The Curious Case of Lady Latimer's Shoes: A Casebook of Barnaby Adair Novel

by Stephanie Laurens

  She preceded them down a short corridor, opened the door at its end, and led them through. The room beyond was a workshop, with a long, wide central table plus benches all around the walls. Several girls and women, and two lads, were working at various stations, some hammering, stretching, and shaping shoes, some cutting out soles, others carving heels on lathes. Penelope was fascinated but didn’t dare dally as Myrtle led them to one side of the room.

  “This is where we make those shoes.” Myrtle stopped before the bench along the side wall. At one end, by a narrow window, a girl sat on a stool embroidering midnight-blue satin with heavy gold thread, while in the middle of the bench, an older woman was fixing satin of the palest pink heavily embroidered with silver thread to a plain ballroom pump.

  Myrtle pointed to the blue satin. “That’s for her ladyship, for her second daughter’s engagement ball. And that”—Myrtle pointed to the pale pink—“is for the youngest daughter, for her come-out ball.”

  Griselda was peering at the gold embroidery. “That’s awfully heavy.”

  “Yes, but it’s necessary.” When Griselda looked at her questioningly, Myrtle paused, clearly wrestling with her reluctance, then grudgingly volunteered, “Without a heavy surround of what is essentially metal, the crystals won’t stay on.”

  Penelope and Violet shifted nearer to look at the embroidery on the pink shoe.

  After a moment of inspection, Penelope said, “So one of the critical points in the process is to do the right sort of embroidery.”

  Myrtle nodded. “It has to be thick enough, and it has to be high-quality metal thread. Most shoemakers never use real gold or silver thread—they use all sorts of substitutes that look like gold or silver but are much cheaper, reasoning that, on shoes, no one can tell the difference. And in general, they’re right. But for these shoes, the thread has to be high-content base metal, and there has to be enough of it surrounding each crystal or the crystals won’t stick.”

  “So,” Penelope said, “we could trace the users of high-content gold and silver threads—” She broke off as Griselda and Myrtle shook their heads.

  “I use high-content gold and silver threads,” Griselda explained. “All milliners do, most often on gloves.”

  “And jewelers and dressmakers, too,” Myrtle said. “Not on everything, obviously, but it’s common enough on goods for the nobs.”

  Penelope grimaced.

  Myrtle looked at Griselda. “The glue is also not a common shoemaker’s glue. I got it from my grandmother—she was a milliner. She worked up her own recipe and used her glue to stick everything on anything. That said, not even that glue will work to hold crystals on shoes for any length of time, not unless you also have the right metal thread embroidery, and the right crystals.”

  Griselda looked up and down the bench. “Where are the crystals?”

  Myrtle waved them back and opened a cupboard under the bench. A heavy iron safe sat on the floor; it had been mortared in place. Myrtle spun the dial, then opened the door and reached in. She pulled out a covered tray, set it on the bench, and lifted the lid.

  Fire blazed out of the black-lined tray. Even in the dull light of the workshop, the crystals all but exploded with light.

  Penelope blinked. Several times. “No wonder they were so easily seen, even in moonlight.”

  “In any light, no matter how weak.” Myrtle picked up a handful of crystals and let them fall from her palm in a living river of coruscating light. “They’re high-lead-content crystal, specially cut to maximize brilliance, which is why they work so well on the shoes.”

  Penelope all but held her breath as she asked, “Are they rare?”

  Myrtle started to nod, then stopped. “Not rare so much as expensive. They’re imported from Slovakia, but because of the cost, they’re not used that much, at least not that I know of.”

  Griselda was shaking her head. “I haven’t seen them used anywhere—and I would have noticed.”

  Penelope shut her lips on the thoughts churning through her head. She glanced at Griselda and saw realization abruptly bloom in her eyes.

  Violet, too, was deep in thought. Myrtle closed the tray and bent to put it back in the safe. As she did, Violet asked, “Are there other types of crystals that would work?”

  Busy closing the safe, Myrtle shook her head. “Only this brand. No others have both the lead content and the brilliant cut.”

