment of earlier years and the emotional hurt occasioned by the recent rift. “As I’m sure you’ve heard, Marjorie had grown extremely…contentious toward me. While that distressed me, knowing her as I did, it wasn’t entirely unexpected. She had always been given to fits of quite rancorous pique. What did surprise and shock me was her…prohibition of any contact between our families.”
Lady Latimer paused, battling emotion, searching for words. Eventually, she said, “To use our children—hers as well as mine—to strike at me…I hadn’t expected that.” After a moment, she went on, “If there had been any other way, but”—Lady Latimer straightened her spine and raised her head—“I had to do what was best for my girls. For me, they came first.”
Penelope nodded; a year ago, she might not have understood the imperative behind that statement, but with Oliver in her life, she had no difficulty understanding Lady Latimer’s stance.
Before she could frame her next question, Lady Latimer said, “You are of the ton yourself, so you know how these situations can play out. An investigation may stretch for months, or even years. While my family, and the Galbraiths, too, can weather a few days, perhaps even a week or so, of whispers and rumors, the longer those are allowed to run unchecked by fact, the more entrenched and accepted they will become…until the rumors become fact in society’s mind—to the lasting detriment of my family, certainly, but the other direction in which people will look for any murderer is at the Galbraiths. Both our families will be damaged by this. In the first days, perhaps only slightly—but the longer the case goes unsolved, the damage will mount and will eventually be irreparable.” Lady Latimer looked directly at Penelope. “Which brings me to my purpose in calling, Mrs. Adair—to ask for your help in ensuring that Marjorie Galbraith’s murderer is identified and apprehended as soon as may be.”
Penelope studied her ladyship, then said, “You must be very sure that none of your family is involved.”
Lady Latimer held Penelope’s gaze. “As you say. Indeed, I know that none of my family—not my husband or my daughters—could have been involved. Aside from all else, we were all in the ballroom and had been for some time before Marjorie’s body was found.”
“So you all remained in the ballroom from the time you arrived until the police arrived?” Penelope asked.
Lady Latimer went to nod, then stopped herself. Frowning slightly, she said, “All except Cynthia. But that was virtually immediately we arrived—her hem had come down and she went to the withdrawing room to pin it up. In the end, she sewed it up, so she was absent for…perhaps half an hour. But she had returned to the ballroom long before the murder.”
“What time did you arrive?” Penelope saw no reason to explain that the murder had taken place at least an hour before the body was found.
“A trifle after nine o’clock.” Lady Latimer appeared to cast her mind back. “After that, Humphrey was with his cronies, but they were nearby—I could see him the entire time. My younger girls were chatting with their friends—they will be able to tell you with whom—and Georgina and Cecilia were strolling with Fitzforsythe and Mr. Brandywell.” Lady Latimer focused on Penelope’s face. “None of them went out onto the side terrace.”
Violet, seated beside Penelope and absolved of any part in the exchanges, had used the time to carefully study their unexpected guest; she found Lady Latimer’s certainty—her unshakeable confidence that none of her family had been involved in the murder—interesting. Violet had to wonder if that certainty stemmed from her ladyship knowing—or having guessed—who the murderer actually was. Regardless, Lady Latimer’s certainty was utterly categorical, projected in her tone, her demeanor, in the very way she was sitting, facing them directly with not so much as a glance aside.
When Penelope, frowning slightly, remained silent, Lady Latimer studied her in turn; briefly, her ladyship’s gaze shifted to Violet’s face, taking note of her focus, then Lady Latimer looked back at Penelope. “Although I elected to come here alone, as I mentioned, my family as a whole is aware of these issues. Indeed, my daughters are entirely supportive—they, too, see the dangers for our family and also for the Galbraiths. Cynthia—as you might have heard, she’s my quiet one, but she’s also a rock of practicality and clear-headedness—remembered you from last night and had heard about your interests. She suggested that asking for your assistance in this matter was, at least, something we could actually do.” Lady Latimer paused, then added, “I’m sure you comprehend, Mrs. Adair, Mrs. Montague, that an adverse situation is more easily borne if one can tell oneself that one has taken some active step to deal with whatever the problem is.”
Penelope nodded. “Indeed.”
“So.” Lady Latimer gripped her reticule more tightly. “Will you act for us in this case, Mrs. Adair?”
No one had actually asked Penelope to consult before; now that someone had, she discovered she had to stop and think matters through. That said, the invitation from Lady Latimer was entirely too good to pass up. “I would be happy to assist, but such assistance must be subject to certain caveats.” Meeting Lady Latimer’s gaze and encountering a questioning look, Penelope elaborated, “I and my colleagues”—she gestured to Violet—“Mrs. Montague, and also Mrs. Stokes, the inspector’s wife, who always works alongside us in our investigations, will need an assurance of cooperation from you and your family. We will need to interview you and your daughters. Interviewing your husband I am sure can be left to our husbands, and that brings me to my second caveat.” Penelope held Lady Latimer’s gaze. “You will need to accept that any pertinent information we discover will be communicated directly, without any limitation, to the authorities in the persons of Inspector Stokes and my husband.”
