Savoring a sip of his brandy, Barnaby waited for Penelope to open the discussion; he had no doubt she would.
Somewhat to his surprise, she started with a frown. “Unlike most cases, where, at this stage, we’re usually mining for facts, in this instance it seems that we have a multitude of individual facts, some of which will have relevance to the murder and others which won’t, but, at present, you have no way to distinguish which facts fall into which category.”
From the sofa opposite, Griselda nodded. “Which facts bear on the murder itself, and which are part of other events going on concurrently at that house party.”
“For instance,” Penelope went on, “from all you’ve related, I’m left with the strong suspicion that Lord Finsbury invited Mitchell to the house party in order to play matchmaker—that his lordship was swayed by stories of Mitchell’s financial success, and that, in turn, suggests that Lord Finsbury wants his daughter to marry money.”
“But,” Griselda said, “is that because the family needs money—and given the shabby furnishings, that might well be the case—or was Lord Finsbury’s invitation merely the norm for a father wanting to see his daughter well established?”
“Regardless,” Penelope said, “does the reason, the motive, behind Lord Finsbury’s invitation have any bearing on why Mitchell was killed?” Her frown deepening, she spread her hands. “How can we know?”
“And then there’s the romance between Frederick Culver and Gwendolyn Finsbury,” Griselda pointed out, “and also the romance between Rattle and Harriet Pace.”
“Indeed.” Penelope nodded. “And romance always complicates things—people act in ways they never normally would when in the throes of romance.” She shook her head. “Which brings me back to my original statement—with this case, we are swimming in dozens of potentially inconsequential facts, some of which hint at possible motives, but none of which we can yet be sure are actually connected to the murder.” Hands smoothing over her distended belly, she blew out a breath, then said, “As far as I can see, we currently have four questions before us. Who killed Mitchell? Why was he killed? How did he come to have the Finsbury diamonds in his pocket? And why was he bringing them back, and to Gwen, rather than Lord Finsbury?”
Barnaby nodded. “That’s a reasonable summation.”
Stokes stirred and looked at Penelope. “What do you think of Lord Finsbury’s suggestion of why Mitchell was returning with the diamonds?” Stokes switched his gaze to Griselda. “That he was seeking to return them to Gwen to regain his position in her good graces?”
Penelope pulled an expressive—impressively dismissive—face.
Griselda firmly shook her head. “Such a construction rests on Mitchell’s character being the sort to make chivalrous gestures, and given he had pressed his attentions on Gwen…” Griselda grimaced and met Penelope’s eyes. “I really can’t see it.”
“I can’t either.” Penelope paused, then shifted, resettling the weight of the baby. “But we need to start focusing on the important facts and ignore the rest, or we’ll never get anywhere. Let’s concentrate solely on the murder itself—let’s see if we can sort out the order of events so we can see what holes we have in our knowledge, and then work on filling them in.”
Stokes nodded. “All right. Where should we start—with Lord Finsbury meeting Mitchell?”
Penelope opened her eyes wide, then waggled her head. “I hadn’t thought to go back that far, but perhaps you’re right. They met at White’s?”
“Yes.” Barnaby set down his empty glass. “And I can check at the club tomorrow, see if anyone there remembers Mitchell—the doorman almost certainly will—and find out what they can tell me, about Mitchell, and Finsbury, too.”
“So Finsbury and Mitchell meet at White’s.” Penelope took up the tale. “We don’t know how often or exactly when, but at least once recently, and Finsbury, impressed by Mitchell’s financial successes, takes it into his head to put Gwen in Mitchell’s path by inviting Mitchell to a house party—and then Finsbury gets his sister Agnes to organize a house party to suit.”
“Which brings us to the day on which Mitchell, along with all the other guests, arrived at Finsbury Court.” Stokes consulted his notebook. “That was three days before the day Mitchell left.”
