Hartley blinked, then slowly shook his head. “That’s…not really the case.” He met Barnaby’s gaze, then briefly glanced at Stokes, before looking back at Barnaby. “You need to understand that the feud, as people call it, was entirely of my mother’s making. Aunt Hester—Lady Latimer—is the kindest soul, but Mama’s demand to be given access to the shoes placed her—Aunt Hester—in an invidious position. Mama refused to see that. She and she alone was the architect of the feud. For the rest of us?’ Hartley shrugged. “Even my sisters weren’t all that concerned. Yes, they would have liked to have had Lady Latimer’s shoes, but they were happy enough to wait. Aunt Hester told them from the first that of course she would make them—my sisters and my mother, too—gifts of Lady Latimer’s shoes as soon as her own daughters were on the way to being settled.” Hartley glanced at Stokes. “In ton terms, that was fair dealing.”
Stokes still wasn’t sure he fully appreciated the importance of Lady Latimer’s shoes and, indeed, wasn’t at all sure he wished to—shoes, for heaven’s sake—yet when it came to the ton and matters of family, he was long past the age of being surprised. “You refer to Lady Latimer as Aunt Hester. Why?”
Hartley’s jaw tightened. “We’re not related by blood, but if anything, the ties go deeper. Mama and Lady Latimer—Aunt Hester—grew up together in the country. They were neighbors. They made their come-outs together, were chief attendant at each other’s wedding, and through all the years, our families have been very close. We—the children—were one big tribe. We were in and out of each other’s houses all the time.” Hartley angled his head toward the front of the house. “The Latimers’ town house is just across the square, almost directly opposite. And in summer we were always together, either at their country house in Surrey or at ours in Sussex.” He paused, then added, “I consider the Latimers family. So do my sisters and my father. In instigating and then perpetuating the feud, Mama trampled rough-shod over all our feelings. We tried to remonstrate, but she refused to listen. She’d caught a bee in her bonnet and was not about to let it go. Courtesy of my mother’s actions, my sisters have been cut off from their closest friends for the past year and more.”
Hartley hesitated, then more quietly said, “The feud hurt us all, us just as much as the Latimers, but caught in her obsession, Mama refused to even see that, much less consider it.”
A short silence fell, then Hartley stirred and looked at Stokes.
Glancing down at his notebook, Stokes asked, “The young lady—your intended. Her name?”
Hartley debated; Barnaby noted that Hartley’s expression had grown easier to read the more he focused on facts and not emotions. Eventually, Hartley said, “If it should become necessary, I will give you her name, but until that time, I would prefer not to reveal it. As I mentioned, we are striving to break the news of our betrothal to our families in the least disruptive way, so…no. Not at this moment.”
His gaze on Hartley’s face, Stokes considered that.
Hartley didn’t wilt. Instead, he offered, “The most she can do is corroborate all that I’ve told you. She was by my side throughout those minutes, so saw no more than I did. Unless you truly doubt my word, there’s little point in me telling you her name.” He hesitated, then added, “And regardless of all else, I see no reason why she should be subjected to an unnecessary inquisition.”
Stokes’s lips quirked cynically at that “inquisition,” but after a second of further deliberation, he inclined his head. “Very well. For the moment, I will allow you your veil of secrecy. However, if we do need her testimony, and most likely at some point we will, then we will ask again, and you will need to answer.”
Hartley acknowledged the concession with a nod. “Thank you, Inspector.”
Barnaby unfolded his long legs and rose.
Stuffing his notebook into his pocket, Stokes got to his feet, too. They parted from Hartley Galbraith on equable terms. Millwell, appearing even more distracted than he had earlier, showed them out and shut the door on their heels.
Glancing back at the door, Barnaby saw that the knocker was now decently swathed in black silk. Facing forward, he said, “I have to own to a rabid curiosity over who Galbraith’s intended is.”
Halting on the pavement, Stokes humphed. “Just ask your wife. I’m sure she’ll work it out in three blinks.” A second passed, then he glanced at Barnaby. “Speaking of which…”
Barnaby grinned. “Indeed. We may as well accept the inevitable and head directly to Albemarle Street. There’s no sense in going all the way back to the Yard just to read the note-cum-summons that, no doubt, is by now residing on your blotter.”
