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

by Stephanie Laurens

  Monica closed her eyes tight; her face was etched in indescribable sorrow and stark pain. “I said, ‘Mama?’ When she didn’t answer, I rushed to the balustrade and looked over and saw…”

  Monica’s voice suspended. She started to shake; tears leaked from beneath her lashes and dripped down her face. With an immense effort, she whispered, “I was so horrified, so frightened, I fled.”

  With sounds of distress, Lady Latimer and Millicent drew nearer, putting their arms around Monica as she crumpled. Spontaneously, Geraldine and Primrose left their chairs to rush behind the sofa and, leaning over, enfolded their younger sister in their arms, murmuring soothingly as they patted and stroked.

  After several moments, Monica drew a shuddering breath and, with tears glistening on her cheeks, looked not at Penelope but at Lord Galbraith. “I didn’t mean to do it, but I killed Mama.”

  With that pronouncement of self-judgment, Monica dissolved into tears.

  Raising her head, Penelope discovered that she, too, had to drag in her next breath. Straightening, she sat back, her gaze going to Barnaby; he was watching Monica, his expression reserved, but his gaze held a wealth of compassion. After a moment, Penelope looked at Stokes; he was quietly scribbling in his notebook, as he had been throughout, but then he looked up and exchanged a troubled glance with Griselda.

  What a horror this case had turned out to be.

  As if despite her tears and the emotional turmoil Monica still sensed Barnaby’s regard, she gulped, used the handkerchief someone had pressed into her hand to wipe her eyes and blow her nose, then, heroically composing herself, she looked at Barnaby and Stokes. “Are you going to arrest me? Will I have to stand trial?”

  Barnaby glanced at Stokes, who almost imperceptibly shook his head, then Barnaby looked at Monica and met her anguished gaze. “As I understand it, you have committed no crime. You have nothing to answer for. Your mother died by accident. You couldn’t have foreseen it, and you could not have prevented it. You are not to blame.”

  Monica’s eyes widened. “But I knocked that ball onto her!”

  “Did you intend to?” Barnaby asked.

  “No! Of course not. I had no idea it would fall…”

  Barnaby nodded. “Exactly. Not only did you not intend to harm your mother, but you had every reason to believe that the ball was attached to the pillar and wouldn’t have moved, no matter how hard you pushed against it.” Barnaby paused to let his words sink in—for Monica to hear them clearly and start to accept. Believing would take longer. Understanding that, when comprehension started to dawn in her eyes, he said, “We all do understand, and I know this won’t be easy, but you cannot go through life blaming yourself for what was an unprecedented and entirely unforeseeable chain of events.”

  Monica stared at him for a long moment, then she bowed her head and wept.

  Feeling very much that his and the others’ presences were no longer required, Barnaby met Penelope’s gaze and arched a brow. She nodded and glanced at Stokes, then she, Griselda, and Violet quietly rose.

  Stokes, Montague, and Barnaby followed their ladies from the room.

  “That,” Stokes said, as they gathered in the front hall, “was not what I was anticipating, but it is unquestionably the truth. It fits all the facts. Both about that night and about those shoes.”

  Accepting coats, cloaks, and bonnets from Millwell and the footman, the others nodded.

  The drawing room door opened, and Hartley Galbraith stepped out. Shutting the door behind him, he inclined his head to them all. “I can’t thank you enough. Without the assistance of all of you, we would never have got to the bottom of this. We would have lost Monica on top of everything else…and then no one would have known what to think.”

  “It was a conundrum unlike any other.” Penelope pulled on her gloves. She glanced at Stokes. “But once the police make their announcement—”

  “Actually”—Hartley turned to address Stokes—“that was one point I wanted to clarify. What, exactly, will happen next?”

  Settling his greatcoat on his broad shoulders, Stokes said, “As far as the police are concerned, this case is closed. I’ll report to the chief commissioner in the morning, and he’ll issue a statement that the Yard has completed the investigation and that we are entirely satisfied that Lady Galbraith’s death came about through an unfortunate and unforeseeable accident.”