“And apparently those three days passed in the usual pleasantry of a typical house party,” Barnaby said. “No one sensed or witnessed anything out of the ordinary until Mitchell pressed his attentions on Gwen—”
“Wait, wait!” Penelope waved. “On that point.” She looked at Stokes. “The way your interviewees related it, Mitchell deliberately sought Gwen out and inveigled her to walk with him alone in the conservatory. So it doesn’t seem as if he was suddenly swept away by passion, but rather that it was a calculated act.” Penelope frowned. “Which only raises yet another question: Why would he do such a thing? Did he want to be thrown out, because surely he would have noticed that Culver was hovering over Gwen…or was Mitchell such a conceited ass he assumed Gwen would favor him?” Penelope paused, then made a disgusted sound. “As I said, romance complicates things.”
Barnaby tipped his head her way. “Yet that’s a valid observation, and a question we should bear in mind. Did Mitchell engineer his eviction from the house, and, if so, why?”
“And did any of the above have anything to do with the Finsbury diamonds?” Stokes shook his head. “We’re going around and around again.”
“Then let’s get back to the murder itself,” Griselda said. “Regardless of his motives, Mitchell was evicted late one afternoon. He left the house and was driven to the village in the pony-trap, I think you said?”
Stokes nodded. “He got on the coach to London and, as far as we know, traveled all the way back to town. Then, at about midday the next day, Mitchell dispatched a letter to Finsbury Court, to Gwen. The letter was delivered to her at the dinner table and, surprised by the contents, she said aloud that Mitchell planned to return to the house the next day—she didn’t specify the time—and that he’d said he had something he wanted to show her.”
Stokes glanced at the others. When no one spoke, he went on, “The following afternoon, Mitchell arrived on the afternoon coach from London with, we assume, the diamonds in his pocket. The pony-trap hadn’t been sent for him—he hadn’t asked for it to be sent—so he walked up the path, stepped into the foot-trap, and fell face down. He must have tried to turn to see if he could release the trap, and the murderer stepped forward and struck him repeatedly in the face with the croquet hoop-hammer.”
Penelope blew out a breath; she wasn’t normally squeamish, but… “No matter how much of a cad Mitchell was, that was a very nasty way to die. He would have seen it coming.” She paused, frowning.
Barnaby said, “The mechanics of the murder raises several questions. Given the path was used by staff as well as guests, and by villagers bringing anything to the house, the murderer took a risk in placing the foot-trap on the path as he did—what if someone else had come along?”
“He would have had to have been there, keeping watch,” Stokes said. “Which strongly suggests that he—the murderer—knew that Mitchell was coming by the afternoon coach.”
“As far as we know,” Barnaby said, “only four people knew that he was coming specifically in the afternoon—Gwen, Culver, and Agnes and Lord Finsbury, both of whom had asked and had been shown the note. However, someone else might have overheard any of them mentioning it.”
“But,” Griselda said, “the murderer was keeping watch anyway. The foot-trap was just to incapacitate Mitchell. It was never intended to be the murder weapon—the hoop-hammer was.”
“Yes! Exactly!” Penelope’s face cleared. She looked from one to the other. “That’s what’s been bothering me—Mitchell’s face was bashed in. Not the back of his skull, but his face. And from what you’ve said, he was struck many more times than necessary to simply kill him.”
“His features were pulp,” Barnaby flatly said.
&n
bsp; Meeting his eyes, Penelope nodded. “That’s my point—why? He was known at the house, and was known to be on his way, so it wasn’t to hide his identity. Why else obliterate a man’s face?”
Stokes blinked. “It was personal. The murderer hated Mitchell that much.”
Penelope spread her hands. “You both saw the result—didn’t it appear more like a crime of passion? If you hadn’t found the diamonds in Mitchell’s pocket, wouldn’t you be focusing on his personal life to find the motive for his murder?”
Barnaby nodded. “You’re right. Mitchell’s murder might have absolutely nothing to do with the diamonds.”
“Or,” Griselda said, her tone dry, “it might.” She met Penelope’s gaze. “Diamonds can inspire strong passions, too, just not of the same sort. And as we know nothing about how Mitchell came to have the diamonds, there might, indeed, be some highly charged personal relationship involved.”
Penelope slumped back and heaved a sigh. “So we’re back to an overwhelming plethora of facts, none of which link together in any sensible or indicative way.”
