The Peculiar Case of Lord Finsbury's Diamonds: A Casebook of Barnaby Adair Short Novel (The Casebook of Barnaby Adair)

by Stephanie Laurens

  Stokes and Lord Finsbury turned to look.

  Barnaby watched as Riggs followed suit—and took in the sight of Kitty Mallard being marched to the house, her arm firmly gripped by one of Stokes’s burly constables. Kitty was wearing her hat and coat; Duffet, walking on her other side, was carrying a battered traveling bag.

  From their direction it was clear they’d come up the path from the village.

  Even from a distance, Kitty looked pale and almost as haggard and worn down as Lord Finsbury.

  What interested Barnaby even more was Riggs’s reaction—the blood drained from the butler’s face and he all but visibly deflated. Just for an instant, desperation stood clearly etched on his features, but then he drew in a breath, straightened, and his usual, rather stone-faced butler’s mask slid back into place.

  Kitty and the two constables were admitted to the house. Seconds later, a brisk knock sounded on the study door.

  Still standing somewhat stunned behind his desk, Lord Finsbury called, “Come.”

  The constable who had remained on duty in the front hall looked in. He dipped his head to his lordship, but addressed Stokes. “Sir—the others want to know where you want Miss Mallard.”

  Stokes glanced at Lord Finsbury. “With your permission, my lord, Mr. Adair and I will interview Miss Mallard in the estate office.”

  His lordship nodded. “Yes, of course.”

  Stokes looked at the constable. “Where did they find her, Jones?”

  Jones nodded at Barnaby. “Right where Mr. Adair thought she would be—at the coaching inn waiting for the London coach to come in. Phipps said they got there just in time—another five minutes and she would have been away.”

  Stokes humphed.

  With a brisk salute, Jones closed the door.

  Stokes turned to Lord Finsbury. “By your leave, my lord, we’ll interview Miss Mallard, and with luck we’ll have the case solved within an hour and be able to leave you and your guests in peace. Perhaps you might reassure them that all is in hand?”

  Slowly, Lord Finsbury nodded. “Thank you. I will.”

  “I will report on our progress before we quit the house.” With a graceful nod, Stokes turned and, collecting Barnaby with a look, strode to the door.

  Rapidly parting from his lordship, Barnaby followed Stokes. The estate office lay toward the back of the house off a different corridor from the front hall. Returning to the hall and discovering Jones still hovering by the front door, Stokes paused to confirm he wanted Jones to remain on duty there. “Just in case.”

  Not yet sure how to align the most recent puzzle pieces he believed he’d now discerned, Barnaby walked beside Stokes toward the estate office. Coming within sight of the door and seeing Duffet standing guard outside it, Barnaby murmured, “It might be wise to ask Duffet to take special note of anyone who tries to approach the office on whatever pretext.”

  Stokes slanted him a glance. “The butler?”

  Barnaby shrugged. “There’s something there, but exactly what, and how it ties into everything else, I’m not yet sure.”

  Stokes’s gaze turned long-suffering. “Just tell me when you are.”

  Barnaby grinned.

  Stokes paused to give Duffet the suggested instruction, then led the way into the room.

  * * *

  Kitty Mallard had stopped crying, but the evidence of grief—whether compounded by guilt or not—lay deeply etched on her face. But Kitty wasn’t a silly young thing; she was at least thirty years old, mature and experienced, and she knew the ways of her world.

  She sat in the chair before the desk in the pokey estate office, with Phipps, Stokes’s other constable, standing at attention at her back. She’d removed her bonnet and unbuttoned her coat. With her bonnet in her lap, she watched with no apparent emotion bar resignation as Stokes settled in the chair behind the desk and Barnaby sat in the chair to Stokes’s right, angling the chair the better to observe Kitty’s face.

  Stokes met Kitty’s gaze, read the weariness therein, took in the defeated slump of her shoulders. After a moment, he said, his tone mild, “Perhaps, Miss Mallard, we might start with the question of why you took the position of parlormaid in this household.”

  Kitty met his gaze directly. When she spoke, her voice was low—lower than it had been two days before—and faintly hoarse. “Fletcher. It was a part of his plan.” She paused, her gaze growing distant, then continued, “He’d heard of the Finsbury diamonds from some of his old dears several times over the years. He was growing older and he knew he wouldn’t have much longer in the game.” Her lips twisted cynically. “Charm will only go so far once the handsomeness fades.”