  Hartley nodded. “Thank you. But, you see, the funeral is tomorrow afternoon. I was wondering…” Hartley clearly didn’t like to voice his request—that, or he didn’t know what words to use.

  Barnaby and Penelope understood. Barnaby offered, “Perhaps, Stokes, we can get a statement in tomorrow morning’s news sheets.” Hauling out his watch, Barnaby consulted it. “We still have a few hours before the presses run.”

  Given Barnaby’s contacts and the welling public interest in the case, getting the editors to include a last-minute announcement wouldn’t be difficult.

  Comprehending, Stokes nodded. “Yes, we can do that.” He glanced at Hartley. “I can see that it will help if the mourners know the situation before they gather.”

  Hartley’s relief was palpable. “Thank you.”

  He wrung Stokes’s, Barnaby’s, and Montague’s hands.

  When he turned to Penelope, she patted his arm. “A word of advice. If I were you, I would delay putting your own notice in the Gazette for at least a week. No sense raising unnecessary hares.”

  “No, indeed.” Hartley shook her hand and found a smile. “Thank you so much for your help. My family—our families—will always be in your debt.”

  Penelope smiled and stepped back. After thanking Griselda and Violet, Hartley showed the group to the door.

  As they went down the steps to their waiting carriages, Penelope felt her customary satisfaction over having solved a difficult case well, but this time the sense of fulfillment went deeper.

  Opening the door of his carriage, Stokes glanced at the others. “While the mystery of Lady Galbraith’s murder-that-proved-not-to-be-a-murder might be solved, we’re not finished for the evening yet. Given you volunteered me to compose a piece for tomorrow morning’s news sheets, I deem it only fair that you all help me write it.”

  The others laughed softly, smiled, and obligingly climbed into the carriages for the short drive back to Albemarle Street.

  CHAPTER 13

  They all helped Stokes compose his statement. Sitting relaxed in the drawing room, with the ladies as well as the gentlemen sipping Barnaby’s excellent brandy, they bandied about suggestions and phrases, and Violet wrote down their selected words.

  In the end, all agreed that to be convincing and conclusive some detail was required, such as the information that Lady Galbraith had been killed by a finial accidentally dislodged from the balustrade of the terrace beneath which she’d been standing.

  “The police are satisfied that there was no malice or intent involved”—Violet read from her notes—“and have concluded that the incident was an unforeseeable accident.” She looked at the others. “Will that do, do you think?”

  Swirling the brandy in her glass, Penelope looked at Stokes. “It occurs to me that one last little touch of verisimilitude is warranted. To advance the official position one step beyond simply being satisfied.” When Stokes arched his brows, inviting her suggestion, she continued, “For instance, something like a warning to all householders to check that the finials atop their balcony and terrace balustrades are securely attached and not likely to create a hazard for anyone below.”

  “An excellent idea,” Montague said. “An oblique underscoring that the ball falling was an accident.”

  The others agreed. They toyed with the wording, and when they were satisfied, Barnaby wrote several short notes requesting that the statement be run in the news sheets alongside the notice of the funeral—a placement that would ensure that the statement did, indeed, achieve its purpose—then he dispatched copies of the statement Violet had penned along with the not
es to the various news sheets’ offices.

  Checking his fob watch as he returned to the drawing room, Barnaby stated, “More than an hour to go—they’ll have it in plenty of time.”

  “Good,” Stokes said. “So we’re finally done.”

  “And we got to the solution in a bare three days,” Penelope said. “That must be a record.”

  “Regardless,” Barnaby said, reclaiming his glass, “in this case, time was very much of the essence, and that we got to the gardens in time to save Monica is a credit to us all.” He raised his glass. “Here’s to us.”

  “To us!” the others echoed, and drank.

  His gaze on Penelope, Barnaby drained his glass.

  Griselda stirred. “We should go—it’s long past midnight.”

