In complete agreement, Lady Fairchild and the countess retreated into the house.
Lord Fairchild nodded to Barnaby. “I’ll send for the inspector, and make sure the staff shut the doors and know to discourage anyone thinking to leave—although, thankfully, it’s a bit early yet for that.”
“Thank you.” Barnaby glanced around. The gardens were extensive. “Is there a garden gate?”
Lord Fairchild waved to the right. “In the wall that way, but it should be locked.”
“We’ll check it,” Barnaby said. “We’ll keep an eye on things out here until Stokes arrives.”
Lord Fairchild nodded. “Thank you.” His lordship turned away.
The earl and Devil grimly nodded to the three of them still standing on the grass by the path, then followed Lord Fairchild into the house.
Hugo drew in a short breath, shook himself like an overgrown dog, then turned away. “I’ll go and look at the gate.”
Barnaby glanced down at the corpse, fixing all the details of the scene in his mind, then he looked along the path. “We can all go.” Sliding his hands into his pockets, he walked past the body. Stepping onto the path, he started ambling, with a glance confirming that Penelope was all right and that she was coming. Slipping a hand into the crook of his arm, she fell into step beside him. Looking ahead, he said, “I think we can rely on the pater and Devil to ensure that no one comes outside to gawp.”
Pacing on Barnaby’s other side, Hugo shook his head. “They could, for all I care, but I take your point. Hysteria at a ball might be memorable, but is unlikely to be pleasant.”
They found the gate and confirmed that it was locked, but a quick survey of the stone wall surrounding the huge garden showed that any man of reasonable agility could have scaled it in several spots. They wandered further, through areas cultivated in various styles, eventually reaching an ornamental lake with a marble folly set to one side. Continuing on via yet another path, they traversed a walled rose garden and ultimately emerged on the other side of the house.
Walking back along a promenade running parallel to the rear façade of the huge house, Barnaby looked up at the long windows of the ballroom. “Anyone who approached the side terrace from this direction, or left this way, would have risked being seen by people in the ballroom.”
“Hmm. And I’ve been thinking.” Penelope glanced up and met his eyes. “The murderer had to be standing on the terrace to pick up the ball and drop it on Lady Galbraith. I have difficulty imagining someone coming from this direction, much less a man climbing over the garden wall and stealing through the gardens, then somehow managing to walk up the terrace steps all the way to the top and pick up that stone ball without Lady Galbraith noticing. And she hadn’t noticed, had she?”
“But she’d looked up,” Hugo said.
“Yes,” Penelope conceded, “but only at the last moment. She hadn’t tried to move away—she was struck down where she stood. If someone she hadn’t known had walked from the path to the terrace, she would have heard and seen them. She would have been watching them. She would have been suspicious.”
“Which is to say,” Barnaby dryly concluded, “that the murderer is almost certainly another of Lady Fairchild’s guests.”
After rounding the corner of the house, they returned to the side terrace and the body. All three of them looked up at the terrace, back at the path, around at the gardens.
Returning her gaze to the terrace, Penelope grimaced. “The murderer could not have come to the terrace via the paths or the garden. They had to have come via the house.”
“If they were another guest,” Barnaby said, also looking up, “Lady Galbraith wouldn’t have seen any reason to move—not until it was too late.”
A stir in the corridor beyond the terrace doors proved to be Stokes, accompanied by one of his sergeants, along with Barnaby’s father and Lord Fairchild.
Leaving the men to confer over the body, Penelope climbed the terrace steps. Pausing beside the pillar from which the lethal ball had been taken, she examined its top. The pillar ended in a stone hemisphere set round side down, but instead of being flat, the upper surface contained a shallow depression in which the ball had sat. There was no evidence of any additional fixture to hold the ball in place. A cushion of lichen had grown around where the ball had been, thickest on the side closest to the house. “Protected from the sun by the ball,” Penelope muttered.
She looked up as Hugo, having already been questioned by Stokes and then released, climbed the steps.
Halting beside her, Hugo looked down at Barnaby, then he met Penelope’s eyes. “I don’t know how you two do this.”
