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

by Stephanie Laurens

  Stokes straightened and glanced at Barnaby. “I’ll need to make a formal report to the commissioner of my findings regarding the mix-up with the Carisbrook emeralds and Simpkins’s death, but that report can and will be made in absolute confidence, for the commissioner’s and the directors’ ears only.” Looking at Lord Frederick, he added, “Any further action will be at their discretion.”

  Lord Frederick nodded. “When will I hear of their decision?”

  Stokes rose and looked at Barnaby as he, too, came to his feet.

  Recognizing Stokes’s dilemma—he couldn’t speak for the commissioner—Barnaby smiled faintly, caught Lord Frederick’s gaze, and replied, “In all honesty, my lord, we doubt you’ll hear anything at all. As no crime was committed by anyone alive, there’s nothing to be done—no action to be taken.”

  Lord Frederick stood and, across his desk, held out his hand, first to Stokes and then to Barnaby. “Thank you, gentlemen. When I learned I would need to entertain you and your inquiries, I didn’t foresee the relief your visit would bring me.” He met their gazes and formally bowed. “I wish you luck in your future endeavors. The people of London are lucky to have men like you working to preserve our peace.”

  When they returned as promised to Albemarle Street and Barnaby led Stokes into the back parlor, it was to see Penelope with her head down, brows drawn, scribbling madly at some translation—apparently having forgotten her chaperoning duties; her back was to the windows beyond which Hugo and Cara were still strolling on the lawn.

  Although she hadn’t even glanced up, as if reading Barnaby’s thoughts, Penelope stated, “They’re not doing anything reprehensible. According to his mother, who sent me a note this morning, Hugo has taken Cara’s being Italian to mean that she adheres to an even stricter code of courtship than we do, and he’s determined to live up to every single expectation and not put a foot wrong in any way.” Finally looking up, Penelope met Barnaby’s laughing eyes. “His mother has informed me that she wants to hear wedding bells and expects me to nudge matters along.”

  Swiveling on her chair and leaning sideways, Penelope peered out of the window, then humphed and turned back. “I decided that propinquity without distraction was the only prod likely to work, but thus far, Hugo’s held rigidly to his imagined code, and Cara is too unsure to take matters into her own hands.”

  Setting down her pen, Penelope fixed wide eyes on Barnaby and Stokes. “Well? You both look quietly pleased, but not all that excited.”

  Barnaby rubbed his temple with one finger and glanced at Stokes. “Your insight, as ever, isn’t far from the mark.”

  Between them, they gave her an edited but accurate recounting of their interview with Lord Frederick. When they related his explanation of how Simpkins had come to fall down the stairs and break her neck, Penelope sat back and blinked several times before saying, “Oh—yes, I can see how that could have happened…” After a moment of gazing into space, she refocused on Stokes. “You know, of all the possible scenarios, that—exactly what his lordship said happened—fits the evidence best.”

  Barnaby nodded. “We’re as certain as we can be that he’s telling the truth.”

  Consulting his notebook, Stokes continued describing the interview to its end, then he shut the book and glanced at Barnaby. “Now, we need to return to the Yard and report to the commissioner.”

  “Hmm.” Penelope’s gaze had once again grown distant. She tapped a finger to her lips. “The existence of a thwarted but enduring love between Lady Carisbrook and Lord Frederick explains quite a few things.”

  Stokes frowned. “Such as?”

  Penelope refocused and straightened. “Well, for a start, Lady Carisbrook’s insistence on managing her children’s marriages. She was managed herself in that way—forced to set aside love—so now it’s her turn to be the manager, and she expects her children to fall into line, just as she did.”

  Still standing, as was Stokes, Barnaby shifted. “I would have thought her experience would make her more sympathetic toward her children in their quest for a love-match.”