  Wrapped in the satisfaction of a communal job well done, they adjourned to the front hall. While word was ferried upstairs to the nursery, Violet and Montague took their leave. Penelope, Barnaby, Stokes, and Griselda stood in the doorway and waved them off.

  They turned inside as Gloria and Hettie came down the stairs, a sleeping Megan sprawled in Gloria’s arms.

  Griselda and Stokes said their good-byes, then Griselda took her sleeping child and settled her in her arms. Stokes ushered his family down the steps and helped Griselda into the carriage. Before following her, Stokes looked back at Barnaby and Penelope, smiled one of his rare smiles, then saluted them and climbed in.

  Penelope leaned against Barnaby as they waved their friends away, then she sighed and looked up at his face. “This is one case I’m very glad to see the end of.”

  Barnaby looked down into her dark eyes and saw all the nuances of emotion the day had challenged them to face. He smiled and, with the back of one crooked finger, brushed her cheek. “It’s been a hellishly long day. Let’s go and check on Oliver, and then get some sleep.”

  Unspoken between them lay the understanding that this case had one more scene yet to play.

  Penelope nodded and slipped her hand into his, and they retreated into the hall and let Mostyn close the door.

  * * *

  As their carriage rolled northward, Griselda looked down into her sleeping daughter’s face. After a moment, she dropped a gentle kiss on Megan’s baby-soft brow. “I swear that no matter how many children we are blessed with, I will never take you, or any of your siblings, for granted.”

  Stokes heard the quiet vow and silently echoed it. Gloria had elected to ride home on the box with their coachman, with whom she was walking out, leaving Griselda and Stokes to the privacy of the carriage. After a moment of considering, of looking back and re-examining his view of Lady Galbraith and her family, he murmured, “That’s what she did in the end, wasn’t it? Her daughters, even Hartley—they were more a means to an end, and what they wanted, what they needed and desired, wasn’t important to her.”

  Griselda nodded, then softly said, “Obsession. I think that’s what it does. You believe that only one thing—that thing, whatever it is—is important, that only it has any significance, and you forget about, ignore, or dismiss everything else.”

  Several moments passed, then Stokes looked at his sleeping daughter, nestled in her mother’s—in his wife’s—arms. If he had an obsession, it would be them, but if, as some believed, life was a succession of lessons sent by Fate to inform…then he would take due note and consider himself warned. Taking the people you loved for granted…if she hadn’t done that, Lady Galbraith wouldn’t have died.

  Reaching for Griselda’s hand, Stokes twined his fingers with hers; feeling her grip lightly in return, feeling the soft, warm weight of Megan resting against their linked hands, he leaned his head back against the squabs, closed his eyes, and gave himself over to fully appreciating the contentment and satisfaction he’d already secured.

  * * *

  As Montague and Violet’s carriage rattled deeper into the City, Violet looked out at the familiar façades draped in shadows and only just discernible in the glow cast by the street lamps. Although shocked and saddened by all they’d learned, she felt a gentle happiness inside, a contentment that she’d played an active part in getting to the answers in time to prevent Monica from embracing what she’d believed to be her fate. As Penelope had put it, in time to stop their “murder case” from turning into an even greater tragedy.

  Violet felt confident that, in the accounting ledger of her life, that contribution would feature as a definite credit.

  Her satisfaction welled as they rocked toward their home.

  Seated beside Violet, his hand clasping one of hers, Montague swayed as the carriage rounded a corner. Violet’s shoulder pressed against his arm, a simple touch that spoke of their closeness.

  It was a closeness he’d come to treasure; he couldn’t understand how he had lived so long without it. Without that connection to another, most especially to one who held his heart.

  But now the connection was there, he had come to realize that it brought responsibilities. The responsibility to protect it, along with a conjoined responsibility to do all he could to protect, support, and nurture Violet in the converse of the way in which she nurtured him.

  During this investigation, he’d suppressed his initial resistance to Violet participating on the grounds that her happiness was his principal and overriding goal in life, and if investigating alongside Penelope and Griselda made Violet happy, then so be it; he would cope.