Stokes sighed and raised an arm to hail the hackney just rounding the square. “Any bets that Griselda and Megan are already there—and Violet and Montague, too?”
“Not Violet and Montague.” Barnaby opened the door of the hackney as it drew to a halt before them; waving Stokes in, he met his gaze. “It’s too early for them, but I’m sure they’ll arrive in good time for dinner.”
Stokes laughed and climbed in. Grinning, Barnaby looked up at the jarvey. “Number twenty-four, Albemarle Street.” Then he followed Stokes into the carriage.
CHAPTER 5
Penelope felt positively virtuous. She had spent most of the day slaving diligently over the translation the British Museum had commissioned. She was making good progress; Violet would be pleased.
Her mother, the Dowager Viscountess Calverton, had called early in the afternoon, and Penelope had allowed herself to be distracted enough to take tea and to have all she’d learned about the Galbraiths and Latimers confirmed by her most trusted source on such matters. Yet after seeing her mother into her carriage, she had dutifully returned to her desk and her Greek scribe; in the late afternoon, she had attended the Royal Society lecture as she had promised, before returning once more to her desk.
Now, her metaphorical halo glowing, she settled on one of the twin sofas in her drawing room and prepared to indulge in her reward—dissecting all the information Barnaby, Stokes, and Montague had thus far assembled, ferreting out what clues they had found, and deciding where next to search. “Right, then.” She looked around eagerly—at Griselda, sinking onto the sofa beside her, at Montague and Violet seated on the sofa opposite, and, finally, at Stokes in one of the armchairs flanking the fireplace and Barnaby in its mate. “Where should we start?”
“At the beginning,” Montague said. “Neither Violet nor I—nor, I suspect, Griselda—have heard a full accounting of the murder.” Even as the words left his lips, Montague wondered at himself; there he was, seated alongside his lovely wife and inviting others who were long accustomed to dealing with crime to sully her ears with gruesome details. Then he glanced at Violet’s face, took in her expression—every bit as eager as Penelope’s—and reminded himself that Violet’s happiness was his principal goal, conservative protectiveness be damned.
“I think that’s my cue.” Stretching out his long legs, Barnaby collected his thoughts, then began. “One of my cousins, Hugo, found the body when he went outside to smoke. He came and found me.” Concisely, Barnaby described the body and all he and Penelope had noted about the site and the body itself, and what they had consequently deduced.
Stokes was nodding. “So whoever the murderer is, they were almost certainly one of Lady Fairchild’s guests.”
“But her guest list for that evening is enormous,” Penelope put in, “so combing through it trying to identify the murderer isn’t a way we want to go.”
Stokes grunted. “We’ve made some advance on the murderer’s identity, but as we’re not up to that yet, let’s continue with our recapitulation.”
Barnaby duly described the Galbraith family and what he and Stokes had learned from the interviews carried out in the Fairchilds’ drawing room.
“Precious little,” Stokes muttered.
Barnaby inclined his head and continued, ending with, “However, all of them did deny going outside at any time.” Having comp
leted that section of their report, he cocked a brow at Penelope.
She sat straighter and lifted her chin. “I stayed in the drawing room long enough to confirm that all the Galbraiths’ reactions rang true. I didn’t detect anything unexpected in the way they responded to the news. Subsequently, I went back to the ballroom and questioned a group of Lady Galbraith’s friends.”
In short order, she outlined what she’d learned about the feud between the Galbraith and Latimer families. “After that, I made straight for the Latimers.” She briefly described the family and all she’d observed and deduced about them. “And later I had a chance to speak to some of the grandes dames, and they gave me the ton’s view on Lady Latimer’s shoes, Lady Latimer’s stance regarding Lady Galbraith’s demand, and the resulting feud.”
Frowning slightly in concentration, Penelope recounted the pertinent details of the conversation. “And finally,” she concluded, “Lady Fairchild pointed out that, despite there being no connection between Lady Latimer’s shoes and Lady Galbraith’s murder, society being what it is, fingers will soon enough be pointed at Lady Latimer and her family.”
