The Confounding Case Of The Carisbrook Emeralds (The Casebook of Barnaby Adair 6)

by Stephanie Laurens

  Silence fell as the others digested that news, then Stokes stirred. “You’re suggesting that, in order to marry his Miss Ives, Franklin Carisbrook stole the emeralds hoping to sell them and…” Stokes frowned. “What? This Miss Ives doesn’t sound like the sort to countenance setting up house on ill-gotten gains, and I strongly doubt her family would encourage that, either.”

  Penelope nodded. “I’m fairly certain Franklin hadn’t really thought beyond the immediate outcome—he’s apparently already gained Miss Ives’s parents’ blessing, and in doing so, I suspect he would have…inflated his capital, so to speak. Everything I heard suggested that he is sincerely attached to Miss Ives. Therefore, given what we know of the situation with his mother, and that his lordship doesn’t, it seems, interfere with her ladyship’s managing of their children, then it’s not hard to imagine that Franklin might have felt desperate enough to take the emeralds, try to sell them, and then—presumably—persuade Miss Ives to marry him while cutting himself off from his family.” Penelope arched her brows. “Perhaps he thought to elope and flee the country.” She looked around at the others. “Love does prompt people to do the most desperate things.”

  They all knew that for fact.

  “If that’s true,” Violet observed, “then Lord Carisbrook having already sold the emeralds saved his son from committing a crime now.”

  Stokes half laughed. “That’s true. And as Lord Carisbrook owned the emeralds, they were his to sell, so no crime there, either.”

  “But,” Barnaby said, and his somber tone drew all eyes back to him, “we’re then left with the prospect of Franklin Carisbrook returning the emeralds to the drawer in his mother’s dressing table.” He looked around, meeting his friends’ eyes. “Did Simpkins see him? Was that the reason she ended up dead on the back stairs?”

  Penelope met Barnaby’s eyes, her expression now as grim as his. “Indeed. Did Simpkins see Franklin, did he realize, and then feel he had to silence her?”

  Stokes looked from Penelope to Barnaby, then straightened and sighed. “First thing tomorrow, it’s back to John Street for us.”

  Chapter 9

  The following morning, together with Penelope, Stokes, Wilkes, and Morgan, Barnaby walked into the Carisbrook front hall at a minute past nine-thirty, the earliest he and Penelope had deemed appropriate for their purpose; they hadn’t wanted to find the family about the breakfast table or to risk Franklin going out.

  Stokes asked if Franklin was in and, after being assured he was, asked to see him.

  Jarvis glanced at Penelope, who faintly arched her brows, prompting Jarvis to suggest they wait in the drawing room while Jeremy fetched Mr. Carisbrook.

  Penelope inclined her head and led the way into the room. Barnaby followed. He heard Stokes instruct Morgan to check in the servants’ hall to see if any of the staff had remembered anything relevant to the investigation; in reality, Morgan would be keeping an eye on the back door to make sure Franklin didn’t think to slip out that way and avoid them. Then Stokes, with Wilkes at his back, walked into the drawing room, and after Jarvis had bowed, withdrawn, and shut the door, the four of them looked at each other, then moved to the positions they felt would serve them best in the interview to come.

  Wilkes retreated to stand along the wall beside the door, making himself as inconspicuous as possible. He drew out his notebook and pencil and stood ready to take down any information their interviewee let fall.

  Barnaby crossed to stand behind the chaise on which Penelope had chosen to sit. From that spot, along with Penelope, he would have an unimpeded view of anyone coming through the door.

  For his part, Stokes ambled, but finally came to rest to one side of the hearth.

  Stokes settled, and they waited. The clock on the mantelpiece continued relentlessly ticking.

  After several minutes, Penelope swiveled to study the clock, then looked at Stokes. She was about to comment when the door opened, drawing their eyes.

  Franklin entered, openly wary. He glanced at them all, then shut the door, drew in a fortifying breath, and came forward. “Mr. and Mrs. Adair.” He halted and half bowed in their direction, then raised his gaze to Stokes’s unreadable face. Franklin swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and inclined his head. “Inspector. You wished to speak with me?”