  Before any of them asked anything more and inadvertently jarred Myrtle from her helpful mood, Penelope smiled as the shoemaker straightened. “Thank you for showing us. I believe we’ve seen all we need to see.” She turned and started for the door to the shop. “You mentioned that other shoemakers have been trying to copy these shoes. Tell me—have you heard or seen anything that would lead you to suppose that anyone has guessed that it’s you”—Penelope gestured at the workshop—“and here, that makes them?”

  Myrtle had followed Penelope; Griselda and Violet had fallen in behind.

  “No,” Myrtle said. “And I assure you that if any of the others in the guild had guessed that those shoes came from here, we would have been burgled. No doubt about that.” Joining Penelope by the door, Myrtle met her gaze. “As you might expect, given the huge sums other ladies are offering for such shoes, the competition has been fierce, but as yet, no one else has discovered the secret of making crystal-covered shoes.”

  Penelope smiled and led the way from the workshop.

  * * *

  “Regardless of what Myrtle believes,” Penelope said, “I will wager any sum you like that some other shoemaker has finally found a way to duplicate her shoes.” She paused, then amended with a shrug, “It’s that, or her ledger system failed, and one of her employees has succeeded in smuggling out a pair or in making a separate pair that Myrtle doesn’t know about. We only need one loose pair, after all.”

  They were back in the carriage and rolling around the northern border of Regent’s Park on their way to Griselda’s house. Hettie and the now-drowsy children were on the seat alongside Penelope, while Griselda and Violet occupied the seat opposite.

  Griselda regarded Penelope with amused affection. “You seem to have accepted that the lady on the terrace wasn’t any of the Latimers, even though we’ve yet to check their alibis and Cynthia’s, at least, has a rather large gap in it.”

  Frowning slightly, Penelope rubbed her nose. “I know. I’m not sure why, but by the sum of all things—all my impressions and everything I’ve heard—I just can’t see any of the Latimer girls, and definitely not Cynthia, shoving a cannonball at their Aunt Marjorie. And it couldn’t have been Lady Latimer—such an action would have torn her apart. She’s torn now, but that would have destroyed her. And I know none of that is logical, but there you are.”

  When neither Violet nor Griselda argued but just smiled at her in unvoiced agreement, Penelope leaned her head back against the squabs and asked, “So where do we stand? What about these crystals?”

  “Given they’re imported,” Violet said, “and expensive and not much used, we might be able to trace whoever is using them via the suppliers.”

  Griselda wrinkled her nose. “I was tempted to ask Myrtle who her supplier was, but not only would that have put her in an invidious position—she’d given up all her other secrets, and that’s the one that’s most critical of all, yet she had been instructed to tell us all, regardless of whether that might ruin her business…as I said, invidious. But aside from that, she most likely knows of only one supplier—the one she uses.” Griselda glanced at Violet. “With such things, there’s usually any number of importers—well, at least a handful and very likely more—who will have contacts in Slovakia and be able to bring in the crystals.”

  “There’s a difference,” Violet said, “between being able to and actually doing. We only need to check with the firms who are currently importing those particular crystals.”

  “True.” Tipping her head back, Griselda thought, then said, “I wonder if we can get a list of the firms im
porting the crystals.”

  “I rather suspect,” Violet replied, “that we might need to ask for firms importing goods from Slovakia—it’s not a major trading nation, after all.”

  “No, but…” Griselda shrugged lightly. “I really have no idea how many firms we might find on such a list.”

  “Heathcote might know—or, at least, Mr. Slocum might be able to find out for me.” Violet, too, shrugged. “I can ask and see what they turn up. It might give us a place to start.”

  Griselda nodded. “And I can inquire from my contacts—the brokers who can usually find me anything I need for my hats and gloves.” With rising enthusiasm, she went on, “And then perhaps we can compare our lists—yours of firms importing goods from Slovakia, and mine of those companies known to supply crystals and such for the appropriate trades.”

  Griselda and Violet exchanged smiles. “Yes, let’s,” Violet said. “That sounds like a viable path forward.”