  She drew an unsteady breath and went on, “So he decided to try for the diamonds. It wasn’t our usual caper, which we figured would help keep the police off our necks, but in his wilder days Fletcher had learned to crack safes, so…he set to and ferreted out all he could about the Finsburys, but it quickly became clear that, with one thing and another, we needed information from inside the house. That was always my role. Fletcher came to the village and persuaded the silly thing who was parlormaid before me into leaving for a better post. Easy enough to arrange through an agency in town, and then I stepped in.”

  In a tone that held little animation, Kitty led them through her surreptitious searching; as she kept mentioning, it had all been very easy. Locating the safe, sending word to Fletcher of the make and type. “And, of course, I learned all I could from the staff. It was common knowledge Miss Agnes and Lord Finsbury had a difference of opinion over Miss Gwendolyn and who she should marry. Miss Agnes was all for giving her time to find the right gentleman while his lordship wanted her to marry money, and soon. He’d got a tick in his ear about looking further afield than the local gentry—looking at gentlemen who’d made their fortunes through investments and business in the colonies and such.” Kitty paused, then said, “I wrote it all down for Fletcher—the role was all but tailor-made for him.”

  Kitty’s lips curved slightly in faint, clearly fond, reminiscence; Stokes glanced at Barnaby and gave Kitty a moment to savor the past before he prompted, “So Fletcher bumped into Lord Finsbury, introduced himself, and put himself forward as the perfect candidate for Miss Finsbury’s hand.”

  Her smile deepening a fraction, Kitty replied, “You’re not giving him enough credit—smooth as silk, he was. I told him what days his lordship went to town and that his club was White’s. Fletcher would have had no trouble—he’d done it before, getting into friendships with gentlemen to gain access to ladies of their families. That way, the ladies see him as someone their nearest and dearest have vouched for—gains their trust instantly, you see.”

  “As it did in this case,” Barnaby murmured. “No one questioned Fletcher’s bona fides when, as Mitchell, he joined the house party.”

  Kitty nodded and drew in a deeper breath. “He settled in quick, and two nights later he opened the safe and took the diamonds. He showed them to me the following day. Absolutely fabulous, they were, winking in the sunshine.”

  Stokes asked, “Why didn’t the two of you leave then? You had what you’d come for.”

  Kitty snorted derisively. “We weren’t such fools. If we’d done that—just cut and run—suspicions would have been raised, his lordship might have checked his safe, and then there would have been a hue and cry over the diamonds, and quite aside from that cutting their immediate value to next to nothing, you’d have known who was responsible and you’d have had us in your sights. Fletcher and I were always careful to avoid focusing attention on us.”

  “That’s why he engineered the scene with Miss Finsbury and Culver that got him ejected from the house party,” Barnaby said.

  Kitty nodded. “Just shows what an artist Fletcher was—he needed to leave with an excuse no one would question, and there was Culver hovering like a dog over a bone with Miss Finsbury. The very Miss Finsbury his lordship wanted Fletcher to court. It couldn’t have been more perfect.”

&nbs
p; “So Fletcher got himself thrown out and left. All that was a part of your plan.” Stokes met Kitty’s washed-out hazel eyes. “When were you supposed to follow him?”

  “Not for another week or so.” Kitty paused, then said, “We talked about it and decided I would need to stay for at least a week after the house party. We didn’t want anyone connecting my leaving with him.”

  “So why,” Barnaby asked, “did Fletcher come back?” He remembered the second letter Fletcher had sent. “He wrote to you, didn’t he?”

  Frowning, Kitty nodded. “It arrived with the letter to Miss Finsbury, but all Fletcher said was that there’d been a change of plans. He said not to worry, that if anything this scheme looked set to be even better than we’d imagined. He told me he’d come and meet with Miss Finsbury and possibly his lordship, and that he’d meet me in the shrubbery when he was done and he would explain all then.”

  Stokes eyed Kitty consideringly. “Do you have his letter?”

  Kitty grimaced. “I burnt it. Too incriminating to keep it, not that it said much.”