Penelope thought of telling him why they did—because they could help. There was, she was convinced, a great deal of good in Hugo, as in all the rest of his family, but he was still bumbling about, trying to find his way.
Instead of explaining, she smiled understandingly and patted his arm. “Go and have a brandy.”
Hugo blew out a breath. “Thank you. I rather think I’ll have three.”
With that, he headed into the house. Penelope turned and walked along the terrace balustrade. Pausing at each pillar topped by a stone ball—there were four in all, three still with balls—she confirmed that all were the same, with nothing actually anchoring the balls to the pillars’ tops.
Returning to the head of the steps, she heard Stokes say, “It seems clear enough. Someone—almost certainly some guest—lifted the ball from the pillar at the top of the steps and dropped it on Lady Galbraith.” Stokes paused, then added, “Which means this is murder.”
Lord Fairchild and the earl winced at the bald statement, but no one argued.
“We need to find out who did this and why,” Barnaby stated. “And with all possible speed.”
Again, there was general consensus. Looking over the balustrade, Penelope watched while Stokes, supported by Barnaby and the earl, and, however reluctantly, assisted by Lord Fairchild, discussed ways and means of achieving those goals. All agreed that there was no sense in even attempting to interview all the guests—there were far too many. It was determined that Stokes’s sergeant, O’Donnell, aided by the constables who would have arrived at the house by now, would collect the guests’ names and then let them go.
“That’s the best we can do regarding the who, at least for now.” Stokes looked down at the body.
Penelope bided her time while Lord Fairchild and the earl came up the steps and went into the house, followed by Sergeant O’Donnell, who recognized her and tipped his head respectfully. She waited until Barnaby and Stokes finally left the body and climbed the steps toward her.
As if sensing she was waiting with some purpose in mind, both halted two steps down, their faces level with hers.
She smiled a touch grimly. “There’s another question we need to ask, and I rather think it comes first.”
Barnaby and Stokes both raised their brows invitingly.
“Why did Lady Galbraith come outside?” Penelope glanced at the deserted gardens. No lanterns had been strung; it was too early in the season, the weather too often inclement to bother with such amenities. Looking back at Barnaby and Stokes, noting that both looked struck, she elaborated, “She’s been dead for how long? An hour or so before she was found? Why on earth would she leave one of the premier events of the Season, which had only just commenced, and come out here?”
Stokes slowly nodded. “Even I know that’s odd.” After a moment, he glanced at Barnaby, then looked at Penelope. “Our first step, I think, should be to interview her family. All those present.”
“According to Lady Fairchild and Barnaby’s mother,” Penelope said, “all Lady Galbraith’s immediate family is here.”
Stokes grimaced. “I’m not looking forward to breaking the news, but…” He drew breath. “After that’s done, we should see if we can turn up anyone who saw her ladyship leave the ballroom with anyone, or who has any idea why she left.”
Her expression resolute, Penelo
pe nodded. “I’ll come and observe the family’s reactions, then I’ll find out who Lady Galbraith’s bosom-bows are and see if they know anything.”
“Right.” Clearly metaphorically girding his loins, Stokes turned to the house.
Penelope slid her arm through Barnaby’s and they followed Stokes inside.
* * *
They re-entered the ballroom to find it abuzz. People had gathered in tight groups, talking in subdued tones and looking about as if searching for further enlightenment; clearly, the news of the murder had got out. Penelope hoped that Lady Fairchild and the countess had managed to corral the Galbraiths before the whispers started.
Stokes paused to consult with his men and to liaise with Lord and Lady Fairchild over how best to funnel the guests past the constables waiting to take down names and then to urge the guests to leave.
The earl and Devil had been joined by Honoria and the countess; all four offered their services in assisting with the guests. “Especially,” Honoria crisply stated, “in tactfully suggesting that the most appropriate action would be to climb into their carriages and depart.”
