CHAPTER 9
As early as was acceptable the next morning, Barnaby and Stokes climbed the steps to the Galbraiths’ front door, primed with the information Penelope, Violet, and Griselda had gained the previous day. On being admitted to the house, they requested an interview with Lord Galbraith. As they had yet to question his lordship and he had sent word to the Yard that he was now willing to speak with them, they had seized on that as their excuse for calling.
From the black wrapping on the door knocker to the drawn curtains and the weight of sorrow that hung in the air, the house was sunk in mourning. The butler, somewhat recovered from the last time they’d encountered him, showed them into the library.
Lord Galbraith rose slowly from the chair behind the desk. “Mr. Adair. Inspector Stokes.” Lord Galbraith shook hands, then waved them to the chairs before the desk and sank back heavily into his own. “I apologize for not being able to speak with you previously. My son tells me you will have questions. If you will put them, I will do my poor best to answer.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Stokes glanced at Barnaby and made a production of getting out his notebook.
Capturing his lordship’s gaze, Barnaby smiled reassuringly. “Hartley’s no longer here?”
His lordship snorted, the sound laden with gruff affection. “Oh, he’s still staying here—one thing I can say about my son is that he’s a rock and he’ll stick through any drama. I insisted he go out—get some air, have lunch at his club, talk with his friends. He’s been holding the fort here singlehanded ever since…” His lordship drew in a quick, tight breath but then doggedly went on. “He needed a break from this house and the drain of having to take care of us all.”
Barnaby inclined his head and wondered if the need to relieve Hartley had been a factor in drawing Lord Galbraith out of overwhelming grief. Being needed by others was often cited as a reason for not giving in to tragedy, for girding one’s loins and forging on with life.
Stokes, having produced his notebook, cleared his throat and asked, “If I may, my lord, if you could once again tell me when it was that you last saw Lady Galbraith?” Stokes had asked the same question on the evening of the murder, but Lord Galbraith’s answer had been vague and disjointed.
Lord Galbraith’s features hardened into a mask. “It was in the ballroom. I can’t recall what I told you before, but I remember the moment quite clearly. It wasn’t that long after we’d arrived. I had joined a group of gentlemen—we were standing closer to the windows, most of the way down the ballroom. Marjorie had been with the girls, not far from the main doors—closer to the other end of the room. But then I glimpsed her moving through the crowd. I didn’t know where she was going or why, but I did think it strange that she’d left the girls so early.”
“In which direction was she going?’ Stokes asked.
“Toward the end of the ballroom opposite the main doors.” Lord Galbraith frowned. “She seemed very intent on something, as if she was following someone—I didn’t see whom.” His lordship paused, then, his expression growing even more rigid, said, “That was the last time I saw her.”
Looking down at his notebook, Stokes merely inclined his head.
Beside him, Barnaby shifted, drawing his lordship’s attention. “Did you know of anyone who wished your wife ill?”
Lord Galbraith grimaced. “No.” He paused, then, as if feeling his way, said, “I have heard…whispers. Suggestions that, frankly, I cannot countenance. This ridiculous feud that Marjorie instigated…if anyone had been driven to murder over those wretched shoes it would have been Marjorie, and it would have been Hester Latimer lying dead somewhere, not my wife.”
Barnaby and Stokes exchanged glances. Neither said anything as Lord Galbraith plainly wrestled with competing claims of devotion. Eventually, his gaze on his desk, on his large hands clasped on its edge, he said, “My wife was as she was. In many ways, she was a joy, and I loved her dearly. But in the matter of these shoes, she’d grown obsessed and quite irrational.” Glancing up, his lordship met Stokes’s eyes, then looked at Barnaby. “I know Humphrey and Hester Latimer, and all their children. By that I do not mean that I know them as acquaintances, but that I truly know them—I know the sort of people they are. No matter what anyone tries to suggest, I cannot imagine that any of the Latimers were in any way involved in Marjorie’s death.”
Lord Galbraith switched his gaze to Stokes. “Beyond that, Inspector, I most regrettably cannot help you. I have no notion why Marjorie went out to the terrace, much less whom she met, or who caused her death.”
Stokes inclined his head. “Thank you, my lord.” He glanced at Barnaby, then said, “We wondered if any of the young ladies had recovered enough for us to speak with them. About whether they have any idea why your wife left the ballroom or, perhaps, who she was speaking with before she did.”
Lord Galbraith sighed. “I would like nothing better than to have you ask such questions, Inspector—anything to gain clarity in this dark time—but, sadly, none of my daughters have felt strong enough to come down today.” His lordship’s gaze sharpened. “Geraldine, the eldest, did come down yesterday, but she was so distressed by the tactlessness of several callers that she hasn’t made the attempt today, and until she descends, the other two are unlikely to.” Lord Galbraith sighed. “Forcing the issue will, I can assure you, end in nothing but storms of hysterical tears, which will get no one anywhere. For my daughters’ testimonies, Inspector, we will need to wait.”
Stokes nodded more briskly. “Very well. In that case, do you have any objection to us questioning your staff?”
“It’s possible,” Barnaby said, “that they might have noticed something unusual, perhaps someone asking for a meeting with Lady Galbraith, or even someone loitering outside.”
“We need to cover all possible angles, including that the murderer was not a guest at the ball but had somehow arranged to meet Lady Galbraith there.” Stokes thought that an unlikely scenario, but it served to have Lord Galbraith give his assent to having his staff questioned. Summoning Millwell, he gave orders to that effect.
Rising, Stokes and Barnaby took their leave of his lordship and left him to mourn in peace.
The last sight they had of him, he was slumped in his chair, his chin on his chest, staring at nothing.
Shutting the library door, Millwell faced them. “Do you wish to speak with us in turn, or will all at once do?”