  Stokes glanced at Barnaby, caught his eye, then Stokes returned his gaze to Kitty. Leaning forward, he rested his forearms on the desk and clasped his hands. “Miss Mallard, let me put one possible explanation of all the facts to you.”

  Kitty eyed him warily.

  “We all agree that Fletcher arrived here as a guest for the house party, and that subsequently he took the diamonds from Lord Finsbury’s safe—as per your original plan. But what if, during those days here, Fletcher met and grew enamored of Gwendolyn Finsbury. He still took the diamonds and went through with your scheme, but, when he got to London and had the necklace valued…perhaps he wondered if there was a better way forward. One that involved him bringing the necklace back to Gwendolyn Finsbury, spinning some tale that he’d found it in town, and using it as a means to get back into her good graces—and those of her father. And, of course, as reward for returning such an important set of jewels to the family, he would claim Gwendolyn’s hand. In such a scenario the letter he sent to you—which you subsequently destroyed—said something quite different. Fletcher told you he intended marrying Miss Finsbury…and where did that leave you? Angry, no doubt—furious, even. Perhaps furious enough to set that foot-trap on the path, and when he stepped into it, to beat your ex-lover to death.”

  Kitty had grown paler and paler, but her eyes never left Stokes’s. Now, her face set, she simply stated, “No. That didn’t happen.” She glanced at Barnaby and her lips twisted in a scoffing expression. “It may not be how things are done in your world, but Fletcher and I had been together for more than a decade, living together and working together.” She looked at Stokes and her gaze was steady. “We might never have tied the knot officially, but it was the same thing.”

  Easing back in her chair, she drew a deeper breath, then went on, “And, if you please, what possible use would Miss Finsbury be to Fletcher? He had no money to speak of, and the Finsburys aren’t wealthy or his lordship wouldn’t be looking for a wealthy husband for his daughter. Fletcher was thirty-five. He’d lived life and was cynical to his toes. The chances that he’d had his head turned by Miss Finsbury—over a span of a few days at a house party—aren’t big enough to point to.”

  In Stokes’s experienced assessment, Kitty was speaking the truth. She was also an ex-actress. Still holding her gaze, he said, “Maybe it was you who wanted to move on and you had to get rid of Fletcher to do so. Perhaps, contrary to what you’ve told us, you were supposed to leave with him, or at least follow him back to London the next day, but when you didn’t show…he wrote those two letters. One to Miss Finsbury arranging a mysterious meeting to act as his excuse for returning to the house, and a second letter to you, asking you to meet him. Perhaps he brought the diamonds to help persuade you to return with him to town. But you didn’t want to continue with him and that life, so you trapped him on the path and—”

  Kitty stayed him with an upraised hand; this time her expression was all scornful disgust. “Before you suggest that I bludgeoned Fletcher—my lover of ten and more years—to death, just answer me this. If I was intending to break with Fletcher, who was I leaving him for?”

  Increasingly belligerent, Kitty looked from Stokes to Barnaby. Brows rising, she spread her arms and demanded, “Who? Lord Finsbury? Culver? Rattle? Or perhaps old Riggs? Admittedly he’d have me, but why on earth would I want to end up here, stuck in a country backwater, when with Fletcher I lived within a stone’s throw of Leicester Square?”

  Barnaby met Stokes’s gaze. For a woman of Kitty’s background, that last point was difficult to argue.

  But that left them with the question: If not Kitty, then who?

  “No answer?” Kitty prompted. When they looked at her but said nothing, she snorted and folded her arms. “It wasn’t me—get that through your thick skulls. I’m the very last person to have wanted Fletcher dead.” For a fleeting moment, emotion cut through her expression; she swallowed and banished it, then more quietly repeated, “It wasn’t me.”

  Barnaby straightened. “You said Riggs would have you—has he been pursuing you?”

  Kitty shrugged. “Just the usual—nothing I couldn’t handle. I had to butter him up to learn what Fletcher needed to know about the safe and the family and Riggs took that as encouragement, so I’ve been treading a little carefully where he’s concerned.”

  Barnaby ran his mind over their questions and her answers thus far, then asked, “You told us of the letter you got from Fletcher informing you that he was coming back.” He caught Kitty’s gaze. “When you got it, what did you think was behind it? What did you think was Fletcher’s new plan?”

