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

by Stephanie Laurens

  “No, indeed.” Grinning at the thought, Griselda walked to the long wooden counter that ran along one end of the store.

  A bright-eyed shop girl came hurrying to ask, “Can I help you, ma’am?”

  Violet and Griselda had refined their approach over the previous four inquiries.

  “I’m a milliner,” Griselda said, setting her gloves and reticule on the counter as if ready to do business. “And a colleague—a shoemaker—told me of a certain crystal she thought might be useful in my creations. One from Slovakia that has a high lead content, and that’s been cut to emphasize its brilliance.”

  “Oh, I know the sort you mean, but…” The girl looked doubtful. “They’re terribly expensive, ma’am, and we don’t get much call for them. There’s plenty of other crystals that will look as good and that are only a fraction of the cost.”

  Griselda allowed her smile to deepen. “Perhaps, but there are times when only a certain crystal will do. If you could show me what you have in that type?”

  The girl appeared to inwardly sigh. “I’ll have to call Mr. Olson. Like I said, those crystals are shocking expensive, and he’s the only one allowed to show them. I’ll just get him, if you’ll wait?”

  They’d had the same experience in the other four stores. Violet nodded crisply. “We’ll wait.”

  The girl disappeared through a door in the wall behind the counter.

  Frowning slightly, Violet glanced at Griselda. “That’s the fifth time that’s happened—that the shop girl tries to steer us away from the more expensive crystals. Why would they do that? Surely it’s better if we spend more.”

  Griselda’s lips curved. “She told you why, in a way. It’s because their wages are based on commission. If she sells us cheaper crystals, she’ll at least get something, but only Olson handles the expensive goods, so there’s no commission for her if we buy those.”

  “Ah.” Violet nodded. “I see.”

  She composed her expression as the door to the back room opened and a large man, still shrugging on his jacket, appeared. Seeing Griselda and Violet, he smiled. “Ladies. Allow me to assist you. I understand you’re interested in our extremely fine crystals from Slovakia.”

  He stepped aside to allow the shop girl to set a large covered tray, three times the size of Myrtle Hook’s and much deeper, on the counter. “Thank you, Elsie. That will be all.” With a flourish, Mr. Olson opened the tray.

  Light, brilliant white, sharp and intense, flared from the thick bed of crystals inside the boxlike tray.

  Reaching in, Griselda picked out one small crystal. Holding it between her thumb and forefinger, she held it up to the light, examining the way the facets had been cut. She looked at Violet and nodded. “These are the right crystals.”

  “Oh, indeed, ladies.” Olson beamed. “If you’re looking for something extra special—”

  “What we’re looking for, sir,” Violet calmly stated, “is the direction of the shoemaker who has recently commenced buying these crystals.” She took a chance and, her gaze steady, added, “From you. Perhaps over the past six or so months.”

  Olson retreated; he almost took a step back. But he was too slow to say, “A shoemaker?” to hide his comprehension.

  “Yes.” Griselda straightened, perfectly certain, now, that in Olson they had found the supplier to the mystery shoemaker. “We want to ask him about his latest design, so if you will oblige us with his name and direction, we won’t trouble you further.”

  Seeing no sale eventuating and nothing in the exchange for him, Olson tried bluster with overtones of coyness. “Ladies—I can’t tell you that. Giving out information on my customers? Why, my good name—”

  “Will be mud,” Griselda interjected, “if my husband finds himself obliged to come here with a warrant to extract the information from you.”

  Olson’s eyes flew wide. “Husband?” Then he all but goggled. “Warrant?”

  “Indeed.” Violet caught Olson’s gaze. “My friend’s husband is Inspector Basil Stokes of Scotland Yard. He is presently investigating a murder, and while no one imagines the shoemaker is in any way involved, the authorities are quite certain that someone wearing shoes that shoemaker produced is.” She paused to allow Olson to digest that; she had no wish to have him take it into his head that in supplying them with the name of the shoemaker, he would be doing the man a disservice.

  And Olson’s statement that giving out information on customers wasn’t good business was undeniably true, especially in the trades he supplied, all of which had powerful guilds.