They elected to address the assembled staff in the servants’ hall.
The housekeeper fussed over Barnaby and Stokes in her parlor, and the cook provided them with cups of tea and a plate of quite excellent ginger biscuits while Millwell summoned his troops.
When the staff was gathered about the servants’ hall’s long central table, Stokes and Barnaby joined them. Standing at the head of the table, Stokes explained his and Barnaby’s role in the investigation into Lady Galbraith’s murder, then Stokes put the usual questions: Had they noticed anything unusual in her ladyship’s behavior over recent times? Had they witnessed anything out of the ordinary pertaining to her ladyship?
No one had.
“Lastly,” Stokes said, “does anyone know of any approach made to anyone in the household by a shoemaker, or anyone involved in the sale or making of shoes?”
Standing just behind Stokes, Barnaby watched the staff, most of whom were in plain sight. One of the maids toward the end of the table shifted, drawing his attention. Her face showed startled surprise—
“Yes.” Millwell spoke clearly and definitely; Barnaby looked at him. “There was a young man,” Millwell went on, “but that was several months ago—a little before Christmas, when most of the family were no longer in town.”
Notebook in hand, Stokes gestured with his pencil for Millwell to continue.
With a faint shrug, Millwell complied. “A young man came to the back door and asked to speak with her ladyship, if you can believe it.” Millwell’s tone suggested that he’d considered the request highly impertinent. “However, as Lady Galbraith had already departed for the country, denying the fellow was a simple matter. He seemed rather cast down.” Millwell paused, then went on, “On consideration, he seemed a decent enough sort, so I suggested he might write to her ladyship if he were that keen to offer her his wares.”
“Did he mention any wares in particular?” Barnaby asked.
Millwell widened his eyes. “Just shoes. He told me he was a shoemaker and wanted to inquire whether her ladyship might be interested in his shoes.”
Stokes asked the obvious questions, but other than that, the young man had seemed the typical type for a tradesman of that ilk, that he’d been polite and, although assured, reasonably humble and not pushy or aggressive at all, and that he’d been somewhere in his twenties, Millwell could tell them nothing more of the caller, and no one else had seen him.
Shifting his weight, Barnaby asked, “Can anyone tell us whether, after this young shoemaker called at the house, Lady Galbraith or her daughters bought any new shoes, either from their usual shoemaker or anyone else?”
A prim, spare woman garbed in dull black with her hair drawn tightly back from her face stepped forward. “I am…was her ladyship’s dresser. She didn’t mention anything about any new shoemaker, and I know she didn’t have any new shoes made for her—not since last Season.” The woman glanced at several other maids among the staff, then looked back at Stokes. “As for the young ladies, they were to visit her ladyship’s shoemaker next week to be fitted for new shoes for this Season.”
After jotting the information into his notebook, Stokes directed a glance made up of equal parts of triumph and grimness at Barnaby, then nodded to the staff. “Thank you. That’s all we need.”
The staff started filing out of the hall. Remembering the startled maid, Barnaby looked for her, but she must have been among the first to have slipped out of the door at the far end of the room.
Stuffing his notebook back into his pocket, Stokes caught Barnaby’s eye. “Ready?”
Barnaby nodded and followed Stokes out of the servants’ hall. Millwell diverted to the library to answer a summons, leaving them in the front hall. Stokes would have shown himself out, but Barnaby planted his feet and, when Stokes arched a brow, quietly said, “So there was another shoemaker with shoes to sell. One who specifically approached Lady Galbraith.”
Stokes nodded. “But he didn’t speak with Lady Galbraith, and she and her daughters haven’t bought new shoes.”
Barnaby held up a finger, asking Stokes to wait.
Less than a minute later, Millwell bustled back; he hurried to open the door. “I’m sorry, sir, Inspector. Will there be anything else?”
Barnaby smiled his easy-going smile. “I was just wondering, Millwell, whether any members of the family were at home when the young shoemaker called.”
Millwell nodded. “Mr. Hartley—well, he wasn’t really here, not staying at this house, and he wasn’t here right at that moment, but he was in town and he called just after the shoemaker had gone off. Mr. Hartley stopped by to check that Miss Monica would be ready to leave for the country with him the next morning.”
“So Miss Monica Galbraith was here at the time, as well?” Stokes asked.
Millwell hesitated, then said, “Miss Monica had just returned from staying with friends, and she and Mr. Hartley were due to go down to the country the following morning. But Miss Monica wasn’t in the house at the time the shoemaker called. I remember quite clearly because when Mr. Hartley asked to see her, we couldn’t find her anywhere. We’d thought she was in her room, but she wasn’t. As you might imagine, that caused some alarm, but before we could send men out to search, Miss Monica walked in the front door. She was surprised—she hadn’t known Mr. Hartley would call. He was worried, but Miss Monica assured him that she’d only gone into the park to take the air.”
Barnaby considered, then inclined his head. “Thank you, Millwell. I believe that’s all.”
On gaining the pavement, Barnaby caught Stokes’s eye. “What are the odds that Monica ran after the young shoemaker?”
Stokes met Barnaby’s gaze and didn’t reply.
* * *
In the early afternoon, Violet and Griselda peered out of the windows of Griselda’s carriage and studied the façade of Olson’s Emporium. The shop was one of a row of smaller warehouse-shops lining the north side of the small cobbled court above the Queen Hithe Stairs, on the north bank of the Thames in the shadow of Southwark Bridge.
At Montague’s suggestion and with his encouragement, Violet had started her day by asking Montague’s head clerk, Mr. Slocum, whether he could provide details of all the firms currently selling goods imported from Slovakia. The request had engaged the interest of not just Slocum but the other senior clerk, Mr. Pringle, plus the junior clerk, Mr. Slater, and the office boy, Reggie. Between them, they had surprisingly quickly assembled what they had assured Violet was a complete and exhaustive list.