  Kitty grimaced and slowly shook her head. “Honestly? I had no idea. Knowing Fletcher, even given what was written in the letter—he was always careful what he put in writing—it could simply have been that something had gone wrong and he was coming to fetch me away. I packed my bag just in case, but…” Kitty shut her lips and said nothing more.

  Barnaby studied her, then looked at Stokes. He couldn’t decide if she was telling the truth or was simply that good an actress.

  From the frustrated expression in his eyes, Stokes couldn’t either.

  In this case, jealousy had seemed the obvious motive to account for the passion behind the murder, but if not that…where did that leave them?

  Barnaby looked back at Kitty. “Why did you leave this morning?”

  Her gaze lowering to the desktop, Kitty lightly shrugged. “I’d had enough of this place. I had no reason to stay and you’ve taken Fletcher’s body to town. I wanted to see about giving him a decent burial—we’ve got enough put away for that.”

  Someone rapped on the door.

  At Stokes’s terse “Yes,” Jones looked in.

  “Mr. Culver and Miss Finsbury heard as how we’d caught Miss Mallard waiting for the coach and that she’s our prime suspect. They say they have something to show you that proves it couldn’t have been a woman did for Fletcher.”

  Stokes arched his brows. “Indeed?” After a second, he looked at Kitty. “I suggest it would be in your best interests for you to remain here while Adair and I check this evidence, which, according to Culver and Miss Finsbury, will prove your innocence.”

  Sitting back, Kitty waved them to the door. “By all means. I didn’t kill Fletcher and the sooner you believe that the better off I’ll be—and perhaps, then, you can find the real murderer.”

  Stokes rose and, with Barnaby on his heels, headed for the door. Somewhat to Barnaby’s surprise, Stokes paused on the threshold and looked back at his constable who was still standing guard behind Kitty’s chair. “Phipps.”

  When the constable looked around, Stokes tipped his head toward the corridor.

  Stokes stepped through the door, Barnaby followed, and Phipps brought up the rear, closing the door behind him. Duffet was still standing beside the door. Glancing down the corridor, Barnaby saw Jones waiting with Frederick Culver and Gwendolyn Fins
bury where the corridor debouched into the front hall.

  Stokes looked at Duffet. “I want you to stay on guard here and make sure Miss Mallard doesn’t leave the room, no matter what excuse she gives. We won’t be long.” Looking at Phipps, Stokes’s expression hardened. “I want you outside the house. Find someplace to lurk where you can’t be seen from the office windows, but from where you’ll see if Miss Mallard tries to escape.” Stokes met Barnaby’s eyes. “She ran this morning—let’s see if, presented with the opportunity, she runs again.”

  Barnaby arched his brows but nodded. “If, despite all, she does run again, then she’s definitely not innocent. She might not have done the deed but if she’s anxious enough to bolt, she had something to do with Fletcher’s demise.”

  “Right.” His expression grim, Stokes looked down the corridor. “Now let’s see what these two have found.”

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, Barnaby stood alongside Stokes in an outbuilding beyond the shrubbery and stared at the small mountain of heavy farming equipment that had been lifted aside to gain access to the foot-trap.

  As the outline the foot-trap had left in the dust was plain to see, the obvious conclusion was impossible to deny.

  When Stokes remained silent, Barnaby stated it aloud. “No woman acting alone could have gained access to the trap.”

  Culver, standing to one side with Gwendolyn Finsbury and the estate’s old gardener, shifted. “That’s not all.” When Barnaby and Stokes glanced his way, Culver went on, “Penman here says that there’s a narrow trail through the wood that leads to the path from the village. I’ve been wondering how we—Gwen and I—could have missed the murderer returning to the house, but if he knew about the trap and got it from here, he almost certainly knew about the trail and he wouldn’t have needed to risk crossing the side lawn and possibly running into some of the guests.”

  Stokes nodded grimly. “Indeed.” He swung toward the door.

  “But there’s more.” When Stokes halted, Culver continued, “We looked in the croquet shed and Agnes’s hoop-hammer—actually a long-handled sledgehammer very like the one used on Mitchell—is still in there. It wasn’t the murder weapon.”