  Eventually accepting that there was no easy way out for him, Olson looked from Violet to Griselda. “If I give you his name, you’ll go off and not send your husband here? And you won’t let on to the customer that I gave him up?”

  “As your customer is not going to feel threatened in the least,” Griselda said, “I doubt that he’ll even ask how we found him. Regardless, even should he ask, there’s no benefit to us in telling him.” She held Olson’s gaze. “Is there?”

  Olson mumbled something, but capitulated and fetched his customer accounts. Leafing back through them, he stopped only a few pages in. “Here he is. He came in four days ago for another half-pound of those crystals—which, I have to tell you, is a pricey purchase. He said as how he was expecting many more sales soon, and was laying in stock.” Olson hesitated, then drew out the sheet, turned it, and laid it on the counter so Violet and Griselda could read it. “So there—I’ve given you what you want, but I haven’t actually told you his name, have I?”

  “No, indeed.” Swiftly, Griselda scanned the page, which listed all the purchases of the crystals made by one Danny Gibson, on the account of Gibson and Sons, of Mercer Street. “Mercer Street…that’s off Long Acre, isn’t it?”

  “Aye.” Olson reached for the sheet.

  Violet put her gloved hand on it and held it in place. “So he, Danny Gibson, bought just a small sample of the crystals almost a year ago, but then he came back late last year and bought more. Then he returned again in February for another substantial amount, before, as you said, buying still more four days ago.” Violet paused, then lifted her hand and allowed Olson to whisk the sheet away.

  As Olson tucked the sheet back into his stack, Violet looked at Griselda and smiled. Triumphantly.

  Then she glanced at Olson. “Thank you, Mr. Olson. You’ve been most helpful.”

  Olson didn’t look pleased.

  Thoroughly delighted, Violet and Griselda turned and swept out of his emporium.

  As they climbed back into the carriage, Griselda said, “I can’t wait to see Penelope’s face when she hears our news.”

  * * *

  Penelope kept telling herself that her suspicion regarding the possible identity of the lady on the terrace was based on a deductive leap for which she had no firm evidence.

  And yet…

  “Damn!” Realizing she’d gone off in a distracted daze—again—she shook herself, sat straighter, and reapplied her eyes and her brain to the sadly uninspiring ramblings of the ancient Greek scribe the museum, for some incomprehensible reason, felt they needed to convert into English.

  Muttering to herself, she soldiered on through another page, trying not to think jealous thoughts about what Violet and Griselda were doing. That morning when the pair had arrived armed with their list of five importers of the crystals, she had wanted so much to go with them, but as she’d agreed the previous evening, after Violet had inquired how much further she had to go with the translation, she had reluctantly remained in Albemarle Street the better to meet her deadline.

  “Although why the museum has placed a deadline on a translation of an archaic work is entirely beyond me.” Clutching a pencil, she underlined one passage that, although she was perfectly certain it included all the right words in the correct order, made precious little sense.

  In the distance, she heard the front doorbell peal. Pencil poised, she wondered if it was wrong to hope that it was one of her sisters, or
even her mother come to demand she attend some afternoon tea.

  Even though, by and large, she avoided such social engagements.

  “Discipline,” she muttered, and bent to her task.

  The door opened. She glanced up, and tried not to look too hopeful when she saw Mostyn enter. She arched her brows in question.

  “A Mr. Galbraith and a Miss Latimer have arrived and are asking to see you, ma’am.”

  Penelope blinked. “Mr. Galbraith and Miss Latimer?” She blinked again. “Great heavens.” She thought for a moment, then smiled. “Of course!” Setting down her pencil, she pushed back her chair and rose. Not even Violet would expect her to continue with the translation rather than see what her unexpected guests had to say. “Where have you put them? The drawing room?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Grinning himself, Mostyn followed her from the room.

  “I wonder which Miss Latimer it is.” In the front hall, Penelope paused to check her hair in the mirror and straighten her gown. She hesitated, then said to her reflection, “Cynthia. My money would be on it being Cynthia…and I can’t believe I didn’t see that Hartley’s intended simply had to be a Latimer.”