They had managed that by ten o’clock, and Griselda had arrived shortly thereafter with her own long list of suppliers of lead crystals to the ornamented trades—the shoemakers, milliners, glove-makers, jewelers, seamstresses, modistes, and the like—extracted from her contacts in the millinery business.
By combining the lists, they had winnowed their targets to five. Five firms known to sell Slovakian-sourced lead crystals of the sort used by milliners, jewelers, and so on—and also by anyone successfully making Lady Latimer’s shoes.
The first firm they had called on had proved to the one supplying the crystals to Myrtle Hook. Buoyed by the confirmation that their strategy should work, Griselda and Violet had taken the disappointment that Miss Hook was the only shoemaker currently buying those crystals from that supplier in their stride. With high hopes and a degree of eagerness, they had climbed back into the carriage and rattled around to the next supplier on their list.
But three more disappointments had taken their toll.
As the carriage rocked to a halt, Griselda looked at Violet. “This is our last chance.”
Violet returned her look, then her chin firmed. “We’d better try it, then.” Shifting forward, she reached for the carriage door.
Despite its outer drabness, Olson’s Emporium appeared prosperous; the space inside was filled literally to the rafters with rolls of cloth of every description, from silks and satins, figured and plain, to velvets, damasks, and chintzes, and richly embroidered felts. Elsewhere, bales and sacks of various wools and stuffings sat opened, inviting one to sample, while row upon row of racks of drawers holding buttons, hooks, fasteners of all types, feathers, lace, and every possible decoration for clothing ever imagined beckoned. The colors and contrasts of all the different goods made for a vibrant, visually distracting scene.
Griselda murmured to Violet, “The children would love this place.”
Violet’s lips quirked. “If you let them loose on those drawers, I suspect this place wouldn’t love them.”
“No, indeed.” Grinning at the thought, Griselda walked to the long wooden counter that ran along one end of the store.
A bright-eyed shop girl came hurrying to ask, “Can I help you, ma’am?”
Violet and Griselda had refined their approach over the previous four inquiries.
“I’m a milliner,” Griselda said, setting her gloves and reticule on the counter as if ready to do business. “And a colleague—a shoemaker—told me of a certain crystal she thought might be useful in my creations. One from Slovakia that has a high lead content, and that’s been cut to emphasize its brilliance.”
“Oh, I know the sort you mean, but…” The girl looked doubtful. “They’re terribly expensive, ma’am, and we don’t get much call for them. There’s plenty of other crystals that will look as good and that are only a fraction of the cost.”
Griselda allowed her smile to deepen. “Perhaps, but there are times when only a certain crystal will do. If you could show me what you have in that type?”
The girl appeared to inwardly sigh. “I’ll have to call Mr. Olson. Like I said, those crystals are shocking expensive, and he’s the only one allowed to show them. I’ll just get him, if you’ll wait?”
They’d had the same experience in the other four stores. Violet nodded crisply. “We’ll wait.”
The girl disappeared through a door in the wall behind the counter.
Frowning slightly, Violet glanced at Griselda. “That’s the fifth time that’s happened—that the shop girl tries to steer us away from the more expensive crystals. Why would they do that? Surely it’s better if we spend more.”
Griselda’s lips curved. “She told you why, in a way. It’s because their wages are based on commission. If she sells us cheaper crystals, she’ll at least get something, but only Olson handles the expensive goods, so there’s no commission for her if we buy those.”
“Ah.” Violet nodded. “I see.”
She composed her expression as the door to the back room opened and a large man, still shrugging on his jacket, appeared. Seeing Griselda and Violet, he smiled. “Ladies. Allow me to assist you. I understand you’re interested in our extremely fine crystals from Slovakia.”
He stepped aside to allow the shop girl to set a large covered tray, three times the size of Myrtle Hook’s and much deeper, on the counter. “Thank you, Elsie. That will be all.” With a flourish, Mr. Olson opened the tray.
Light, brilliant white, sharp and intense, flared from the thick bed of crystals inside the boxlike tray.
Reaching in, Griselda picked out one small crystal. Holding it between her thumb and forefinger, she held it up to the light, examining the way the facets had been cut. She looked at Violet and nodded. “These are the right crystals.”
“Oh, indeed, ladies.” Olson beamed. “If you’re looking for something extra special—”
“What we’re looking for, sir,” Violet calmly stated, “is the direction of the shoemaker who has recently commenced buying these crystals.” She took a chance and, her gaze steady, added, “From you. Perhaps over the past six or so months.”
Olson retreated; he almost took a step back. But he was too slow to say, “A shoemaker?” to hide his comprehension.
“Yes.” Griselda straightened, perfectly certain, now, that in Olson they had found the supplier to the mystery shoemaker. “We want to ask him about his latest design, so if you will oblige us with his name and direction, we won’t trouble you further.”
Seeing no sale eventuating and nothing in the exchange for him, Olson tried bluster with overtones of coyness. “Ladies—I can’t tell you that. Giving out information on my customers? Why, my good name—”
“Will be mud,” Griselda interjected, “if my husband finds himself obliged to come here with a warrant to extract the information from you.”
Olson’s eyes flew wide. “Husband?” Then he all but goggled. “Warrant?”
“Indeed.” Violet caught Olson’s gaze. “My friend’s husband is Inspector Basil Stokes of Scotland Yard. He is presently investigating a murder, and while no one imagines the shoemaker is in any way involved, the authorities are quite certain that someone wearing shoes that shoemaker produced is.” She paused to allow Olson to digest that; she had no wish to have him take it into his head that in supplying them with the name of the shoemaker, he would be doing the man a disservice.
