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

by Stephanie Laurens

  Cynthia held his gaze, then blew out a breath. “I wasn’t going to tell you—you have troubles enough—but…quite aside from the suspicion of others, which, as I said, we can currently ignore, Mama, my sisters, and I have been worrying about exactly that. About what your family will think—whether they will suspect one of us of that terrible deed—” Cynthia’s voice quavered, and she stopped and looked away. Then she drew in a deep breath and, with more determination, went on. “We—Mama, Papa, and the four of us—discussed coming across the square. Simply walking across and knocking on your door and asking if your family will see us. Mama and Papa feel so strongly that they should be there to support your father through this. They are his oldest friends, and they feel they can’t help.” She glanced at Hartley. “But it would be impossible to visit—to simply call—without someone seeing and spreading the word. And as Mama pointed out, the ton would immediately be abuzz with people saying that we, the Latimers, were taking advantage of your mother’s death to ignore what had patently been her wishes to cut all ties, and that therefore, doesn’t it stand to reason that one of us… Well, you know how it goes. Even though Aunt Marjorie has gone, the feud, it seems, lives on.”

  After a moment, Cynthia continued, “Both our families are coming under increasing strain, not just from society but also from within, from our own worries and uncertainties about what each other might have done, or might think.”

  “It’s a festering sore.” Hartley’s tone was grim.

  “We can see it building, can already see that it’s causing damage to your family and mine—all too soon it’s going to become intolerable.” Cynthia glanced at Hartley, searched his face, then faced forward. After several moments, she said, “Festering sores need to be lanced.”

  Hartley looked at Cynthia’s face, at her profile; her jaw had set in a manner he knew well. “I’m not arguing, but what can we do?”

  After a moment, she said, “Consider this. If we don’t end this feud, now and forever, the only way you and I are going to be able to get married is if we run off to the Americas. It’ll have to be that, for I warn you, I have no ambition whatsoever to feature in any Romeo-and-Juliet-style tragedy.”

  Hartley choked. “I should hope not!”

  “Indeed. So if we want to marry, then we need to do something to…lance this boil that the feud has become.” Shifting within his arm, Cynthia faced him. “Neither you nor I care that much for society or its opinion. We care about each other, and we care about our families, both of them.”

  Hartley nodded. “As I said before, no argument.”

  He waited, watching her face as she thought; she had always been the one to do the planning, while he, as usual, held himself ready to execute whatever scheme she devised.

  But when a minute ticked by and she still didn’t speak, his confidence wavered. If she couldn’t think of a way…

  Ten seconds later, he quietly asked, “Is there anything we can do?”

  Determination hardened her features, then she met his eyes. “I’m not sure yet. Let me think.”

  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 quest
ions, 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 lis
t.

  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.”