  Turning to the drawing room door, she nodded to Mostyn. He opened the door and she swept through.

  Immediately, her eyes went to the lady sitting on one sofa—and yes, it was Cynthia Latimer who rose to her feet. She was holding her reticule and, judging by her expression, was almost pugnaciously determined.

  Hartley had been standing beside the sofa; he turned to face Penelope as she glided forward. “Mrs. Adair. We haven’t been introduced, but I believe you were present at the Fairchilds’ on the night…”

  “Indeed.” With a crisp nod, Penelope gave Hartley her hand. As he took it and half bowed, Penelope shifted her gaze to Cynthia. “Miss Latimer.” Retrieving her hand from Hartley’s clasp, Penelope extended it to Cynthia.

  Touching fingers, Cynthia bobbed a polite curtsy. “Mrs. Adair.” Cynthia slanted a swift glance at Hartley. “We hope you will excuse the interruption to your day, but we felt that it was time we came forward, if nothing else to clarify who was with Hartley in the garden and to verify all that he reported we saw.”

  Already considering the ramifications, Penelope waved the pair to the sofa; sinking onto the sofa opposite, she seized the moment to take in the way Hartley sat Cynthia, the way he hovered protectively before sitting alongside her. Not touching, but close enough to easily take her hand.

  Cynthia, however, did not appear the sort of young lady to cling to any gentleman’s arm; there was strength in her posture, and a certain steeliness of will in the set of her lips and chin and in the directness of her gaze that Penelope recognized.

  “I take it,” she said, “that you are Hartley’s intended?” When Cynthia nodded almost defiantly, Penelope smiled. “And in one stroke, that explains a great deal.” Her gaze on the pair, she said, “I might wish that you had told us earlier, but I can understand why you did not. Given your families do not yet know—”

  “Then revealing our secret on top of Aunt Marjorie’s murder, with the added complication that we both saw it, and of what it was we saw…” Cynthia met Penelope’s gaze. “The very subject we’d been discussing in the folly was how best to reveal our attachment to our families.” She paused, then went on, her gaze unwavering, “It was our hope that our betrothal would act as a catalyst to bring an end to the feud, as people call it. That was the reason we were out in the garden, and then on our way back we saw…” Cynthia gestured resignedly. “We were shocked—and confused, as I’m sure you will appreciate. It seemed best at the time to keep our counsel, but”—Cynthia drew a determined breath—“it didn’t take long to see that the identity of Aunt Marjorie’s murderer needs to be proved sooner rather than later. Courtesy of the feud, with every hour that passes, the pressure on both our families is increasing, compounding the heartbreak of the murder. We”—she glanced at Hartley—“have decided that we need to do whatever we can to assist the police in solving this case as soon as they possibly can.” Cynthia concluded, “So we’ve come to tell you all, to give you, and your husband, and through him the police, the best possible chance to find the murderer quickly.”

  Penelope nodded approvingly. “That is, indeed, the correct course to take. And the next step along that road is to tell me what you saw that night.”

  Hartley stirred. “I’ve already told you the details. Cynthia was beside me.” Reaching across, he grasped one of her hands. “She saw no more than I did.”

  Turning to him, shifting her hand within his clasp, Cynthia squeezed his fingers. “I know you want to protect me, that you would prefer I remain distanced from everything to do with the investigation, but”—lifting his hand, she lightly shook it—“this is too important to us, to both our families, for me to sit quietly by. Not if I can help.” Cynthia paused, her gaze locked with Hartley’s; when next she spoke, her voice rang with conviction. “Aunt Marjorie was your mother. We must learn the truth about who killed her, because without it, you and I will have the devil of a time marrying, much less forging the life we wish. We will not be able to bring our families together again, not unless we have this resolved and can lay the matter to rest. And to do that, I have to tell Mrs. Adair, at least, all that I know. All that I saw.” Cynthia drew breath, and with a faint smile, her gaze still locked with Hartley’s, said, “And you, my dear, have to let me.”