And Olson’s statement that giving out information on customers wasn’t good business was undeniably true, especially in the trades he supplied, all of which had powerful guilds.
Eventually accepting that there was no easy way out for him, Olson looked from Violet to Griselda. “If I give you his name, you’ll go off and not send your husband here? And you won’t let on to the customer that I gave him up?”
“As your customer is not going to feel threatened in the least,” Griselda said, “I doubt that he’ll even ask how we found him. Regardless, even should he ask, there’s no benefit to us in telling him.” She held Olson’s gaze. “Is there?”
Olson mumbled something, but capitulated and fetched his customer accounts. Leafing back through them, he stopped only a few pages in. “Here he is. He came in four days ago for another half-pound of those crystals—which, I have to tell you, is a pricey purchase. He said as how he was expecting many more sales soon, and was laying in stock.” Olson hesitated, then drew out the sheet, turned it, and laid it on the counter so Violet and Griselda could read it. “So there—I’ve given you what you want, but I haven’t actually told you his name, have I?”
“No, indeed.” Swiftly, Griselda scanned the page, which listed all the purchases of the crystals made by one Danny Gibson, on the account of Gibson and Sons, of Mercer Street. “Mercer Street…that’s off Long Acre, isn’t it?”
“Aye.” Olson reached for the sheet.
Violet put her gloved hand on it and held it in place. “So he, Danny Gibson, bought just a small sample of the crystals almost a year ago, but then he came back late last year and bought more. Then he returned again in February for another substantial amount, before, as you said, buying still more four days ago.” Violet paused, then lifted her hand and allowed Olson to whisk the sheet away.
As Olson tucked the sheet back into his stack, Violet looked at Griselda and smiled. Triumphantly.
Then she glanced at Olson. “Thank you, Mr. Olson. You’ve been most helpful.”
Olson didn’t look pleased.
Thoroughly delighted, Violet and Griselda turned and swept out of his emporium.
As they climbed back into the carriage, Griselda said, “I can’t wait to see Penelope’s face when she hears our news.”
* * *
Penelope kept telling herself that her suspicion regarding the possible identity of the lady on the terrace was based on a deductive leap for which she had no firm evidence.
And yet…
“Damn!” Realizing she’d gone off in a distracted daze—again—she shook herself, sat straighter, and reapplied her eyes and her brain to the sadly uninspiring ramblings of the ancient Greek scribe the museum, for some incomprehensible reason, felt they needed to convert into English.
Muttering to herself, she soldiered on through another page, trying not to think jealous thoughts about what Violet and Griselda were doing. That morning when the pair had arrived armed with their list of five importers of the crystals, she had wanted so much to go with them, but as she’d agreed the previous evening, after Violet had inquired how much further she had to go with the translation, she had reluctantly remained in Albemarle Street the better to meet her deadline.
“Although why the museum has placed a deadline on a translation of an archaic work is entirely beyond me.” Clutching a pencil, she underlined one passage that, although she was perfectly certain it included all the right words in the correct order, made precious little sense.
In the distance, she heard the front doorbell peal. Pencil poised, she wondered if it was wrong to hope that it was one of her sisters, or even her mother come to demand she attend some afternoon tea.
Even though, by and large, she avoided such social engagements.
“Discipline,” she muttered, and bent to her task.
The door opened. She glanced up, and tried not to look too hopeful when she saw Mostyn enter. She arched her brows in question.
“A Mr. Galbraith and a Miss Latimer have arrived and are asking to see you, ma’am.”
Penelope blinked. “Mr. Galbraith and Miss Latimer?” She blinked again. “Great heavens.” She thought for a moment, then smiled. “Of course!” Setting down her pencil, she pushed back her chair and rose. Not even Violet would expect her to continue with the translation rather than see what her unexpected guests had to say. “Where have you put them? The drawing room?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Grinning himself, Mostyn followed her from the room.
“I wonder which Miss Latimer it is.” In the front hall, Penelope paused to check her hair in the mirror and straighten her gown. She hesitated, then said to her reflection, “Cynthia. My money would be on it being Cynthia…and I can’t believe I didn’t see that Hartley’s intended simply had to be a Latimer.”
Turning to the drawing room door, she nodded to Mostyn. He opened the door and she swept through.
Immediately, her eyes went to the lady sitting on one sofa—and yes, it was Cynthia Latimer who rose to her feet. She was holding her reticule and, judging by her expression, was almost pugnaciously determined.
Hartley had been standing beside the sofa; he turned to face Penelope as she glided forward. “Mrs. Adair. We haven’t been introduced, but I believe you were present at the Fairchilds’ on the night…”
“Indeed.” With a crisp nod, Penelope gave Hartley her hand. As he took it and half bowed, Penelope shifted her gaze to Cynthia. “Miss Latimer.” Retrieving her hand from Hartley’s clasp, Penelope extended it to Cynthia.
Touching fingers, Cynthia bobbed a polite curtsy. “Mrs. Adair.” Cynthia slanted a swift glance at Hartley. “We hope you will excuse the interruption to your day, but we felt that it was time we came forward, if nothing else to clarify who was with Hartley in the garden and to verify all that he reported we saw.”
Already considering the ramifications, Penelope waved the pair to the sofa; sinking onto the sofa opposite, she seized the moment to take in the way Hartley sat Cynthia, the way he hovered protectively before sitting alongside her. Not touching, but close enough to easily take her hand.
Cynthia, however, did not appear the sort of young lady to cling to any gentleman’s arm; there was strength in her posture, and a certain steeliness of will in the set of her lips and chin and in the directness of her gaze that Penelope recognized.