Lady Latimer inclined her head. “I and my family would expect nothing less. Indeed, as our sole purpose in contacting you, Mrs. Adair, is to help bring the police’s investigation to a speedy and successful conclusion, I see no clash whatever in our agendas.”
Penelope gave a decisive nod. “Excellent.” She pushed her spectacles higher, then said, “In that case…you’ve told me of the feud over Lady Latimer’s shoes. I have heard of the shoes, but have never examined any—all I know is derived from descriptions given by others. If you would, could you describe the shoes themselves for us?”
Lady Latimer frowned. After a moment, she said, “I can’t see how it is relevant, however, they are ballroom pumps with a Louis heel, embroidered with either silver or gold thread, with lead crystals, small ones, attached to the metal embroidery.” She shrugged. “We have a pair made for each ball gown, using the fabric of the gown as the base for the embroidery.”
“And the shoes are made by…?” Penelope asked.
“That is a secret, Mrs. Adair.” Lady Latimer’s expression turned bleak. “A secret I wish I had never discovered—it’s been the source of so much pain and discord.”
“Perhaps,” Penelope said, “but that’s water under the bridge, and you can’t be sorry over the shoes helping you settle two of your daughters so well.” She paused, then said, “Will you at least tell me this: Is the shoemaker who makes Lady Latimer’s shoes located in London?”
Lady Latimer nodded. “Yes. In town.”
“Very well. Next question. Could another lady have learned your secret or, in any other way, gained access to a pair of Lady Latimer’s shoes?”
Her gaze steady on Penelope’s face, Lady Latimer frowned. “I don’t believe so, but I’m unclear as to why you’re asking. As I stated earlier, there can be no connection between the feud and Marjorie’s murder.”
Looking into her ladyship’s blue-gray eyes, Penelope made an executive decision; the only way they could learn about the shoes was through Lady Latimer, and so her ladyship needed to know the reason for their interest. “As to the feud itself, you may well be right, but as for the shoes…I have to inform you that the authorities have a witness who saw a lady wearing Lady Latimer’s shoes fleeing the side terrace within seconds of Lady Galbraith being struck down.”
Lady Latimer paled. She didn’t move; she didn’t blink. Violet wasn’t even sure her ladyship breathed.
A long moment passed. Then, her gaze growing distant as if trying and failing to picture the scene, Lady Latimer said, “Oh.” But then she shook her head, clearly bewildered. “No—that can’t have been. How…?” Two seconds later, she refocused, somewhat severely, on Penelope’s face. “That witness, whoever they are, must have been mistaken. Or…or someone is seeking to deflect attention from the real murderer by fabricating a clue, one the ton, and presumably the police, will leap on far too readily.”
Penelope’s glasses glinted as she nodded. “Indeed. That occurred to us, too—that the sighting of the shoe was a deliberately placed red herring.”
Something of Lady Latimer’s obdurate defensiveness eased. “I commend your common sense, Mrs. Adair.” After a moment, as if speaking to herself, her ladyship murmured, “Clearly Cynthia was prescient in suggesting I contact you.”
Lady Latimer paused, then looked at Penelope. “So, Mrs. Adair, will you and your colleagues”—her ladyship inclined her head to Violet—“accept my commission?”
“Yes.” Penelope straightened. “But just so we have it clear, we do not work for any fee, but we will agree to use our best endeavors to identify who killed Lady Galbraith. Any information we discover will be communicated directly to the police, and we will not censor or in any way conceal any facts we find.” Penelope paused as if replaying her words, then looked at Lady Latimer. “Are those terms agreeable to you?”
Lady Latimer met Penelope’s gaze and nodded. “Yes. I want Marjorie’s murderer caught, and I know the villain isn’t me or mine.”
* * *
After Lady Latimer had departed, Penelope and Violet returned to the garden parlor and settled once more on either side of Penelope’s desk. Neither made any move to refocus on the translation on which they’d been working; instead, rather absentmindedly, both started gathering the scattered pages, neatening them into two piles.
Her gaze abstracted, Penelope murmured, “It’s both curious and interesting that her ladyship—encouraged by her daughters—thought to engage us.”
“True. But that has handed us the perfect invitation to interview all four girls.” Violet was looking forward to assisting in her first investigation—one in which she wasn’t personally involved.
Penelope nodded. “As well as speaking with her ladyship again. I did wonder if giving her until this afternoon to gather her daughters to meet with us was a good idea or not, but…”
“Well, one could see her point. And that will also give us time to think of all the questions we should ask—” Violet broke off as the front doorbell pealed.