  “Indeed.” Stokes didn’t suggest Franklin take a seat, but as Stokes’s lips parted on his first question, the drawing room door opened again.

  They all looked, Franklin turning to do so. Barnaby could almost hear Stokes cursing as Lord Carisbrook came in, followed a heartbeat later by Lady Carisbrook, already frowning. Julia Carisbrook slipped through the door last, concerned curiosity in her face.

  His lips thinning, Stokes cast an eloquent look at Barnaby.

  Almost imperceptibly, Barnaby shook his head. This was the family’s home; Stokes couldn’t order the rest of the family out.

  Seated before Barnaby, Penelope stirred and shot a look at Stokes.

  From the way Stokes—having caught Penelope’s glance—relaxed and merely watched as the newcomers joined Franklin in staring uncomprehendingly at Stokes, Barnaby guessed Penelope’s look had suggested that, now the whole family had chosen to attend, it would be wisest to allow the situation to unfold as it would—to reveal whatever reactions might surface.

  Lord Carisbrook didn’t sit but took up a stance by Franklin’s shoulder; he folded both hands over the head of his cane and leaned heavily upon it. “What’s this all about, Inspector?”

  Stokes hesitated, then replied, “We have several questions, my lord.” Stokes gestured to the chairs and sofa. “Perhaps you and your family should sit, my lord. This might take a little time.”

  Lord Carisbrook humphed, but after a glance at his wife, who drifted to claim her usual armchair beyond the end of the sofa, his lordship walked to the armchair opposite the sofa and closest to Stokes, leaving Franklin to sit in its mate, opposite Penelope.

  Julia Carisbrook appeared to be having second thoughts about the wisdom of having followed her family into the room; she elected to sink onto a straight-backed chair beside a small round table beyond the armchair her brother now occupied.

  Stokes waited until everyone had settled, then looked at Franklin. “If you would, Mr. Carisbrook, can you tell me where you went after you left this house on Sunday in the late afternoon?”

  Franklin paled. He shifted in the chair, glanced briefly at his mother, then at Stokes. “I went to visit a friend who lives near Richmond.”

  Penelope glanced from Franklin to Lady Carisbrook in time to see her ladyship direct a direful frown at her son.

  Stokes inclined his head. “Indeed.” He waited until Franklin looked back at him to ask, “But before you headed out to Richmond, did you go anywhere else first?”

  Franklin stared at Stokes, then his expression wavered, as if he could no longer maintain the façade he’d been clinging to. After a further moment of studying Stokes, Franklin gave a short sigh. “As you’re asking, I assume you know that I did.”

  When Stokes didn’t reply, Franklin glanced at Barnaby.

  Barnaby tipped his head, acknowledging that Franklin had guessed correctly.

  Franklin dragged in a huge breath, straightened, and squared his shoulders. In the tone of one getting a weight off his chest, he stated, “I went to the East End to see a man about…selling the emeralds.”

  “What?” Lord Carisbrook swiveled to stare at his son.

  “You?” Lady Carisbrook jerked upright like a marionette whose strings had been tugged. Her eyes flared. “You stole my emeralds?”

  To say her ladyship was shocked would have been a grave understatement.

  Before his mother could recover the use of her tongue, Franklin set his jaw. The glance he threw her was as unforgiving as granite. “Yes, I did. That night, you called me in and railed at me as if I was a child. You told me who I was to marry—a young lady of your choosing, not mine. You refused to listen to a word I said—whenever I’
ve tried to talk to you of my feelings, you’ve ridden roughshod over me. I was so…furious that when I turned to leave and saw the jewel case lying there, I picked it up and walked out.”

  “One point.” When Franklin glanced at him, Stokes asked, “Where were the jewels when we searched the house?”

  “Initially, I had them in my room, then when Mama raised the alarm and I realized the police might come and search, I hid them under my coat and moved them to the study. By the time your men came to search the study, I’d slipped them under my coat again, then once you’d all gone, I took them back to my room.”