  The carriage slowed and turned into the familiar surrounds of Greenbury Street. Realizing Penelope had been strangely silent, both Violet and Griselda looked at her.

  She was staring absentmindedly out of the window, but as the carriage slowed outside Griselda’s house, Penelope turned her head and met their gazes. “There’s something we’ve overlooked.” She frowned. “Let’s postulate that some other lady has, indeed, found some enterprising shoemaker who has succeeded in duplicating Lady Latimer’s shoes. If so, why haven’t I—or Myrtle, Lady Latimer, or anyone in the ton—heard of it? This lady wore the shoes to the Fairchilds’ ball, but made no effort at all to show them off, even before she followed Lady Galbraith outside.” Penelope shook her head. “That makes no sense…” Her frown deepened. “Unless…”

  The carriage had rocked to a halt; James appeared and opened the door.

  Penelope sat staring, unseeing, at the opposite side of the carriage as James helped Hettie and the children down to the pavement, then handed Violet and Griselda down.

  At last, Penelope stirred and followed the others out of the carriage.

  The instant James had shut the door and Penelope had resettled her skirts, both Griselda and Violet demanded, “Unless what?”

  Suddenly entirely sober, Penelope met their gazes. “It just occurred to me. If you were a shoemaker who had finally succeeded in duplicating Lady Latimer’s shoes—and having worked to do so suggests that said shoemaker is aware of the ton’s intense interest in those shoes, and that in turn means he would almost certainly have heard of the feud—then who in all the ton is this shoemaker most likely to contact to sell his version of Lady Latimer’s shoes?”

  Both Griselda’s and Violet’s expressions grew as sober and as serious as Penelope’s.

  All three looked at each other, but none of them put the obvious answer to that question into words.

  Penelope nodded. “Just so.” She raised her brows. “I wonder how we can meaningfully inquire at the Galbraiths’ house.”

  * * *

  Late that night, Hartley Galbraith climbed through an open window into the conservatory at the rear of Latimer House. The house slumbered; there were no lights burning anywhere, not even in the conservatory.

  Especially not in the conservatory.

  He and Cynthia didn’t need light; they could find each other through any darkness, or so it seemed.

  She appeared, an angelic phantom gliding out of the shadows to greet him. With a soft smile, she walked into his arms, her arms rising to wind about his neck as she stretched up, and he bent his head, and their lips met.

  The kiss…embodied the promise that had kept him going through the days and nights since his mother had been killed. The comfort, the support—all Cynthia so unrestrainedly offered.

  He deepened the kiss, wanting more, wanting to touch, to taste, to sample the scintillating passion that, wonder of wonders, had so steadily grown between them. She murmured through the kiss and pressed closer; in wordless communion, she urged him on. Joined with him in waltzing this waltz of the senses that neither had ever shared with anyone else.

  And for moments, those moments, they stepped away from the here and now, from the horror and sorrow and tensions of their lives, and they danced.

  For each other, with each other.

  Their lips fused, and their tongues tangled, stroked, and caressed in a duel of delight. Her fingers speared through his hair and gripped his skull as he drew her flush against him, molding her lithe body to his, easing his hardness with her supple curves, the fullness of her breasts cushioning the contours of his chest, the soft tautness of her belly cradling his erection.

  They both wanted so much more.

  Both knew they couldn’t have it, not yet.

  Not while the here and now hovered so close, and so strongly, so insistently, tugged at their hearts.

  Now was not the time.

  Dragging in a breath, he steeled himself and drew back from the kiss. She matched his resolve, and his reluctance, as she lowered her heels to the floor and looked into his face.

  Studied it in the weak light.

  He had no idea what she could see, but he grimaced. “I really don’t like this.” His arms still wrapped around her—unwilling to lose her warmth—he glanced about them. “Meeting here like this.” Returning his gaze to her face, he went on, “It’s bad enough that we have to meet clandestinely, but meeting here is even worse. I feel as if I’m trespassing in some unforgivable way on your parents’ goodwill.”

