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

by Stephanie Laurens

  “On a few nights,” Julia added, “there was moonlight shafting through the skylight above the main staircase. Those were the only times I saw anything of his face, but the view was never clear.”

  Penelope glanced at Barnaby, then turned back to the girls. “Describe him as best you can.”

  Their eyes still closed, both girls stirred, but then they settled, and Cara said, “His hair…wasn’t black. And I don’t think it was dark brown, either.”

  “More like light brown,” Julia said. “And he was clean shaven.”

  “Yes,” Cara said. “His face was longish—elongated planes—with a wide forehead, and his brows were more like lines than arches.”

  “He had a strong nose,” Julia said. “Like Papa.”

  Cara frowned. She turned as if to glance at Julia, but with her eyes still closed, instead, she reached out and touched her cousin’s hand. “I’m not sure, but I think he might have had a small cleft in his chin.”

  Penelope met Stokes’s eyes and grimaced, then she asked the girls, “How tall was he?”

  “Medium?” Julia said.

  “A bit taller, I think.” Cara offered, “His build, I would call lean, rather than heavy.”

  Close to despairing, Penelope looked at Barnaby. He pulled a commiserating face; thus far, the girls’ description would fit hundreds if not thousands.

  Then Hugo, who had been sitting quietly perched by Cara’s side, looked from her to Penelope and Barnaby. Then Hugo looked at Stokes and raised his brows. “Perhaps Cara can draw him?”

  Cara’s eyes popped open, and she smiled and turned her beaming gaze on Hugo. “Yes, of course. That will be much easier.”

  “Oh.” Julia opened her eyes, too, and relief flooded her face. “Yes—and then I can say if it’s the man I saw.”

  Penelope doubted there were two men visiting Lady Carisbrook’s room by night, but the confirmation wouldn’t go amiss.

  Hugo had already risen and fetched Cara’s pencils and sketch pad from where she’d set them on a side table. Cara carefully tore the portrait of Hugo from the pad and handed it to Penelope, who carried it to Violet to set aside for safekeeping.

  By the time Penelope returned to her chair, Cara was already sketching.

  Julia leaned close and watched over Cara’s shoulder. The girls murmured, deciding on things like the size of the man’s ears and the relative squareness of his chin.

  Finally, Cara raised her pencil from the page. She studied her sketch, then looked at Julia.

  Julia examined the likeness, then nodded decisively. “Yes, that’s him.”

  Cara considered her effort for two seconds more, then tore off the sheet and handed it to Penelope. “It’s at least a reasonable likeness.”

  Given the evidence she’d seen of Cara’s ability, Penelope suspected the sketch was rather more accurate than that. She studied the face depicted, but although she sensed she should recognize the man—he was clearly a member of the upper class with that brow, nose, and chin—she couldn’t place him. “I don’t know him well enough to name.”

  Stokes had drawn closer. She handed the sketch up to him. He took it, scrutinized it, then shook his head. “No. He’s not someone I’ve met.”

  Barnaby held out his hand, and Stokes gave him the sheet. Violet left the desk and came to stand beside Barnaby and study the sketch, too.

  Frowning, Violet shook her head. “He has the sort of face one expects to know, but…no. I can’t place him, either.”

  Hugo, Penelope noticed, was staring at Barnaby, a frown spreading from his eyes to his face. Penelope followed Hugo’s gaze to her husband’s face—to find it utterly and implacably blank.

  She blinked and straightened. Then she reached out and laid a hand on Barnaby’s arm. “You’ve recognized him.” She didn’t make it a question; it was patently obvious that he had.

  Barnaby stared at Cara’s sketch for a heartbeat more, then he raised his gaze—shuttered and giving nothing away—and met Penelope’s and then Stokes’s eyes, and quietly admitted, “Indeed, I have.”

  Before he’d shared the gentleman’s name with Penelope, Stokes, and Violet, Barnaby had insisted that Hugo take Cara and Julia into the garden. Refusing to bend in the face of their frustrated looks, pleading eyes, and disgruntled grumbling, he’d been adamant that the man’s identity was something the three of them did not need to know.