  Stokes nodded. “Then later on Sunday, you took them to a fence in the East End.”

  “Yes.” Franklin turned to look at his father. “But they were already fakes—crystals and not real emeralds at all—so I couldn’t get anything for them.”

  Lord Carisbrook stared at his son, his expression uncomprehending more than anything else.

  Franklin’s lips turned down, then he raised his gaze to Stokes’s face and went on, “I suppose you want to know what happened next. After I’d learned the emeralds were…not what I’d thought, I went down to Richmond as I’d planned.” He drew breath and continued, “When I came home on Monday, early in the evening—just after seven o’clock—Mama and the others were already in the drawing room. I had the emeralds in their case in my satchel. I went upstairs to change, and on the way, I stopped in Mama’s room and put the jewel case into her dressing table drawer.” He glanced briefly at Lady Carisbrook. “I thought she’d imagine she’d just forgotten to look there.”

  Penelope saw Stokes glance across the room at Wilkes, confirming that the sergeant was busily scribbling in his notebook.

  Then Stokes looked at Franklin. “You put the jewel case back into the drawer at just after seven o’clock—not later?”

  Franklin frowned. “No. As I said, it was just after seven o’clock—you can check with Jarvis that was when I came in.”

  Stokes arched his brows. “You’re sure you returned the jewels then?”

  “Yes!” Franklin’s frown deepened. Confused, he studied Stokes’s face, then spread his hands. “It was the obvious moment to put them back—I was the only one on that floor. At that time, virtually everyone would be downstairs, and as it was Monday, I didn’t know whether Mama would be going out or not. If she’d stayed in, I might not have had another chance, not that evening, not such a certain one, so I seized the moment and put the jewel case back.” He paused, then added, “The case was burning a hole in my pocket, as they say. I didn’t want to keep it a moment longer than I had to.”

  Stokes studied Franklin through narrowed eyes.

  Behind Penelope, Barnaby shifted and, keeping his voice light, asked, “Did you see Simpkins while you were slipping into or out of your mother’s room?”

  Glancing at Barnaby, Franklin blinked. “No. I didn’t see her at all.”

  “But did she see you?” Stokes’s voice took on a more aggressive note. “Unknown to you, had she spotted you? Did she approach you later that night and speak to you about what she’d seen?”

  Franklin reared back, his face a mask of dismay. “No! I didn’t speak with her at all! In fact, I didn’t set eyes on Simpkins after I returned to the house.”

  Lady Carisbrook was breathing heavily, outrage pouring from her. “Stuff and nonsense!” Puffing up like an agitated hen, she focused her ire on Stokes. “This is entirely beyond bounds, Inspector! You cannot conceivably believe that Franklin had anything to do with Simpkins falling down the back stairs! It’s perfectly obvious that she simply missed her footing. Her death is regrettable, but it has nothing whatever to do with the crime your investigation is supposed to be concentrating on—namely, who stole my emeralds! That is the issue here—that Franklin took them, learned they were fake, and subsequently returned them is not the point. That’s not the crime, and your distraction with that matter is blinding you to what is!” Lady Carisbrook had worked herself into a fine state. Eyes blazing, chin setting pugnaciously, she swept the gathering with a scorching glare. “Someone has stolen my emeralds and replaced them with fakes!”

  A seething silence held for five seconds.

  Then, “It was a necessary economy,” Lord Carisbrook calmly said.

  His wife looked at him. “What?” Lady Carisbrook stared at her husband while her brain caught up with her ears, then her gaze turned baleful. Her voice had lowered several octaves when she ground out, “What have you done with my emeralds?”

  Penelope looked at Lord Carisbrook. To, she suspected, everyone’s quiet amazement, he appeared wholly unperturbed by his wife’s histrionics.