“I take it,” she said, “that you are Hartley’s intended?” When Cynthia nodded almost defiantly, Penelope smiled. “And in one stroke, that explains a great deal.” Her gaze on the pair, she said, “I might wish that you had told us earlier, but I can understand why you did not. Given your families do not yet know—”
“Then revealing our secret on top of Aunt Marjorie’s murder, with the added complication that we both saw it, and of what it was we saw…” Cynthia met Penelope’s gaze. “The very subject we’d been discussing in the folly was how best to reveal our attachment to our families.” She paused, then went on, her gaze unwavering, “It was our hope that our betrothal would act as a catalyst to bring an end to the feud, as people call it. That was the reason we were out in the garden, and then on our way back we saw…” Cynthia gestured resignedly. “We were shocked—and confused, as I’m sure you will appreciate. It seemed best at the time to keep our counsel, but”—Cynthia drew a determined breath—“it didn’t take long to see that the identity of Aunt Marjorie’s murderer needs to be proved sooner rather than later. Courtesy of the feud, with every hour that passes, the pressure on both our families is increasing, compounding the heartbreak of the murder. We”—she glanced at Hartley—“have decided that we need to do whatever we can to assist the police in solving this case as soon as they possibly can.” Cynthia concluded, “So we’ve come to tell you all, to give you, and your husband, and through him the police, the best possible chance to find the murderer quickly.”
Penelope nodded approvingly. “That is, indeed, the correct course to take. And the next step along that road is to tell me what you saw that night.”
Hartley stirred. “I’ve already told you the details. Cynthia was beside me.” Reaching across, he grasped one of her hands. “She saw no more than I did.”
Turning to him, shifting her hand within his clasp, Cynthia squeezed his fingers. “I know you want to protect me, that you would prefer I remain distanced from everything to do with the investigation, but”—lifting his hand, she lightly shook it—“this is too important to us, to both our families, for me to sit quietly by. Not if I can help.” Cynthia paused, her gaze locked with Hartley’s; when next she spoke, her voice rang with conviction. “Aunt Marjorie was your mother. We must learn the truth about who killed her, because without it, you and I will have the devil of a time marrying, much less forging the life we wish. We will not be able to bring our families together again, not unless we have this resolved and can lay the matter to rest. And to do that, I have to tell Mrs. Adair, at least, all that I know. All that I saw.” Cynthia drew breath, and with a faint smile, her gaze still locked with Hartley’s, said, “And you, my dear, have to let me.”
Penelope held silent, avidly watching the exchange; when, lips thinning, Hartley fractionally inclined his head and Cynthia turned back to her, she felt like applauding. Instead, she said to Cynthia, “You were walking back from the folly by the lake. I’ve recently walked the same path, so I know it. You were walking alongside Hartley, and you came around a curve and up a slight rise, and then, quite suddenly, you could see…”
Her gaze growing distant, Cynthia nodded. “I could see the path below the side terrace and the end wall of the terrace below the balustrade.” She paused, then without prompting went on, “I couldn’t see the balusters, not even the bottom of them, but I could see Aunt Marjorie on the path.”
“Which way was she facing?” Penelope asked. It was clear that Cynthia was reporting from a clear visual memory.
“To our left. Toward the bottom of the terrace steps.”
“Then what happened?” Penelope asked.
Hartley stirred, but Cynthia tightened her grip on his hand, and Penelope flicked him a frowning glance, and he subsided.
“Aunt Marjorie turned,” Cynthia said, “away from us to look up at the terrace. I assumed someone was up there, and she’d heard them and turned to see who they were, or to speak with them.”
Penelope moistened her lips. “Then…?”
Cynthia blinked. “It happened in an instant. She was standing there, looking up at the terrace, and in the next second, the ball struck her and she fell.”
Constructing her own mental picture from Cynthia’s description, Penelope frowned. “How much time elapsed between Lady Galbraith looking up at the terrace—not while she was turning but once she was looking up—and the ball striking her? Did she speak with whoever was up there?”
“No.” Cynthia shook her head, the response quite definite. “She looked up and the ball struck her—it happened immediately.”
“Instantaneously,” Hartley confirmed. His expression grim, his gaze, too, had grown distant as he relived those moments in the Fairchilds’ garden.
Pausing only briefly to define her best tack, Penelope quietly directed, “If you can, please think about the ball falling toward Lady Galbraith. Could you tell whether it dropped straight down or fell at an angle?” The question was a test. Given where the pair had stood, Penelope felt certain they wouldn’t have been able to discern the difference, but she was curious to see if either Cynthia or Hartley were the suggestible sort; if they answered truthfully and resisted her lead, she would feel justified in placing more reliance on their memories.
Both were frowning, patently studying the images no doubt seared into their minds.
Eventually, still frowning, Cynthia said, “I couldn’t say. The ball dropped from above—that’s all I saw.”
“Yes.” Hartley’s tone was even more definite. “The ball fell from above, but whether straight down or from an angle—and it could only have been a slight angle—that, we couldn’t see.” Refocusing on Penelope, he said, “We were too far away, and the perspective was wrong.”
Hiding her satisfaction, Penelope nodded. “Very well.” She looked at Cynthia. “Tell me what happened next.”
Cynthia returned to her mental vision. “We stood frozen with shock for an instant. We simply stared at Aunt Marjorie lying there on the path. Then both of us looked up—I remember that quite clearly—we both raised our gazes at the same time and looked to see who had dropped the ball. We’d forgotten the branch was in the way. We couldn’t see. We’d been holding hands. I remember we both suddenly gripped tight, and together we rushed forward.”
Pausing, Cynthia stared at the vision only she and Hartley could see. After a moment, she went on, “We had to take several steps before we were clear of the trees and could see the terrace. The moonlight wasn’t strong, but we would have been able to see if someone had been standing there. But all we saw—and I saw this through the balusters—was the flick of skirts, the back hem of a lady’s gown, and the back of her shoes as she stepped up into the corridor. She was running.”