  They hadn’t previously used the conservatory for their assignations, but after their last meeting in the church porch, Hartley had swallowed his dislike of trysting in her parents’ house; better she remain safe indoors than have her court the risks of the streets at night, even with her maid and the undergardener, who was little more than a boy.

  Cynthia arched a brow. “You’re here at my invitation, but if we’re to speak of not liking things…I have to tell you that we—Mama especially, but me and my sisters, too—have started encountering more definite whispers and suspicious looks.”

  Hartley swore beneath his breath. Lowering his arms, he grasped one of Cynthia’s hands and drew her to a wrought-iron seat set beneath one wall of glass panes. She sat, and still holding her hand, he sat beside her. “Tell me the truth—how bad is it?”

  They’d moved into an area washed by moonlight; the stronger illumination allowed Cynthia to see just how drawn, how haggard, Hartley was. She swallowed the more colorful description that had leapt to her tongue, and instead said, “It’s not yet bad enough that we can’t simply ignore it. We’re none of us wilting flowers, as you know. For the moment, we’re managing.” She paused, then added, “But what we can’t know is how long the uncertainty will last, and how much society’s reactions will escalate before the murderer is caught. And in pursuit of that—the murderer being caught—I persuaded Mama, and the others, too, that calling in Mrs. Adair would be a sensible thing to do. Mama went to see her this morning, and Mrs. Adair and her friends called on us in the afternoon.”

  Cynthia paused, remembering. “She strikes me as being rather acute, and her friends aren’t just hangers-on, either. I got the impression that we were being assessed by three different pairs of eyes and ears.” Cynthia continued, describing the interview and the concession her mother had finally been persuaded to make. “So Mrs. Adair and her cronies are hunting for some evidence that some other lady has, somehow, obtained a pair of Lady Latimer’s shoes—namely the pair that we saw on the lady fleeing the terrace.”

  Silence ensued as the words conjured up the vision in both their minds. Cynthia shivered and leaned against Hartley. He put his arm around her and drew her closer.

  “So,” she said, glancing at his face and seeing the lines shock and grief had drawn there, “how are your family—the girls, your father? How is the household faring?”

  Hartley met her eyes, his own heavy and tired. “Not as well as I’d hoped. The pater has rallied, but he’s still not up to much. Geraldine, at least, c
ame downstairs this morning. I think she would have improved further, but we had several visitors, and she and I felt we had to be present to support Papa.” Hartley paused, then said, “The first through the door were Lady Gresham and Mrs. Foley. As you know, they’re connections of sorts, so we couldn’t turn them away, although to give him his due, poor Millwell tried. He didn’t get far—you know Agatha Gresham. She bullied her way past poor Millwell and demoralized him so thoroughly that he let three other groups in before I realized and put a stop to it. By then, Papa was gray, and Geraldine was in tears and struggling not to break down entirely.”

  Cynthia hissed in almost ferocious disapproval. “Don’t these people have any feelings?”

  “What they had,” Hartley said bitterly, “was rampant curiosity of the worst kind. All of them in one way or another alluded to the feud, and inquired in circuitous ways about what we imagined the Latimers felt over Mama’s death…” Frustration strangled Hartley for an instant, then he ground out, “Agatha even had the gall to ask Papa if he thought your mother had done it.”

  “Good God.”

  “Indeed. Papa…that nearly sank him, you know. But what’s even worse is that those damned well-wishers have planted seeds in both Papa’s and Geraldine’s minds, and now they don’t know what to feel, much less what to think.” Hartley met Cynthia’s gaze. “This evening, after dinner, which none of the girls came down for, I went up to see how they did. Monica is still lying in her bed and not speaking—she just stares at the wall. But I found Geraldine with Primrose—they were talking about the murder and whether it could possibly be one of your family who had done it.”

  Hartley held Cynthia’s gaze for an instant, then softly swore and looked away. “They don’t want to even think it, much less believe it, but they simply don’t know…what to think. What to believe.” He sighed. “It’s eating at them—I can see it.”

  He looked into Cynthia’s face. “It’s building—the suspicion, the distrust.”