  Only once Cara, Julia, and Hugo were ambling on the lawn beyond the windows, safely out of hearing, had Barnaby sunk his hands into his pockets and told the others the gentleman’s name.

  They’d been as shocked as he had been—as he still was.

  And, sadly, knowing the man’s identity hadn’t made their way forward any easier. Far from it.

  Violet had had to gather Martin and Hilda and go home, leaving Barnaby, Stokes, and Penelope still debating their next move.

  Eventually, Barnaby had sent a note to his father, requesting his insight, while Stokes had bitten the bullet and dispatched a carefully worded missive to the Houses of Parliament, seeking an urgent interview with the gentleman in question.

  In a final bid to gather every last bit of information possible before any interview, Barnaby had sent a personal note to Neville Roscoe. Given who Roscoe was—and, even more, who he’d once been, a secret Barnaby had stumbled on a good few years ago—Roscoe’s opinion could well give them more to go on than even the earl’s.

  That had been over an hour ago. Subsequently, they’d consumed a quick luncheon, then sent Julia home in Penelope’s carriage. Hugo and Cara, after one look at their distracted faces, had taken themselves back out into the garden; they were presently sitting on a wrought-iron bench, chatting companionably in full view of the back-parlor windows.

  Penelope stood watching them, although her furrowed brow said her mind was far away.

  Stokes flanked her on one side, his hands in his pockets, his face set in harsh lines, his expression even more saturnine than usual.

  Barnaby stood on Penelope’s other side, his gaze, like hers, on Cara and Hugo. He was conscious of a craven wish that he could forget this case and be as carefree as the couple before him…then he glanced at Penelope and—inwardly—sardonically grinned. She and he…this was what they did. Along with Stokes, they pursued justice for those who no longer could speak for themselves, and his and Penelope’s role was to guide Stokes through the shoals of the ton.

  In this case, however, exactly where true justice might lie—exactly what it would encompass—was yet to be determined.

  It certainly wasn’t clear to him, to Penelope, or to Stokes.

  After a moment, his mind still circling the principal issue, Barnaby sighed; they needed to face it head-on. Steepling his hands before his face, his fingertips resting on his nose, he said, “I’m having a hard enough time seeing Lord Frederick St. John-Carter as Lady Carisbrook’s lover. My mind balks entirely at the notion of him flinging Simpkins down those stairs.”

  Stokes grunted. After a moment, he said, “I know of St. John-Carter only by repute, but if his reputation is even half true…” He paused, then went on, “One part of my cynical policeman’s brain insists that even a saint can commit murder, only I can’t think of one who has.”

  Penelope snorted. “Quite. But Lord Frederick’s reputation as an advocate for the downtrodden in all their many guises is, quite simply, unassailable. I’ve only crossed his path a few times, but I would have said he was…one of those souls who are not so much kind as born defenders. Not of any specific type of person but of people who need defending, whoever they might be.”

  Barnaby shifted. His gaze on the garden, he said, “That’s why we’re tying ourselves in knots over this—over the possibility that he’s a villain. He’s a shining light for justice, and pulling him down… If he’s guilty, it’s going to be a shocking travesty that will send ripples throughout society far beyond the ton.”

  After a moment, Penelope said, “You’re right, of course, but we shouldn’t lose sig
ht of the fact that, somehow, there might be an explanation that accounts for everything that’s occurred without our shining light for justice having tarnished his sword with murder.”

  “That,” Stokes said, with a dip of his head, “is why we’re waiting for information from the earl and Roscoe before going to call, nice and politely, on Lord Frederick.”

  Barnaby couldn’t help a self-deprecatory laugh. “And we’ve only been thinking of his good works—we haven’t yet given much thought to his position within the government, let alone his standing in the ton.”

  “I’m hoping—indeed, praying—that Lord Frederick can explain it all.” Penelope turned as a tap on the doorframe heralded Mostyn.

  Their majordomo advanced to proffer his salver, on which a neat note lay, to Barnaby. “From Roscoe, sir. It came via the back door.”

  Stokes grunted. “Naturally.”

  Mostyn’s lips twitched. Once Barnaby had picked up the note, the majordomo bowed and left them.