Ending with a brisk nod, Penelope looked around the group—and discovered that Stokes and Barnaby were regarding her rather grimly. “What is it?”
Stokes grimaced. He glanced at Barnaby, then said, “Let’s continue to take this step by step.” Stokes looked at Montague. “As our first foray this morning, Barnaby and I called on Montague and asked him to check the Galbraith’s finances, thinking to at least eliminate money as a motive.” Stokes looked at the others. “While Montague was doing that, Barnaby and I returned to Fairchild House and interviewed the staff. No one saw Lady Galbraith leave the ballroom, or go out onto the terrace, and none of the staff noticed her having any altercation or even a conversation with anyone. However, thanks be, we turned up a footman who’d been serving champagne in the ballroom and had seen Mr. Hartley Galbraith leave the ballroom and go outside via the side terrace.”
“So Hartley lied about going outside.” Griselda frowned. “Did he go outside before or after his mother?”
“Before.” Stokes glanced at the notebook he’d extracted from his pocket and was balancing on his knee. “This was quite early in the evening—about half past nine.”
Violet asked, “Do we have any idea of when, exactly, her ladyship met her end?”
Stokes looked at Barnaby. “From your description when you first found her and what I saw when I got there, I’d say she was killed around ten o’clock.”
Fingers steepled before his face, Barnaby nodded. “I agree. But as it happens, we got confirmation of the time later.” He looked at Penelope and Griselda. “After learning that Hartley had gone out via the terrace yet had denied doing so during our interview in the Fairchilds’ drawing room, a second interview with him was in order, but first we stopped at Montague’s to steer him more specifically toward Hartley.” Barnaby looked at Montague. “And…”
“It so happened that I had already received information on Hartley Galbraith’s recent financial activity.” Montague paused, amused by the way both Penelope and Griselda hung on his words, waiting…
Violet flicked his arm with her fingers. “Stop teasing.” She looked at Penelope and Griselda. “Hartley Galbraith was putting his affairs in order, most likely either in pursuit of a business venture or because he planned to make an offer for some lady’s hand.”
Penelope blinked, then swung her gaze to Stokes. “And…”
Stokes grinned at her imperious tone. “And so we went and asked him which it was. But first we had to track him down.” With a nod, Stokes passed the reporting baton to Barnaby.
“Hartley had given an address in Jermyn Street.” Barnaby glanced at Penelope. “Near where I used to live. As it transpired, Hartley wasn’t there, but his landlord, Lord Carradale, was.” Briefly, Barnaby recounted their conversation with Carradale. “For all his faults, Carradale is someone I would class as acutely observant and very hard to gull. If Carradale says Hartley was deeply cut up over his mother’s death, then he was.”
“I also got the impression that Carradale liked Galbraith—that he would consider him a friend,” Stokes put in.
Barnaby nodded. “Indeed. Which tells us something of Hartley’s character.” Barnaby paused, then went on, “As Hartley had gone to stay in Hanover Square, we trundled around there and soon had his stated reason for returning home confirmed—Hartley is holding the household together entirely by himself.”
Stokes snorted. “I wasn’t expecting to approve of the man, much less respect him, but unless he’s the greatest actor ever born, he truly is struggling to hold his family together over what is unquestionably a terrible time. His father is prostrate, and so are his sisters.”
“I would have to agree,” Barnaby said. “I went there thinking that Hartley might be our murderer, but by the time we left…even his excuses for not speaking at the Fairchilds’—that he was in shock and couldn’t think and was stunned by the implications—rang true. And, of course, there was the tale he had to tell, which is simply so dramatic and fits the other facts we’ve learned so well that, despite wanting to be suspicious of him and his account, I found myself believing it.”
Stokes reluctantly nodded.
Penelope looked from one to the other. “What tale? Was Hartley out in the garden when his mother was murdered?”
“Yes, he was.” Succinctly, Barnaby recounted all that Hartley had divulged.
The others stared.
Predictably, Penelope recovered first. “So he saw his mother murdered?”
Barnaby nodded. “And assuming he’s telling the truth, so did his intended.”
All six fell silent, dwelling on what Hartley and his mysterious intended must have seen.