Cynthia studied her vision for a moment more, then she blinked and refocused on Penelope. “That’s all I saw. She—whoever she was—was gone in an instant. By the time we reached Aunt Marjorie, the lady would have had time to reach the ballroom or to seek refuge somewhere else in the house.”
Penelope had her next question ready, but before she could voice it, Cynthia drew a deep breath and went on, “The one thing I do know is that whoever that lady was, she wasn’t one of my sisters, much less my mother.”
The degree of certitude Cynthia had infused into her tone was impressive. Curious, Penelope asked, “You weren’t in the ballroom at the time, and we haven’t yet checked their alibis, so how can you be so very sure?”
Cynthia met her gaze. “Because, quite frankly, I seriously doubt that any of my sisters, and certainly not Mama, could have reacted so swiftly. Even if they had done such a thing, immediately they had done it, they would have been horrified. Aghast. Stricken and unable to move.” Cynthia paused, then more reflectively went on, “I suppose what I’m saying is that none of us—the Latimers—wished Aunt Marjorie dead, so even if you imagine some sort of fleeting rage, it’s hard to see any of my sisters or my mother reacting and fleeing so very swiftly.”
“There was less than a minute, I suspect,” Hartley said, “between the time the ball fell and the time we saw the lady disappearing.”
Penelope thought, then said, “I’m going to suggest an alternative scenario. I want you to consider it, and then tell me whether, in your opinion, it might be possible.” She paused to order the facts in her mind, then commenced, “Let’s say that Lady Galbraith left the ballroom and headed for the side terrace—at this point, we do not know if there was someone with her or if she was alone. Regardless, one of your sisters or your mama saw Lady Galbraith leaving the ballroom.” Penelope pushed her glasses higher on her nose. “For argument’s sake, let’s say that her ladyship was with someone, and the sight made one of the Latimer ladies suspicious enough to follow, but, of course, she—the follower—hung well back.
“Our Latimer lady reaches the door to the side terrace in time to see someone—we don’t know who—drop the ball on Lady Galbraith. The perpetrator then goes quickly down the steps and leaves via the gardens. We know that, from where you stood, they could have done that and you wouldn’t have seen them—the trees along the path you were on block that view. Our Latimer lady rushes onto the terrace to the balustrade, looks over, and sees Lady Galbraith dead on the path. The Latimer lady panics and flees inside, and hers are the shoes you glimpsed.” Penelope studied Cynthia’s and Hartley’s faces. After a moment, she asked, “Could it have happened like that?”
It was Hartley who first shook his head; he now seemed as immersed in the mental vision as Cynthia. “I don’t think so. There wasn’t enough time for her to come to the balustrade, look over, take it in, and then reach the door again before we saw her.”
Cynthia frowned. “There’s that, and I agree, but in addition…” She refocused on Penelope. “Hartley sent me inside almost immediately. I returned to our group—the whole family was standing chatting to others but we were all in the same area of the ballroom. I reached the spot less than five minutes after the…murder. Of my family, Georgina and Cecilia were with Fitzforsythe and Brandywell the entire time, and I remember they were laughing at something as I came up. And Millicent was chatting avidly with her friends. They had their heads together and were deep in some subject—I could tell Millicent hadn’t a care in the world beyond deciding which gentleman at the ball was the most handsome.” Cynthia straightened. “I came up beside Mama.” Cynthia met Penelope’s gaze and wryly said, “I’m widely known as ‘the quiet one,’ so standing beside Mama raises no eyebrows and is usually the safest place for me when I wish to avoid attention. So I was right beside Mama as she was talking to her friends about her plans for Millicent’s come-out ball.” Cynthia held Penelope’s gaze. “Mama is reserved and can hide her feelings well, but she’s no great actress. I cannot conceive of her having seen Aunt Marjorie murdered, then fleeing and, within minutes, laughing and sharing stories about musicians and decorations. That…really isn’t possible.”
Penelope returned Cynthia’s gaze, then, eminently satisfied, nodded. “Thank you. I now understand why you’re so certain the lady you saw fleeing the terrace wasn’t one of your family. And despite not having checked their alibis, I accept that your reasoning is sound—the lady you saw wasn’t a Latimer.” She paused, then said, “All right. Let’s leave aside the question of the lady’s identity and return to an earlier point.” She looked at them both. “Why did Lady Galbraith leave the ballroom and come out to the side terrace? Do either of you have any idea?”
Hartley glanced at Cynthia; resettling her hand in his, he grimaced. “I’ve been trying to think of the answer.” He drew in a deeper, slightly unsteady breath and looked at Penelope. “And I suspect that Mama was following me.” He hesitated, then went on. “She was always eager to arrange my life for me—it was one of the reasons I moved into lodgings. Over recent years, she’s tried to foist any number of young misses on me, and if anything she’s been getting even more insistent… Well, if she’d entertained any suspicion that I was meeting with some lady alone, she would have followed me without hesitation.”
Her gaze on Hartley’s face, Cynthia said, “I do think she had started to become suspicious.” Cynthia swung her gaze to Penelope. “Not that it was me Hartley was seeing, but that he was meeting with some lady clandestinely—”
“And that,” Hartley said, “the clandestine nature of our meetings, would have alarmed her and made her even more intent on finding out who I was seeing.” Hartley paused, then said, “We had been meeting at my lodgings—for all his faults, or perhaps because of them, Carradale can be exceedingly discreet—but with the balls starting in earnest, it wasn’t going to be so easy, which is why we’d arranged to meet in the folly.”