  He had not only coped, but in the end, he’d felt proud of her contribution.

  And while those moments in the Privy Gardens had been harrowing, and the instant when Penelope had leapt to the wall remained etched in his mind, he had a shrewd notion that, even if Penelope hadn’t consciously thought of it at the time, she had placed her trust in Barnaby to keep her safe, and he had.

  That was how a relationship where both partners walked in potential danger worked.

  With unquestioning trust and unwavering commitment.

  That was what he wanted with Violet—that sort of trust, that depth of commitment.

  And through this case, his business-self—Montague, man-of-business to the ton—had gained a valuable perspective, too. He knew of the children of the noble families he served, but usually only by name, and so he tended to think of them as inanimate objects, as entities to be noted in accounts, trusts, and wills, rather than as people with emotions and desires, with passions and lives of their own.

  He would, he vowed, pay greater attention to their personalities in the future, along with any relevant family dynamics, and inquire as appropriate so that he would be better placed to advise his clients, both parents and offspring. When Fate handed one lessons, a wise man gave thanks and absorbed them.

  “What are you thinking of?”

  He glanced at Violet to find her regarding him quizzically. He hesitated for an instant, then said, “I was thinking that children are an integral part of any family, yet too often in business we overlook the impact decisions made might have on them.”

  She considered him, her smile as always serene and soothing, then her brows rose. “Do you have a ledger with the names and ages of the children of your clients?”

  He blinked. “Not as such. The names and birthdates would appear somewhere, I would think…” He frowned. “I’m really not sure.”

  “Perhaps,” Violet said, “that’s something we should consider—making up a ledger containing the names, birthdates, and current ages of the children of your major clients, so you can easily check that you have the full picture of the family at any point before you give advice.”

  Gently squeezing her hand, Montague nodded. “That would be a great help.”

  Violet smiled. “I’ll start tomorrow.” She looked out of the window as the carriage slowed. “And now we’re home.”

  After descending to the pavement and helping Violet down, then turning to the gold-lettered door beyond which lay his offices and, on the floor above, the apartment he and Violet shared, Montague discovered he felt quietly confident as well a
s satisfied.

  His and Violet’s relationship was deepening and expanding, one step—one investigation—at a time.

  Smiling himself, he opened the door and followed Violet inside.

  * * *

  “Is she sleeping?” Hartley straightened from the wall outside Monica’s bedroom as Cynthia quietly closed the door.

  Joining him, she whispered back, “The sleeping draft’s finally taken hold.” Slipping her hand into his, Cynthia urged him along the corridor. Glancing back at the door at its end, she murmured, “Primrose is sitting with her. Geraldine will take over later, then I’ll spell her until Millicent arrives to be here when Monica awakes.”

  They’d discovered that Monica hadn’t been taking the sleeping drafts the doctor had prescribed, but Susie, Monica’s maid, had saved the powders so they hadn’t had to send for the doctor again. Hadn’t had to subject Monica to any further inquisition.

  It had still taken Lady Latimer’s firm intervention to convince Monica that she should take the draft and rest.

  “I think,” Cynthia said, walking slowly down the corridor by Hartley’s side, “that it will take some time before Monica accepts that this truly is an end to it.”

  Hartley drew in a breath, and realized that the simple action was easier than it had been for days. “It’ll be a long time before any of us truly puts this behind us.” He paused, then went on, “I spoke with Geraldine earlier, before she went to bed. Given I haven’t been spending much time with them, I hadn’t realized that Mama had a particular focus in steering the girls through the marriage mart, but Geraldine confirmed that that was, indeed, the case. That Mama was more interested in them marrying gentlemen who would advance Mama’s and the family’s social position than in them finding partners they wished to marry, much less that there should be any actual attachment on either side.”

  Catching Cynthia’s gaze, shadowed in the unlit corridor, he grimaced. “She would never have accepted us marrying.”

  Cynthia held his gaze. “We wouldn’t have let her stop us.”