  Barnaby unfolded the note, scanned the lines within, then handed the missive to Penelope. Stokes moved to read it over her shoulder.

  “Well,” Penelope said. She waited until Stokes straightened, then handed the note back to Barnaby. “Even Roscoe sings the man’s praises.”

  Barnaby refolded the note and tucked it away. “And no man in London is more likely to see through a façade of good works to a dark heart better than Roscoe.”

  Stokes grimaced. “I can’t disagree.” He met Penelope’s eyes. “Like you, I’m praying Lord Frederick will have some explanation I—and the commissioner—can accept.”

  “It’s not, thank God, beyond the realms of possibility,” Barnaby said. “We’ve no evidence he pushed Simpkins, only that he—or at least, something—caused her to fall.”

  “While he was there.” Stokes pulled another face. “And there’s the matter of him walking out of the house and riding away, calm as you please, afterward.”

  Penelope waved as if erasing their comments. “Let’s just accept that we’ll have to wait to hear his explanation before we can pass judgment either way.”

  “At least we now know the reason for the secrecy surrounding our mysterious gentleman’s visits.” Barnaby raised his head as, in the distance, they heard the front doorbell peal. A minute later, Mostyn returned, another note on his salver.

  Barnaby took it and broke the seal. “My father.” He spread the sheet and read, then as before, handed it to Penelope to hold while she and Stokes read the earl’s message as well.

  Stokes humphed and straightened. “No surprise there. Proceed with the utmost caution, remembering that Lord F is highly regarded—”

  “And valued,” Penelope put in. “Don’t forget the valued—it’s underscored three times.”

  “Indeed.” Stokes inclined his head. “And we shouldn’t forget the bit about him being a quiet lynchpin of the government, either.”

  Barnaby eyed Stokes’s harassed expression. His friend would much rather face a violent, dyed-in-the-wool villain than have to negotiate the intricacies of a situation like this—where the only potential villain they had was presented in the garb of a universally lauded saint.

  Penelope had refolded the earl’s note; she tapped the edge on her palm, then said, “It occurs to me that far too many sensible, experienced, and usually insightful men view Lord Frederick as a sound and trustworthy—indeed, admirable—pillar of society, one who would never stoop to crossing any line, for them all to be wrong.”

  She looked at Barnaby, then transferred her gaze to Stokes. “We’ll need to bear that in mind when Lord Frederick tells us what happened. The odds are good that he’ll tell the truth without any great pressure—his character will compel him to it.”

  Stokes eyed her with faint hope. “From your lips to the Almighty’s ear.”

  The doorbell pealed again, this time more insistently.

  The sound cut off, and they heard the door open, then Mostyn was back, this time shepherding Davies, Stokes’s favorite police runner.

  Stokes straightened. “Yes?”

  Davies saluted, grinned, and handed over a note.

  Stokes took it, unfolded it, and read, then he dismissed Davies, sending him back to the Yard, and glanced briefly at Penelope before looking at Barnaby. “We’ve been granted an audience at two o’clock sharp in his lordship’s office in Westminster.” Stokes glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece; it showed fifteen minutes before the hour. “We’ll have to hurry.”

  Penelope’s eyes narrowed, and she folded her arms. “Westminster. Damn!”

  Barnaby bent to drop a kiss on her forehead. “You can’t come.”

  Lips and chin setting, she glanced through the window at Hugo and Cara, still seated on the bench in the sun. “I know. I keep telling myself that I have other fish to fry…” She turned back and skewered Stokes with her gaze. “But the thought of you two managing such a sensitive interview without me…it doesn’t bear thinking about.”

  Barnaby smiled. “We’ll miss your perceptive insights, but I’m sure we’ll manage to stumble our way through it.”

  She humphed. “I just hope Lord Frederick is as understanding as they say.”

  Stokes grinned, unrepentant, and saluted her. “We need to go.”

  “On one condition.” Penelope halted them both with an upraised finger. “In return for my forbearance in not seeking to force my way into this meeting, you must both promise to return here immediately afterward and tell me what transpires.” She narrowed her eyes at them. “It’s the least you can do.”

  Stokes glanced at Barnaby, then shrugged.