After a moment’s pause, Hartley stated, his tone flat, “I think the reason Mama came out onto the terrace and then down the steps was because she was following me.” Cynthia gripped his hand tighter and shifted closer. Hartley glanced at her, met her gaze, then looked at Penelope. “I think that Mama wanting to know who I was meeting with secretly led to her standing where she was when she was killed.”
Penelope heard the underlying emotion in Hartley’s tone, saw the veiled guilt in his eyes. Straightening, she crisply stated, “It was certainly not your fault that someone capitalized on her standing there and dropped that ball on her. You cannot hold yourself responsible for that.”
Cynthia flashed a grateful look Penelope’s way, but had the sense to stay silent.
Penelope approved, both of Cynthia’s behavior and also the patently genuine link between the pair. “Now—”
The sound of arrivals in the front hall brought her up short. The front doorbell hadn’t pealed, which meant…
The drawing room door opened, and Violet and Griselda came in. From the intrigued looks on their faces, Mostyn had told them who Penelope was interrogating.
Noting their bright eyes and guessing that they’d had some measure of success, with a delighted smile of her own, Penelope rose, along with Hartley and Cynthia. “Allow me to present…” Penelope introduced Violet and Griselda to Hartley Galbraith, then gestured to Cynthia. “You’ve already met Miss Latimer—who, as it transpires, is Hartley’s intended.”
Violet and Griselda had assumed as much, but they were quick with their congratulations and good wishes.
Under cover of the talk, Penelope leaned closer to Violet and whispered, “Any luck?”
“Yes,” Violet whispered back. “We think we’ve located the other shoemaker.”
“Excellent,” Penelope returned. “But keep that for later.”
Meeting her eyes, Violet nodded.
In the shuffling as Penelope, Hartley, and Cynthia reclaimed their seats and Violet and Griselda settled alongside Penelope, Violet murmured to Griselda, “Keep mum about our discoveries for the moment.”
Griselda faintly inclined her head and turned her attention to the pair on the sofa opposite.
In broad strokes, Penelope described what they’d concluded about why Lady Galbraith had gone outside, what Cynthia had confirmed regarding her and Hartley’s seeing the lady fleeing the terrace, and Cynthia’s observations on the conduct of her mother and sisters immediately after the murder.
At the end of the recitation, Griselda looked at Cynthia. “Tell me, Miss Latimer, can you see the lady and her shoes vividly in your mind?”
Cynthia nodded. “Yes.” She glanced at Hartley. “I suspect it’s a sight neither of us will ever forget.”
“Perhaps,” Griselda said. “But not everyone recalls with the same degree of clarity.” She glanced at Penelope, then looked back at Cynthia. “I would like to try a trick that I occasionally use with ladies who want me to recreate some particular bonnet they’ve seen. They usually give me a vague description and think that’s all they’ve noticed, but by using this trick, we usually discover that they can tell me a great deal more.” Without challenge, Griselda held Cynthia’s gaze. “Are you willing to try it?”
Cynthia lightly shrugged. “If it might help, then yes, of course.”
Griselda nodded. “Very well. All you have to do is close your eyes and bring to mind the image of the lady fleeing the terrace.” She paused as Cynthia complied, then asked, “Can you see her?”
“Yes.” Eyes closed, Cynthia nodded. “Quite clearly.”
“Excellent. Now I want you to look more closely at her shoes. Can you do that?”
Again, Cynthia nodded.
“Now,” Griselda said, “you’ve described the shoes as Lady Latimer’s shoes because of the crystals on them. Can you see the crystals?”
A faint frown formed between Cynthia’s brows, but she nodded. “Yes, I can see them. They’re definitely the same crystals—I can tell by the way they sparkle.”
“What color are the shoes?”
Cynthia wrinkled her nose. “I can’t really tell—the light’s too weak.”
“Pale- or dark-hued, then?” Griselda asked.
“Pale—definitely pale.” After a moment, Cynthia added, “They might even be white.”
“What about the pattern of the crystals?” Griselda asked. “Is that the same as on your Lady Latimer’s shoes?”
Cynthia’s frown deepened. “I can’t really tell. The distance is too great, but…how odd. These shoes have a line of crystals down the back seam of the shoe. Ours don’t have that.”
“Stay there—keep looking.” Griselda exchanged an excited glance with Penelope and Violet, then returned her gaze to Cynthia. “Now look at the shoes themselves. Look at the heel and the cut of the shoe. Are they the same as on the Lady Latimer’s shoes Myrtle Hook makes?”
Cynthia’s jaw slackened. Her features eased as astonishment took hold. “No. These shoes are different. They have a straighter heel, not the in-swept Louis heel we prefer, and…good heavens!” Opening her eyes, Cynthia met Griselda’s gaze. “The shoes that lady wore had a higher, quite different cut to ours.” Excited herself, Cynthia gestured, then, frustrated, said, “I don’t have the right words to describe them, but I could draw them.”
Violet bounced to her feet. “I’ll get some paper and a pencil.”
As Violet whisked out, Cynthia, her face and eyes alight, looked at Griselda and Penelope. “I got a very clear view of the shoes in the instant when the lady stepped into the house. I didn’t realize how well I saw them.” She inclined her head to Griselda. “Thank you. I never would have realized if you hadn’t had me go back and look again, so to speak.”
Griselda beamed.
“Does this mean,” Hartley said, “that there’s some other source of Lady Latimer’s shoes?”
Penelope nodded. “That’s what we believe. Once we identify the shoemaker involved, we’ll be able to learn who his customers are, and then we’ll know who the lady fleeing the terrace was.”
Cynthia was still looking faintly stunned. “I can’t believe the proof that it wasn’t a pair of our shoes has been simply sitting in my memory all this time, and I just hadn’t looked closely enough.” Turning her head, she exchanged a delighted smile with Hartley.