  Penelope looked wise and shook her head. “That would be so were her ladyship a different—a more confident—character. But I suspect she truly loved Lord Frederick and, having bowed to her parents’ wishes and turned her back on love as she did, the only way she can reconcile herself to that—to living with the outcome, if you like—is to insist, even now, that adhering to parents’ dictates in marriage is the correct and, indeed, only way to go. It’s”—she waved—“something that’s critical to, a part of the bedrock of, the way Livia Carisbrook sees herself. And when you realize her three older children fell into line, probably because they shared her thoughts on who they should marry rather than anything else, then until now, with Franklin and Julia, her ladyship’s way—her emotional need to enforce her matrimonial dictates—hasn’t been challenged.”

  After a moment of digesting his wife’s argument, Barnaby met her eyes. “Perhaps I—or you—might have a quiet word with Lord Frederick. In light of what he said of his ability to sway Lady Carisbrook and given his reputation for championing the welfare of those in need, he might be willing to speak on Franklin’s and Julia’s behalves.”

  Penelope grinned at him. “An excellent idea.” She paused, then tipped her head. “I rather think I should mention my notion of his wife’s possible motives to Lord Carisbrook, as well. It might assist him in helping all three—her ladyship, Franklin, and Julia.”

  Stokes nodded, clearly impatient, yet… He caught Penelope’s gaze. “We really need to go but…what other things does knowing of Lady Carisbrook’s thwarted love make clear?”

  Penelope’s expression turned just a touch patronizing. “It explains Lord Carisbrook’s apparently overly understanding attitude toward his wife. He’s known all along that she loved and still loves another, yet by all the usual yardsticks, she’s been an exemplary wife. She’s given him five healthy children, seen them grown, and established three with their own families, and she’s successfully managed his household for all these years. She may be a difficult person to live with, but she’s kept her part of the marriage bargain they made, and he has to honor her for that. And to his credit, he has. He’s done all he can to accommodate her, although I suspect that now he’s realized that Franklin and Julia need his support in a way his older children did not, he’ll be more attentive and find some way to help them all get on.”

  Penelope met Barnaby’s eyes, then looked at Stokes and smiled. “This seems strange. I can’t recall us reaching this point in an investigation and feeling happy with all those involved, more well-disposed toward them than at the start, to the point of wishing them all well…” She broke off, then shrugged. “All except Simpkins, of course, but she brought her fate on herself.”

  Stokes humphed and looked at Barnaby. “I have to make that report.”

  Barnaby nodded and straightened. “I’ll come with you.” When relief fleetingly showed on Stokes’s hard face, Barnaby grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. “You didn’t think I’d leave you to explain all about Lord Frederick on your own, did you?”

  Stokes blew out a breath. “I was hoping not.” He nodded to Penelope, who grinned and waved them off.

  Barnaby turned with Stokes toward the door as Penelope pushed back her chair and rose.

  Barnaby had taken only one step when Penelope exclaimed, “At last!”

  Both he and Stokes halted and looked back—to see Penelope standing, all but vibrating with excitement as she looked through the long windows.

  “Yes, yes—go on!” She made urging motions with her hands.

  Barnaby strolled back to stand behind her. Stokes joined them.

  All three looked out onto the rear lawn—to where Hugo now knelt on one knee, both of Cara’s hands in his, his gaze locked on Cara’s face as he spoke…

  The pair were oblivious to their audience. Their faces—Cara’s as she looked down into Hugo’s and his as he gazed adoringly at her—tol
d a story as old as time, one the three observers had themselves experienced and that, today, still anchored their lives.

  All three felt the moment—relived the bright, scintillating emotion of their own moment in the past—as Hugo ceased speaking and waited, breath bated…then Cara smiled radiantly and said one simple word the observers could read even at a distance. Then with her smile brighter than the sun, Cara tugged on Hugo’s hands and, as he rose, she slipped her fingers from his, threw her arms about his neck, and flung herself into his arms.

  Hugo caught her to him, wrapped her in his arms in a wordless vow that he would never let her go, then he bent his head, and they kissed.

  “Yes!” Penelope crowed, triumph resonating in the single syllable.

  A second later, by unvoiced agreement giving Hugo and Cara the privacy they deserved, the three onlookers turned away, the lingering glow inside them infusing their smiles.

  With a soft sigh, Penelope halted by her desk. “Obviously, my work today is done.”