“Perhaps.” Stokes sat up. “But we now have some idea of what we need to learn—the holes in our knowledge that we need to fill—in order to make sense out of said facts. In order to string them together into a cohesive whole. Or wholes, as the case may be.”
“For instance,” Barnaby said, “we need to find out whether anyone else knew that Mitchell was expected by the afternoon coach specifically. At present we have alibis for all the house guests over that time, and as we know the murderer had to have been at the scene for at least half an hour if not more, allowing for time to set the foot-trap, then we’re left with Lord Finsbury, Agnes, and Culver and Gwen—assuming the latter two were acting together—plus all the staff, although at present we don’t know if any of the staff knew when in the day Mitchell planned to return.”
Penelope nodded. “I think we can assume that the murderer had to have had knowledge of the time as well as the opportunity. No one at the house could have disappeared for longer than an hour or so throughout the day.”
“And there’s something else he or she had to have,” Stokes said. “They would have had to have had knowledge of the foot-trap—where to find it, how to set it. And where to find the hoop-hammer.”
“You said she.” Griselda met Stokes’s gaze. “Could a woman have set the trap?”
Penelope looked at Barnaby. “Describe it.”
Barnaby did.
Penelope grimaced. “It sounds like a typical gamekeeper’s trap. Any lady or woman raised in the country would know how to set one, at least in theory. And if you know the knack of it, it doesn’t take that much strength. Even an older woman like Agnes could have set it.”
“True.” Barnaby inclined his head. “But as to where it was, Stokes is right. Finsbury Court lies on what is now the outskirts of town. There’s not a lot of game about and Lord Finsbury doesn’t have a gamekeeper, although in decades past, he no doubt did. So it’s unlikely the trap was simply lying around, waiting to be used, and, in fact, it looked rather rusty and definitely old.”
Stokes was nodding and scribbling in his notebook. Closing it, he looked up. “We’d better go. I’m due at the Old Bailey tomorrow over another case, so we won’t be able to get back to Finsbury Court until the day after.”
Barnaby shrugged. “I’ll use tomorrow to see what I can learn about Mitchell.”
“And perhaps,” Penelope said, struggling upright, “a day away from the scene and the people involved might allow some of our plethora of facts to settle into a more recognizable pattern.”
“That’s happened in the past.” Griselda shifted to the edge of her chair. “Stepping back is sometimes the best way to spot the right path forward.”
“Amen.” Barnaby rose, held out his hands, and when Penelope gripped them, hauled her to her feet.
Stokes stood and helped Griselda up, then the four strolled out to the front hall.
* * *
The conservatory at Finsbury Court wasn’t large, but that evening it provided a place of quiet shadows and shifting moonlight perfect for the sharing of private thoughts. And personal fears.
“How do you see the investigation proceeding?” Gwen glanced up at Frederick’s face. They had slipped away from the gathering in the drawing room; she’d needed to get away from the avid speculation simmering beneath the surface of every comment, every glance, and Frederick had gallantly offered his arm and opened an escape route.
He’d rescued her tonight, just as he had on the afternoon Mitchell had all but attacked her—there, beneath the palms.
She cleared her throat. “I can’t imagine who could have done such a thing, can you?”
Frederick remained silent for a moment more, then softly said, “No. I wish I could.”
They’d reached the end of the glassed-in room. Frederick halted and turned her to face him. He studied her face, then said, his deep voice low, “I know the most important things I need to know—that you weren’t in any way involved and neither was I.”
Gwen grasped his hand and pressed his fingers, her gaze steady on his face, on his eyes. “I never for a moment thought that you might be involved—that you could be involved.”
He held her gaze, then his lips, almost reluctantly, lifted. “If I’d wanted to murder Mitchell, I would have…I don’t know, challenged him to a duel or some such thing. But he wasn’t worth it. He wasn’t worth risking the future I want—our future—for.”
They hadn’t previously spoken of that future, not in words. Gwen’s heart swelled at the realization that all the dreams that Frederick’s reappearance had resurrected—dreams she’d thought dead and buried, the fruits of an innocent girl’s fanciful imaginings that had never been slated to come true—were his dreams, too.