Very few of those present were likely to argue with the Duchess of St. Ives. Aware of that, Stokes inclined his head gratefully. Then, gathering Barnaby and Penelope with a glance, Stokes followed Lord Fairchild to the drawing room.
Lord Fairchild reached for the drawing room doorknob. Stokes stopped him. “If you could give me the names, my lord? It would help.”
Lord Fairchild nodded. He frowned. “William, Lord Galbraith. The son is Mr. Hartley Galbraith. He’s the oldest child. The eldest daughter is Geraldine, then next…” Faltering, Lord Galbraith cast a hopeful glance at Penelope.
Penelope pushed her glasses higher up her nose. “Primrose is the middle daughter, and Monica is the youngest. Monica isn’t formally out yet. This is…was to be her first Season.”
“Thank you, my dear.” Lord Fairchild looked at Stokes. “Ready, Inspector?”
Stokes nodded.
Lord Fairchild opened the door and led them inside. Entering on his heels, Stokes swiftly took in the assembled company gathered on and about a pair of sofas set facing each other before the hearth. All looked apprehensive. Three young ladies, ranging in age from perhaps twenty-five to a bare eighteen, sat clustered on one sofa—Geraldine, Primrose, and Monica, Stokes supposed. Hartley Galbraith proved to be a well-dressed gentleman of about thirty summers. He was standing behind the youngest girl, one hand resting comfortingly on her shoulder; she appeared overwhelmed, her gaze fixed on her hands, clasped tightly in her lap.
Stokes shifted his gaze to the older gentleman occupying the corner of the second sofa, facing the eldest young lady. Heavyset and with tufty white hair, Lord Galbraith wore an openly bewildered expression. From the gap left beside him—from the way his hand reached to that space as if seeking a comfort that wasn’t there—it appeared that the family, or at least Lord Galbraith, hadn’t yet realized that Lady Galbraith wouldn’t be joining them.
Hearing the door quietly shut behind him, Stokes halted a pace behind and a little to Lord Fairchild’s right; his lordship had stopped just inside the glow cast by the lamps sitting on the side tables flanking both sofas. Stokes might have wished for better light, but could understand the instinctive impulse to grant the soon-to-be-grieving some shadow.
All eyes fixed on Lord Fairchild. His lordship hesitated, then simply said, “I fear there’s been an accident. This is Inspector Stokes from Scotland Yard.” Indicating Stokes with a wave, Lord Fairchild stepped back.
Of all his duties, informing innocents of the murder of one of their own was the one Stokes hated the most. Because of that, he’d paid attention to what was most effective in accomplishing that task; in simple words and short sentences, he broke the news of Lady Galbraith’s death.
To say her family was shocked would have been a gross understatement.
Stokes was a policeman. He watched closely, but the initial disbelief, the insistence that he had made some mistake, followed by denial and eventually superseded by a form of chilling shock, were all too familiar and appeared entirely genuine.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, the youngest girl, Monica, was the first to burst into tears. On a series of deep, wrenching sobs, she finally raised her head, only to fling herself into her sister Primrose’s arms. Primrose caught her and clung, then all three girls were weeping.
For his part, Hartley Galbraith’s face had set, but he’d focused on his father. Leaving the girls clinging to each other, he swiftly rounded the sofa and crouched beside Lord Galbraith; gently, he took the old man’s hand. “Papa?”
William Galbraith didn’t reply. He stared at a spot in the middle of the room. He looked…unable to take the information in. He appeared utterly lost, as if his tether to the real world had snapped.
Stokes knew he couldn’t not question the family, at least to ask them what they knew of their mother’s movements, if they knew of any reason that would have taken her out of the ballroom. He couldn’t let them go, couldn’t leave them to their grief, without asking at least that much.
But he didn’t have to ask straightaway. Stepping back, out of the lamplight, he turned to Lord Fairchild and Barnaby.
From the shadows by the door, Penelope continued to study the Galbraiths. Victims were most often murdered by people close to them, and no one was closer than family, but even though she’d scrutinized the Galbraiths from the moment she’d entered the room, she’d seen not one hint of any falsity or misplaced emotion. Hartley was the most difficult to read; like most gentlemen, he’d been trained to hide his emotions, but his concern for his sisters, Monica especially—and then once he’d heard the news, his flaring concern for his father—seemed utterly genuine.