  “So it appears.” Still smiling, Stokes caught Barnaby’s eye. “But now that’s settled, we need to go.”

  Barnaby nodded, leaned down, and brushed a kiss across Penelope’s lush lips, then he straightened, tipped her an insouciant salute, and turned to follow Stokes.

  As he and Stokes went out of the parlor door, from behind, they heard Penelope call, “And don’t forget our dinner at Violet and Montague’s! I’ll see you both there.”

  Barnaby grinned and followed Stokes out of the front door and down the steps. His darling wife had been right. They’d reached the end of a case, and for once, they were smiling.

  At just after four o’clock, Barnaby trailed Stokes into the office of the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police and discovered his father, along with another director, Lord Hubert Radcliffe, waiting to hear their report.

  The commissioner rose to greet them.

  When, after shaking hands with the commissioner and Lord Hubert, Barnaby turned to his father, the earl said, “Thought it might be useful for Hubert and me to be here given the standing of those involved in this case.”

  “Indeed.” The commissioner, a stickler for correctness, waved them all to the chairs arrayed around his desk, then resumed his seat behind the polished expanse. “I’m keen to hear just where the investigation stands.”

  Stokes commenced his report, much as he’d related their findings to the earlier meetings of his co-investigators at Albemarle and Greenbury Streets and, more recently, to Penelope in her office. Barnaby weighed in to add those details that made the unfolding case more comprehensible to the others, especially to his father and Lord Hubert.

  Over the years, Barnaby and Stokes had learned how to edit reports such as this to render them simple yet complete. By the time they’d finished describing their interview with Lord Frederick St. John-Carter, and Stokes advanced his conclusion that, based on all the information they’d gathered, no crime had occurred, and therefore, in this instance, they had no victim and no villain to pursue, the commissioner and his supporting directors were relieved, impressed, and very willing to discuss how best to smooth over the situation—namely, the public expectation raised by Lady Carisbrook’s trumpeting of her charge against Cara and the consequent widespread belief that the Carisbrook emeralds had been stolen.

  “It seems to me,” Lord Hubert rumbled, “that her ladyship’s accusation of theft against Miss Di Abaccio has been proven to be false, and furthermore, as Stokes has stated, no crime was committed.” He looked at the others. “As far as I can see, the emeralds merely went missing without her ladyship’s knowledge. They remained in the hands of members of the immediate family at all times.” Lord Hubert waggled his brows at Stokes. “Is that correct, Inspector?”

  “Indeed, my lord.”

  “Well, then”—Lord Hubert turned his eyebrows on the commissioner—“I can’t see that this case necessitates any further bother, Phillip.”

  The commissioner, Sir Phillip, grimaced. “It’s the press, Hubert—the newshounds are the bother. But you’re right.” The commissioner looked to the earl for agreement. “If I put out a dull-as-dishwater announcement, with any luck, the newshounds will be so disappointed, they’ll go nosing about somewhere else.”

  “You might say,” Barnaby put in, “that the emeralds were found to be not stolen at all but merely misplaced.” He shot a questioning look at his father. “That will make Lady Carisbrook appear foolish, and she’ll certainly feel so, but with no substance to feed further scandalmongering, attention will swing to something else within days if not hours. That will effectively shield the family from further…er, hounding.”

  “Exactly so.” The earl nodded his approval.

  “If I might suggest,” Stokes said, “we could use any announcement regarding the emeralds to put paid to all questions about Simpkins’s death as well. You could add a coda to the announcement, stating that the death of a servant in the Carisbrook house that occurred at much the same time as the emeralds being misplaced has been found to be entirely unrelated. The maid had grown careless, missed her footing, and regrettably broke her neck in the resulting fall.”

  Lord Hubert huffed. “Very good—and it’s all nothing more than the truth.”

  The commissioner had seized a pen and scribbled down Barnaby’s and Stokes’s suggested phrases. Now, Sir Phillip sat back, studied what he’d written, and nodded. “Yes—excellent. That will do.” He looked up and met the earl’s eyes. “The last thing we need is scandal-laden rumors of a high-class jewel thief, much less a murdering one, wandering the streets of Mayfair.”