Her wishes and his matched, were complementary, two halves of one whole, and so if they wished, if they had the courage to, they might bring each other’s dreams to life…if they could get past the potential social quagmire of Mitchell’s murder.
Frederick saw welling concern dim the brightness of Gwen’s gaze.
A second ticked past, then she whispered, “How bad do you think it will be?”
He understood what she was asking; instinct suggested that he utter some glib reassurance, but he could only give her honesty. “I don’t know. I expect the intensity of the scandal will depend very much on who the guilty party is, and their motive.” He hesitated, then said, “Given no one here had ever met Mitchell before, and your father only knew him via White’s and through Mitchell himself, then surely the police must suspect someone other than those here—perhaps someone from Mitchell’s past who followed him on his return…” He broke off as he realized the problem with that scenario.
Frowning, Gwen put it into words. “How could anyone from outside have known where to find the foot-trap and hammer?” She glanced up and met his eyes. “They said the hammer was the one from the croquet shed, and, well, where else could the foot-trap have come from? Presumably it came from our barn or one of the outbuildings.”
“Perhaps…but perhaps that’s not the right question to ask—where those things came from. Perhaps the question that should be asked is: Could they have been easily found by anyone seeking something of the sort?” He paused, then followed that thought further. “What if someone who Mitchell met in London knew he would be coming here, walking up the path that afternoon? What if they came earlier and hunted around? The croquet shed is at the end of the lawn near the shrubbery—easy enough to see and search. And perhaps the foot-trap was just hanging on the barn wall?”
Frederick met Gwen’s gaze. “You understand, don’t you, that I can’t speak with your father about us—that I can’t ask for leave to address you, to ask for your hand—until all suspicion of murder has been lifted from me?”
And until all suspicion had been lifted from her father, and Agnes, too. Gwen nodded. “Yes, I know.”
“So until this murder is solve
d, we won’t be able to get on with our lives. I spoke with the local constable before he left—it seems the inspector and Mr. Adair won’t be returning until the day after tomorrow. The inspector is needed in London, it seems.” Frederick paused, then said, “I really can’t imagine any member of the house party—either a guest or one of your family—in the role of murderer. Can you?”
Gwen shook her head. “No. And that’s not just wishful thinking. I cannot see why anyone would kill a man they didn’t really know, especially not like that.”
“Precisely. So let’s assume that the murderer is not one of us, that he came from outside, from elsewhere in Mitchell’s life.” Frederick held Gwen’s gaze and felt a sense of impatient excitement—the same feeling he’d often had when adventuring—flare. “Perhaps if we can determine where the foot-trap came from—show that it would have been easy for anyone to have found and used—then we might help the police refocus on the real arena from which Mitchell’s murderer must hail from—his life away from here.”
Gwen’s eyes lit; a similar impatient tension thrummed through her fingers where they gripped his. “Yes—that’s an excellent idea.” For an instant, she held his gaze, then impulsively she stretched up and pressed her lips to his.
Frederick lost his breath. Stopped breathing altogether.
But when her lips remained on his, he couldn’t suppress the urge to, very gently, gather Gwen into his arms.
She came—shyly but not in any way reluctant.
He held her like spun glass, drew in a shuddering breath, and angled his head to refashion the kiss—to one of simple yearning.
Something they shared at a bone-deep level. He let his lips firm on hers, let them brush and say all he could not yet say in words.
And she answered.
Gwen stepped forward with no thought beyond her need, beyond an ineradicable desire to share, reassured by the fundamental rightness of the exchange. Their first kiss. She followed the dictates of instinct, pressed her lips more definitely to his and returned the caress, letting her lips speak in this arena where she had no voice. No simple words could describe what she felt—teetering on the cusp of the greatest delight in life—with the promise of a future shared with him shining like a beacon, not just in her mind but clearly in his, too.
The Peculiar Case of Lord Finsbury's Diamonds: A Casebook of Barnaby Adair Short Novel Page 5