  Penelope held silent, avidly watching the exchange; when, lips thinning, Hartley fractionally inclined his head and Cynthia turned back to her, she felt like applauding. Instead, she said to Cynthia, “You were walking back from the folly by the lake. I’ve recently walked the same path, so I know it. You were walking alongside Hartley, and you came around a curve and up a slight rise, and then, quite suddenly, you could see…”

  Her gaze growing distant, Cynthia nodded. “I could see the path below the side terrace and the end wall of the terrace below the balustrade.” She paused, then without prompting went on, “I couldn’t see the balusters, not even the bottom of them, but I could see Aunt Marjorie on the path.”

  “Which way was she facing?” Penelope asked. It was clear that Cynthia was reporting from a clear visual memory.

  “To our left. Toward the bottom of the terrace steps.”

  “Then what happened?” Penelope asked.

  Hartley stirred, but Cynthia tightened her grip on his hand, and Penelope flicked him a frowning glance, and he subsided.

  “Aunt Marjorie turned,” Cynthia said, “away from us to look up at the terrace. I assumed someone was up there, and she’d heard them and turned to see who they were, or to speak with them.”

  Penelope moistened her lips. “Then…?”

  Cynthia blinked. “It happened in an instant. She was standing there, looking up at the terrace, and in the next second, the ball struck her and she fell.”

  Constructing her own mental picture from Cynthia’s description, Penelope frowned. “How much time elapsed between Lady Galbraith looking up at the terrace—not while she was turning but once she was looking up—and the ball striking her? Did she speak with whoever was up there?”

  “No.” Cynthia shook her head, the response quite definite. “She looked up and the ball struck her—it happened immediately.”

  “Instantaneously,” Hartley confirmed. His expression grim, his gaze, too, had grown distant as he relived those moments in the Fairchilds’ garden.

  Pausing only briefly to define her best tack, Penelope quietly directed, “If you can, please think about the ball falling toward Lady Galbraith. Could you tell whether it dropped straight down or fell at an angle?” The question was a test. Given where the pair had stood, Penelope felt certain they wouldn’t have been able to discern the difference, but she was curious to see if either Cynthia or Hartley were the suggestible sort; if they answered truthfully and resisted her lead, she would feel justified in placing more reliance on their memories.

  Both were frownin
g, patently studying the images no doubt seared into their minds.

  Eventually, still frowning, Cynthia said, “I couldn’t say. The ball dropped from above—that’s all I saw.”

  “Yes.” Hartley’s tone was even more definite. “The ball fell from above, but whether straight down or from an angle—and it could only have been a slight angle—that, we couldn’t see.” Refocusing on Penelope, he said, “We were too far away, and the perspective was wrong.”

  Hiding her satisfaction, Penelope nodded. “Very well.” She looked at Cynthia. “Tell me what happened next.”

  Cynthia returned to her mental vision. “We stood frozen with shock for an instant. We simply stared at Aunt Marjorie lying there on the path. Then both of us looked up—I remember that quite clearly—we both raised our gazes at the same time and looked to see who had dropped the ball. We’d forgotten the branch was in the way. We couldn’t see. We’d been holding hands. I remember we both suddenly gripped tight, and together we rushed forward.”

  Pausing, Cynthia stared at the vision only she and Hartley could see. After a moment, she went on, “We had to take several steps before we were clear of the trees and could see the terrace. The moonlight wasn’t strong, but we would have been able to see if someone had been standing there. But all we saw—and I saw this through the balusters—was the flick of skirts, the back hem of a lady’s gown, and the back of her shoes as she stepped up into the corridor. She was running.”

  Cynthia studied her vision for a moment more, then she blinked and refocused on Penelope. “That’s all I saw. She—whoever she was—was gone in an instant. By the time we reached Aunt Marjorie, the lady would have had time to reach the ballroom or to seek refuge somewhere else in the house.”

  Penelope had her next question ready, but before she could voice it, Cynthia drew a deep breath and went on, “The one thing I do know is that whoever that lady was, she wasn’t one of my sisters, much less my mother.”