  They all agreed, and the meeting broke up with handshakes and pleased smiles all around.

  The earl elected to leave with Barnaby and Stokes. As the three walked along the corridor to the building’s entrance, the earl asked, “How is young Cara getting on? Met her the other night at your aunt’s. A sweet young thing—your mother tells me she’ll suit Hugo very well, if only he’ll get himself up to the mark.”

  Barnaby grinned. “I’m sure Mama, as always, is correct, and it certainly seems that the Adair ladies, one and all, have taken Cara under their wing.”

  “You’re telling me!” the earl grumbled. “Cara this and Cara that—sweet girl, mind, but I’ve hardly been able to think for having her virtues extolled.”

  Barnaby exchanged a laughing glance with Stokes. Barnaby waited until the three of them had passed through the foyer and walked out of the door. They paused on the pavement, and when his father halted beside him, still smiling, Barnaby said, “Just before Stokes and I came to the meeting, Hugo proposed, and Cara accepted. And yes, we all agree—Hugo should consider himself a lucky man.”

  “Huh!” For a moment, the earl stared into his son’s face, then his smile widened into a delighted grin, and his eyes started twinkling. “Excellent news, my boy!” The earl thumped Barnaby on the shoulder, then turned to beam at Stokes. “It seems that for once, I have news to share with the countess that she won’t already have heard!”

  Chortling in anticipation, the earl saluted Stokes, then his son, and whistling a jaunty tune, strode off down the pavement.

  Barnaby and Stokes watched him go, then turned to regard each other.

  “Another case closed,” Barnaby said.

  “Indeed.” Stokes looked past Barnaby toward the end of the street, then met Barnaby’s eyes. “And as it’s barely five o’clock and we won’t be looked for in Chapel Court before six-thirty, by my reckoning, we have time to share a well-earned pint with Wilkes, Morgan, Philpott, and the rest.”

  Barnaby grinned and turned toward the public house at the end of the street that was the favored watering hole for the denizens of Scotland Yard. “The fruits of our honest labors, as it were.”

  Stokes laughed and nodded. “Precisely.”

  Side by side, shoulder to shoulder, they headed down the street.

  Chapter 12

  Violet was delighted to welcome Griselda and Penelope, now her clos
est friends, into her and Montague’s home and even happier to hear from Penelope that their efforts had borne fruit and the investigation was, to all intents and purposes, complete.

  “However, I won’t steal Stokes’s and Barnaby’s thunder—I’ll leave today’s tale for them to tell.” Penelope released Oliver’s hand and, with a smile, watched him rush after Megan. “Besides, I don’t know the final outcome post the commissioner’s verdict. I expect Barnaby and Stokes will come straight here once their meeting breaks up, then we can all hear the result at once.”

  Together with Montague, who had quit his office on the floor below to follow Griselda, Penelope, and their entourages up the stairs, the three ladies dispensed with dignity, spread their skirts on the drawing room rug, and indulged in one of the joys of motherhood—playing with their children.

  As always, Oliver’s and Megan’s antics, along with Martin’s increasing interest and attempts to join in, distracted and absorbed the four doting adults; they didn’t notice the minutes ticking by.

  Consequently, when Stokes and Barnaby arrived, Violet was surprised to discover that it was almost seven o’clock. In no way behind the others in the doting stakes, Barnaby and Stokes joined their families on the rug. But their children had barely had time to crawl all over them and chatter to them about their day before Trewick appeared to announce that Mrs. Trewick had dinner ready to serve.

  Violet looked at Barnaby’s and Stokes’s faintly guilty faces and asked Trewick to beg Mrs. Trewick for ten minutes’ grace.

  Barnaby glanced at the others. “As we all know everything has turned out well, perhaps we can wait until after the meal to share the details?”

  That suggestion was acclaimed by all; they’d already relaxed, basking in the knowledge that the investigation had come to a successful conclusion—the details could wait.

  Finally, the nursemaids were summoned and took the children off to the nursery.