  Barnaby caught Penelope’s hand, pressed a kiss to the back of her knuckles, then released her with the words, “We do so solemnly swear.”

  Penelope smothered a chuckle and watched them head for the door, then she remembered and called out, “And don’t forget—we have dinner at Violet and Montague’s tonight.”

  Without looking back, Barnaby waved. He glanced at Stokes as they strode for the front hall. “If luck is on our side, we’ll have found our way to a conclusion to this confounding case by then.”

  Stokes sent him a reproving look. “Don’t jinx us.” With that, he led the way through the door Mostyn was holding wide.

  Chapter 11

  Barnaby followed Stokes into the chambers of Lord Frederick St. John-Carter just as the clocks throughout the corridors of Westminster chimed and struck and bonged twice.

  A sober individual of indeterminate years, severely garbed and bespectacled, rose from his chair behind a desk to one side of the antechamber and came hurrying to intercept them. His gaze flicked over them both, then he inquired, “Inspector Stokes?”

  Stokes halted and nodded. He waved at Barnaby. “Mr. Adair is officially assisting me in this matter.”

  Adopting a reassuring smile, Barnaby said, “We appreciate Lord Frederick agreeing to meet with us.”

  The secretary would have liked to frown and put them off, his preference communicated by his reluctant and agitated mien, but then he drew breath and turned to an inner door. “Lord Frederick is expecting you. If you will come this way?”

  The secretary opened the door and announced them, then stood back to allow them to enter.

  Although Barnaby followed Stokes through the door, Stokes immediately stepped to the side, wordlessly urging Barnaby to take the lead.

  He did, going forward with an easy smile to greet Lord Frederick, who, with his gaze rapidly surveying them, rose from behind a large and patently much-used desk.

  Lord Frederick St. John-Carter was, Barnaby judged, a few years—perhaps as many as five years—younger than Lord Carisbrook. Lord Frederick exuded the controlled vigor of a man in his prime; when younger, he must have cut a dashing figure, with his light-brown hair, straight and falling negligently over his forehead, his sharp and plainly shrewd hazel eyes, and his lean, aristocratic face. Despite the difficulties, Cara’s sketch had captured something of the distant yet strangely vulner
able quality that hung about the man; Barnaby had no difficulty believing this was a gentleman others would be drawn to, to serve and protect. Just like the secretary.

  With well-concealed wariness, his lordship nodded to Barnaby. “Mr. Adair. I’m acquainted with your father and sit on several charity boards with the countess.”

  “Indeed?” Maintaining his air of relaxed bonhomie, Barnaby shook the hand his lordship offered, then gestured to Stokes. “If you know my father, you might have heard that I occasionally assist Inspector Stokes in navigating the waters of the ton.”

  Lord Frederick inclined his head to Stokes. “I had heard.” He held out his hand to Stokes. “Your successes have been noted, Inspector.”

  Stokes hid his surprise and shook hands with his lordship; not many men of Lord Frederick’s age and stature would so readily have shaken hands with a mere Scotland Yard inspector.

  Lord Frederick waved them to the pair of chairs angled before the desk. As they sat, he resumed his seat. “Now, how can I help you, gentlemen?”

  Barnaby caught his lordship’s gaze and, without turning his head, with his eyes indicated the secretary, who had remained and taken up station to one side of the door.

  Smoothly, Lord Frederick looked at the man. “That will be all, Moreland.” His lordship glanced at Stokes, then added, “Please ensure we’re not disturbed unless the matter is urgent.”

  “Yes, my lord.” The secretary’s tone suggested he didn’t want to leave, but leave he did.

  Once the door shut behind him, Lord Frederick looked from Stokes to Barnaby, then back again. He raised his brows, the action faintly weary. “Well, Inspector?”

  Succinctly, Stokes ran through the sequence of events they’d uncovered in the course of their investigation into the recent happenings in Lord Carisbrook’s residence. He referred to the until-recently unknown gentleman as a “mysterious man” throughout.

  His gaze trained on Lord Frederick, Barnaby concluded that his lordship would be a diabolical poker player—or a brilliant negotiator, which, apparently, he was; his face, even his hands and body, gave away absolutely nothing of his thoughts.