When the sound of distant voices reached them, Penelope and Violet exchanged delighted smiles, set the manuscript for translation safely to one side, and rose.
The door opened and Griselda came in, balancing little Megan on her hip. One swift glance, and Griselda noticed the neat piles on the desk—the neat desk. She touched cheeks with Penelope, then surrendered Megan to her so Griselda could greet Violet. “I thought,” Griselda said, straightening and nodding at the desk, “that I would find you both hard at work—at least until I got here.” Looking from Violet’s face to Penelope’s, Griselda asked, “Has anything happened?”
They told her; immediately, Griselda had Penelope ring for Hettie, Oliver’s nursemaid, who arrived with Oliver in tow. Settling both Megan and Oliver with Hettie on a rug by the long windows, with a bag of toys to keep the toddlers amused, the ladies retreated to the sofa and armchairs before the fireplace.
“So!” Eyes bright, Griselda settled into one armchair, facing Penelope and Violet, who’d sat on the sofa. “Combining yesterday’s conclusions with what you learned from Lady Latimer, what are our current thoughts, and how should we proceed?”
“We agreed to call on the Latimers at half past two.” Penelope glanced at the clock. “It’s barely eleven—” She broke off as Mostyn arrived with the tea tray.
Once they were supplied with tea and tiny cakes and the children had been given a ginger biscuit each, they returned to their deliberations. “As to our current stance,” Penelope said, “while we have reserved judgment on whether Hartley Galbraith is telling the truth—whether there was any lady on the terrace, whether she was wearing Lady Latimer’s shoes, and whether he actually had his intended by his side—Lady Latimer’s request has emphasized that, regardless of Hartley’s tale, society will and, indeed, already is directing suspicion and disapproval, which will gradually escalate into opprobrium, at the entire Latimer family.”
“More, as Lady Latimer also mentioned,” Violet put in, “suspicion will eventually be directed at the Galbraiths themselves, no matter how undeserved.”
Griselda nodded. “Yes—I can see that.” She sipped and looked at Penelope. “And even if Hartley Galbraith is telling the truth on all points, there is still a chance that some other lady—not a Latimer—has duplicated Lady Latimer’s shoes.”
“Hmm. And if you think about that,” Penelope said, “it’s perfectly possible, knowing of Lady Galbraith’s avid interest in the shoes, that said lady might have followed her ladyship onto the side terrace to show off her find.”
Violet shrugged. “That doesn’t tell us why Lady Galbraith was killed, or even whether the lady with the shoes was to blame or saw who did it, but all those possibilities are certainly there.”
“So.” Griselda set her cup on its saucer. “What’s our next step? Go and interview the Latimers and see what more we can learn?”
“We’ll do that, yes.” Penelope was frowning slightly. “But first, I suggest we revisit the scene of the crime.” She met Violet’s gaze, then Griselda’s. “I think we should verify the details of Hartley’s account—he described where he and his intended were on the path and why they couldn’t see the terrace itself, and he also mentioned that when they rushed forward, their gazes were level with the terrace flags. We can check those three points, at least. I also want to examine one of the stone balls—the one dropped on Lady Galbraith is with the police, but there are others along the terrace balustrade that we can look at. And before we start checking the alibis of anyone in the ballroom, it will help to have a clear understanding of the possible routes between the ballroom and the terrace—how long it would have taken to go back and forth, for instance—and that might give us a better idea of whether the lady on the terrace might simply have seen the murder committed, then turned and fled.”
“And, for whatever reason, not raised the alarm.” Griselda nodded. “That all sounds very logical.” She grinned. “As usual.”
Violet smiled, too. “So we’re agreed. First, we’ll go to Fairchild House, and I will admit to being intensely eager to study the scene, and then, armed with whatever we learn, we’ll go on to the Latimers’.”
The other two nodded.
All three ladies turned as a pair of wobbly toddlers came chortling—trying to run—around the end of the sofa. Each child made a beeline for their respective mother’s knees, shrieking with glee and burying their faces in their mother’s skirts as Hettie came hurrying up.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, Mrs. Stokes.” Even as she said the words, Hettie was grinning. “We were playing hide-and-seek.”
The next few minutes went in play and communion between the four women and the chattering, laughing babes.
Then Hettie stood and held out her hands. “It’s nearly time for luncheon. I’ll take them upstairs.”
Penelope, Oliver lolling in her lap, looked across at Griselda. “Perhaps, before we set out for Fairchild House, we should take an early luncheon, too. In the nursery?”
Griselda grinned and hefted Megan. “Yes. Let’s.”
The ladies stood, and with Penelope carrying Oliver, Griselda with Megan once more on her hip, and Violet—Auntie Violet—walking between, they headed for the stairs.