  “It’s quite simple, Livia.” Across the intervening space, he met her gaze levelly. “If you recall, eight years ago, you outran the constable several times. I warned you about overspending, but you refused to listen to a word I said and continued to spend money as if it grew on trees.” He considered his wife for a moment, then added, “As if we were far wealthier than we were, which I suspect is nearer the mark. You drove the estate to the point where selling the emeralds seemed the only way…” His lordship straightened, and his features hardened. “It was the only way—you’d left me no other. And, after all, the emeralds belonged to the estate—they were never yours in the sense of ownership. However”—his lordship dipped his head toward his wife—“as I was aware how much stock you placed in the parure, rather than simply sell it—and then endure the scenes you would doubtless have enacted me—I had the stones removed and replaced with passable fakes.”

  For several seconds, Lord Carisbrook regarded his wife, who was now goggling all but apoplectically. Unmoved, he continued, “I sold the emeralds to pay for your extravagances, my dear. I wasn’t about to allow you to beggar the estate and sink it and the entire family into penury merely to support your profligate ways.”

  Dead silence greeted his lordship’s pronouncement.

  Penelope looked from one face to the next—from his lordship to Lady Carisbrook, to Franklin, and back again—eager to note every reaction; they hadn’t yet learned anything regarding Simpkins’s death.

  Finally, Lady Carisbrook dragged in a massive breath, her bosom rising like a balloon inflating. Her fists clenched as if she was literally holding onto her temper, then in a voice so deep it was almost a growl, she grated, “How long?”

  Penelope blinked, amazed—and then not at all amazed—that of all she might have asked, that was Livia Carisbrook’s first question. Of course it was.

  When, his expression suggesting that he, at least, was not at all surprised by his wife’s tack, Lord Carisbrook faintly arched his brows and didn’t immediately reply, her voice vibrating with suppressed emotion, Lady Carisbrook demanded, “For how long have I been parading through the ton with my head held high while wearing worthless fakes?”

  By the end of her question, her voice had risen to a near shriek.

  Impassive and unbending, Lord Carisbrook replied, “Really, Livia, I would have thought the answer obvious. It was eight years ago that you brought that on yourself.”

  Teeth gritted, fists clenched, Lady Carisbrook screwed her eyes tight shut, tipped back her head, and let out an unladylike shriek of utter fury.

  Lord Carisbrook ignored the spectacle entirely. Instead, he turned to study Franklin.

  When, eschewing the unedifying sight of his mother, her eyes still closed and her fists still clenched, her head bowed, biting her lip and drumming her feet on the rug, Franklin turned and met his father’s gaze, his lordship reached a hand toward his son. “What I don’t understand is why you needed the money, my boy. I would have thought your allowance enough—you’ve never been a spendthrift.” When Franklin didn’t immediately reply, Lord Carisbrook leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Are you in debt? Is that it?”

  “No.” His gaze locked with his father’s, Franklin shook his head. “That’s not it at all. I…”

  Watching avidly, Penelope thought: This is it. The moment—
one of those pivotal moments in a life—when Fate gave a man a chance to grasp his future. If he had the courage.

  After a further moment of studying his father’s face, Franklin glanced briefly at his mother, then he drew breath, looked back at his father, and declared, “I’m determined to marry Miss Lilibeth Ives. She’s the daughter of Mr. Colin Ives, who is the principal curator at the British Museum. The Iveses are a perfectly respectable family.” The sharp glance Franklin threw his mother—as if daring her to gainsay him—suggested she frequently and vociferously had.

  Franklin returned his gaze to his father and, his tone and his expression growing stronger, more definite, continued, “No matter what Mama or you decree, I’m going to marry Lilibeth. I thought to use the extra money together with what I’ve saved to convince Lilibeth to marry me and leave for America.” He cast another swift glance across the room. “It seemed the only way.”

  Dragged from her fit of temper—the most appalling fit of temper Penelope had ever witnessed—by the horrifying prospect of her son marrying, as she saw it, beneath her, Lady Carisbrook was gulping in air. Now she spluttered, “Not a curator’s daughter! No—it’s simply not acceptable!” Sadly for her, she was all but breathless, and her words were weak.