If Penelope was any judge—and, increasingly, she was—Hartley would focus on helping everyone else through this difficult time, and only confront his own grief much later. He wouldn’t have time to dwell on his loss while his family needed him. For men like him, dealing with the grief of everyone else was often the way they coped with their own; by the time they allowed themselves to look inside, their own grief had ebbed. So she understood Hartley, and nothing about him rang false.
As for his father, William Galbraith was shattered. Any suggestion that he might have had any hand in his wife’s murder was simply untenable; the man looked as if his soul had been ripped from his body.
As for the girls, Geraldine was trying desperately to regain some measure of dignity and control, but she displayed much the same stunned reaction as her father and seemed helpless to be of much comfort to her younger sisters. Primrose and Monica were beyond distressed, but of the three, Primrose looked to be finding her feet the fastest; she didn’t seem as overwhelmed as her sisters, yet her grief was etched in her face too clearly for anyone to doubt it.
On entering the room, Penelope had been unable to form any firm view about Monica Galbraith. With her gaze down and her hands tightly clasped, Monica had appeared already highly wrought, but with this being her first major ball, her not being out yet, and her mother having to all intents and purposes deserted her in a setting where most girls her age would be at a loss…in such circumstances, it wasn’t hard to excuse Monica’s self-absorbed tension. The subsequent implosion when she’d heard of her mother’s death…given that she might well have been harboring dark thoughts over her mother having left her to the ton’s not-always-gentle mercies, her reaction was not necessarily surprising and, by Penelope’s estimation, was very much in character. Young girls of Monica’s age were often exceedingly uncertain—of themselves and many other things.
Having finally reached through Lord Galbraith’s fugue and exchanged several low-voiced words of comfort, Hartley Galbraith released his father’s hand and rose.
Stokes had been waiting; he turned and met Hartley halfway.
Deciding she’d gleaned all she could for the moment, Penelope left Stokes to his work, with Barnaby as support. After quietly opening the
door, she slipped out into the corridor.
She closed the door, then turned toward the ballroom. “Now let’s see what I can learn from Lady Galbraith’s friends.”
CHAPTER 2
A quick question posed to Honoria and the countess and Penelope had learned who she needed to question.
“They’re the biggest whisperers, of course, and the most insistent over being told what’s going on. We’ve left them until last.” Honoria pointed to a group of five ladies clustered by the windows, their husbands loosely grouped nearby. “That’s them over there—Lady Howatch is the redhead. She’ll introduce you.”
With a word of thanks, Penelope crossed the ballroom. As it transpired, she hardly needed an introduction; her connection to Barnaby, whose association with Stokes and the police was well known, ensured she had the immediate attention of all the ladies, as well as their husbands.
“My dear Mrs. Adair, what can you tell us about what has happened?” When Penelope didn’t immediately respond, the lady who had spoken lowered her voice. “Is it true that dear Marjorie was attacked and violated and then beaten to death by some itinerant who had taken refuge in the gardens?”
Penelope fixed the silly woman, whose name escaped her, with a direct stare and, borrowing her tone from Honoria, stated, “No.” Realizing that she needed to hold on to the conversational reins, she continued, “My husband’s cousin, Hugo Adair, found Lady Galbraith’s body in the garden several hours ago. She had already been dead for some time.” Hugo would have been among the first to depart; Penelope had no compunction in throwing his name, at least, to these wolves. “I am not at liberty to disclose further information, and a surgeon has yet to view the body and determine the cause of death.” All of which was perfectly true. “However, what the police need at this juncture is information. We need you to tell us whether you know of any reason or have any notion whatsoever as to why Lady Galbraith left the ballroom this evening.”
The Curious Case of Lady Latimer's Shoes: A Casebook of Barnaby Adair Novel (The Casebook of Barnaby Adair) Page 2