After a moment, frowning, Montague looked at Penelope. “It would help if I knew what these Lady Latimer’s shoes looked like.”
Stokes grunted in agreement.
Penelope grimaced. “I really should have thought to take a closer look when I spoke with the Latimers last night, but from all I’ve heard, in style the shoes are ordinary ballroom pumps, but their fabric is embroidered with metallic thread, and then crystals are stuck on in various patterns. As I understand it, getting the crystals to stick is the difficulty—normally crystals don’t stay stuck on fabric or leather, especially not in the atmosphere of a ballroom and with the flexing of shoes while dancing. At the beginning of last year when Lady Latimer’s shoes first became all the rage, others tried to copy the effect, but their crystals fell off and got under everyone’s feet and scratched the floors. Ultimately, all such attempts ended in disaster.”
Violet tilted her head, clearly visualizing such shoes. “So imagining what Hartley and his intended saw, given there was moonlight, I could see the crystals flashing on the shoes and drawing their eyes as the lady disappeared into the house.”
“Actually,” Penelope said, “that’s another point—did Hartley notice what color the shoes were?” Immediately upon voicing the question, she grimaced. “He didn’t, did he?”
Barnaby met her gaze. “Given the quality of the light at the time, even had he noticed, I doubt he could have distinguished any color beyond ‘light’ or ‘dark.’”
“We might get more information from his intended,” Penelope said. “Clearly at some point you will have to interview her.” Seeing Stokes’s and Montague’s puzzled looks, she elucidated, “Generally, ballroom pumps are covered in the same fabric as the gown with which they’re worn. A light-colored gown could be worn by anyone, but a dark material would not be worn by a young lady, and only certain matrons wear darker hues, so if we knew the color, it would reduce the suspects.”
Griselda shifted to look at Penelope. “Can you remember the colors of the gowns the Latimer ladies were wearing last night?”
Penelope closed her eyes and reeled off the names, along with the relevant color and style of gown.
When she opened her eyes again, Grise
lda grinned. “I see your point.”
“Indeed, but as we don’t know the color of the shoes, and as Barnaby says, the quality of the light wasn’t conducive to identifying any hue accurately—” Penelope broke off as Mostyn entered. She arched her brows. “Dinner?”
Mostyn bowed. “Indeed, ma’am. Dinner is served.”
The six had developed the habit of putting aside their investigative deliberations over their shared meals, the better to appreciate the food and each other’s company. By general consensus, the next hour and a half was filled with conversation on more pleasant subjects.
But immediately the meal was over, and they were settled once more in what had rapidly become their accustomed positions in the drawing room, all refocused on the crime that lay before them, waiting to be solved.
“Can I suggest,” Stokes said, “that we take our usual approach and list what we feel we know about the events leading up to and immediately following the murder?”
“And then see what questions that leads to.” Penelope nodded. “I second the motion.”
Along with the others, she looked at Barnaby, who was usually the most concise in drawing the disparate threads of an investigation together. Settling in his armchair, he accepted the unvoiced invitation. “The first relevant fact is that Hartley Galbraith left the Fairchilds’ ballroom at about half past nine. He was seen going out onto the side terrace and down the steps into the garden. We don’t know when Lady Galbraith left the ballroom—earlier or later—but if it had been earlier, her daughters would most likely have noticed.” Brows rising, Barnaby met Stokes’s eyes. “Indeed, it’s unlikely that Lady Galbraith could have quit the ballroom before Hartley. That would have meant her disappearing very soon after she’d arrived, and with three unmarried daughters present, one of whom is not even formally out, that would certainly have been noticed, by her daughters if no one else.”
Stokes lightly shrugged. “I’ll take your word for that.”
Fleetingly, Barnaby grinned. “So…Lady Galbraith most likely left the ballroom sometime after her son. We don’t know why she left, what reason she had for going out onto the terrace and subsequently down onto the path. We have no sightings of anyone else leaving the ballroom, but it’s entirely possible that someone could have.”
The Curious Case of Lady Latimer's Shoes: A Casebook of Barnaby Adair Novel (The Casebook of Barnaby Adair) Page 7