While he returned the smile and encouragingly squeezed Cynthia’s hand, he didn’t look quite so relieved; Penelope suspected that Hartley, at least, had seen the difficulty in using what Cynthia had remembered to exonerate her family from all suspicion. They had only Cynthia’s word for the critical details; Hartley couldn’t recall well enough to confirm her testimony.
But Penelope kept that observation to herself and watched as, supplied by Violet with several sheets of paper and a sharpened pencil, Cynthia quickly sketched the shoe she’d seen.
“I only saw it from the back with just a little of the side view as she stepped up, so I can’t draw the toe.” Like most young ladies, Cynthia had been trained to draw; her sketch quickly took recognizable shape. Completing it, she rapidly sketched a second shoe seen from the same angle. “This,” she said, pointing to the second shoe, “is one of our Lady Latimer’s shoes. The style is of a typical ballroom pump, cut reasonably low around the ankle and foot, and with a Louis heel. We insisted on the Louis heel because, while it looks delicate, with the point of the heel directly below the middle of the heel, it’s nicely stable.”
Penelope nodded. “My sisters and I prefer Louis heels for dancing, too.”
“But the shoes I saw on the terrace had this sort of heel.” Cynthia pointed to her first sketch. “A wider one, with the back of the heel more in line with the back of the shoe—quite unlike a Louis heel. And even more telling, those shoes were cut higher around the ankle and foot. That’s quite a different style to our Lady Latimer’s shoes.”
Along with Violet and Griselda, Penelope studied the sketches, then she glanced at her colleagues. “A different style of shoe—a different shoemaker.”
Cynthia frowned. “I haven’t heard any whispers of a new source of Lady Latimer’s shoes, and with the Season commencing, you would think that would be one of the most talked-of topics in the drawing rooms.”
“Indeed.” Penelope straightened. “But that doesn’t mean that such a new source doesn’t exit. There may be a good reason for the secrecy, but we”—she glanced at Violet and Griselda—“need to dig deeper on that score.”
Penelope rose, bringing everyone else to their feet. With assurances that she, Violet, Griselda, and their husbands were doing and would continue to do all in their power to solve the mystery, and that as soon as possible, she inexorably steered Hartley and Cynthia to the drawing room door.
Pausing before the door, Cynthia glanced at Hartley, then met Penelope’s gaze. “I sincerely hope you, your friends, and your husbands discover the answer to this riddle soon. The suspicions and anxieties the situation is breeding within both our families are tearing at them all. Hartley and I had already recognized the need to heal the rift and bring everyone together again—it was bad enough before—but, instead, we’ve had Aunt Marjorie murdered, and everything’s got so much worse.” She hesitated, then went on, “Indeed, Aunt Marjorie’s murder is a very real obstacle to everything Hartley and I had hoped, through our marriage, to achieve—the healing of our families.”
Sober, Hartley nodded. “We—all of us—were so much happier before. Now…each family has itself, but after all the years of being together, we need each other as well.”
Penelope could almost see the weight the pair had willingly taken on their shoulders—could read in their expressions that each took responsibility for their respective families, and also each other’s. They were, she realized, alike in bearing that familial devotion. Every bit as serious as they, she inclined her head in reply, then accompanied them into the front hall and watched Mostyn see them out of the front door.
The instant the door shut, she swung about and, frowning, walked quickly back into the drawing room.
Violet and Griselda had shifted to take their usual places, Griselda on the first sofa alongside Penelope’s preferred position, with Violet on the sofa opposite.
Reclaiming her spot, Penelope looked from one to the other. “Well? Don’t keep me in suspense. What have you discovered?”
They told her. Penelope’s eyes gleamed. “Well done! Gibson and Sons in Mercer Street—that’s in the theater district.”
Griselda nodded. “Yes, and I’ve heard of the firm before. I believe they’re quite old and established, but not, I think, in the ton side of the trade.”
Violet was studying Cynthia’s sketches. “If we take these, perhaps Danny Gibson can confirm that this is the style of the Lady Latimer’s shoes he makes.”
“That,” Penelope said, “would be my hope, because otherwise we only have Cynthia’s word that the lady she and Hartley saw fleeing the terrace was wearing that different style of shoe, rather than the same style she, her sisters, and her mother wear. I’m certain that Hartley didn’t notice the shoe well enough to describe it. If asked, he’ll support Cynthia, but that’s not going to stand up in court, and evidence that only Cynthia saw will not be sufficient to clear the Latimer ladies of suspicion.” Penelope paused, then added, “And, indeed, Cynthia and Hartley themselves are still very much potential murderers, no matter what we might believe. There is no unequivocal evidence to clear them, either.”
Griselda and Violet grimaced.
Penelope focused on Violet. “I’m starting to feel a sense of urgency over this, as if fate is prodding. Consider—if I hadn’t remained at home with my nose in that translation, I wouldn’t have been here when Cynthia and Hartley called, and so we wouldn’t now know all we do—and we wouldn’t, I suspect, have felt any need to go and speak with Danny Gibson until sometime tomorrow.”
Griselda glanced at the clock. “We’ve just got time to reach Mercer Street before the shops shut.”
Penelope met Violet’s eyes. “The translation’s not yet done, but I believe this takes precedence.”
Violet widened her eyes. “Oh, indubitably. We tend the living before the dead.”
“Indeed.” With one of her signature brisk nods, Penelope rose. “I vote we take the carriage around to Mercer Street immediately, and see what Danny Gibson can tell us about this new version of Lady Latimer’s shoes.”
Griselda gathered her reticule and stood. “Let’s go.”
Violet folded Cynthia’s sketches, tucked them into her reticule, then came to her feet. She glanced at the clock, then followed Penelope and Griselda to the door. “We’d better tell Phelps to hurry if we want to catch Danny Gibson before he leaves for the day.”