Stokes stared at him with something akin to disbelief.
Culver hurriedly added, “But the long-handled sledgehammer that’s part of the estate’s tools and that should be hanging on a rack in the barn is missing.”
Stokes shifted his gaze to the gardener. “Who among the household would have known that there was a sledgehammer kept in the barn?”
The gardener primmed his lips, but eventually consented to answer. “Only the staff. I can imagine his lordship might’ve known we’d have a trap hidden in the outbuildings somewhere, but he wouldn’t have known where, not without a lot of searching, and no way can I imagine he’d have known that we had another sledgehammer, much less where it was kept. We only use it for the fences and we haven’t done them in a couple of years.”
Gwendolyn Finsbury put in, “The rack where the tools hang can’t be seen from the barn door—you have to go all the way inside, almost to the rear wall, before you see it.”
Barnaby glanced at Stokes, who almost imperceptibly shook his head.
Face set, Stokes looked at Culver, Miss Finsbury, and the gardener. He nodded. “Thank you. I don’t yet know what this means—how it will play out—but your help has been crucial.” With a swift glance at Barnaby, he continued, “Now if you’ll excuse us? Oh, and if you would ensure this building is locked and the key given to…” Stokes looked at Miss Finsbury. “Perhaps for the moment, miss, you would agree to hold the key. Just until we sort this out.”
Gwendolyn Finsbury nodded. “Yes, of course.”
* * *
Alongside Stokes, Barnaby strode swiftly back toward the house. “Who the devil was it? A man, obviously, but was he acting with Kitty, as her accomplice, or is she not involved at all and the murderer was after Fletcher for some entirely different reason?”
“Regardless,” Stokes said, and the tenor of his voice suggested anticipation was riding high, “you heard the gardener. It had to be one of the staff. Moreover, one of the staff who has been here for long enough to have had the time to stumble on the trap, the trail, and the sledgehammer.”
“Ah—yes.” Barnaby felt his own excitement building; they were close, so close. “The gardener put his finger on it—whoever the murderer was, he had to have known the trap was there. He could only have learned the evening before that Fletcher—Mitchell—was planning to return. And while the staff’s time is not completely accounted for, none of them had enough unaccounted time to have spent hours searching to discover something with which to trap Fletcher.”
“Exactly.” Stokes led the way up the front steps. Closing his hand on the doorknob, he paused. Then he grimaced and met Barnaby’s eyes. “Unfortunately, despite the gardener’s assertions, this brings Lord Finsbury back into contention.”
Barnaby met Stokes’s gaze, then pulled a face. “Damn. You’re right. We keep going around and around with Finsbury.”
“It’s the motive we’re lacking, at least in his case. If he killed Fletcher-Mitchell to retrieve the diamonds, why did he leave them in Fletcher’s pocket and then look so shocked when Duffet returned them to him?” Stokes shook his head.
Barnaby raised his hands in a helpless gesture. “And we still don’t know why Fletcher was bringing them back. I keep thinking that’s the key—the reason Fletcher returned—but the diamonds were left on his body, so how can that be?”
“Don’t ask me.” Stokes sighed and opened the door. “Let’s go and see if Kitty has tried to do a flit, or if she’s been sitting innocently in the office all the time we’ve been gone.”
Barnaby’s mind flashed back to Kitty as he’d last seen her, in the last minutes before they’d left the office…
Instead of following Stokes, he stood rooted to the spot. “Wait—wait!”
“What now?” Stokes reappeared in the doorway through which he’d already gone.
Barnaby held up a hand. “I just remembered…all the questions we put to Kitty—she looked at us when she answered. Every time. Until the last question I asked her.”
Stokes blinked. After a moment, he said, “Why she left this morning.”
His gaze distant, remembering the scene, Barnaby nodded. “Yes. When she answered that question, she looked down at the desk.” He refocused on Stokes. “She didn’t meet our eyes.”
Stokes thumped his fist on the door frame. “That was a lie.” Turning, he made for the corridor to the estate office.
Barnaby followed close behind. “Not only was it a lie—it was her only lie.”
“Someone tipped her off,” Stokes growled, striding faster.
“Indeed,” Barnaby replied, keeping pace. “So the only question now is who—and if we’re still looking for the motive for Fletcher’s murder, it’ll probably be the why.”
* * *
Gaining the corridor leading to the office with Barnaby at his back, Stokes saw Duffet standing outside the office door, but instead of standing with his back to the panels, appropriately on guard, the constable was facing the door, head tilted as if listening to something inside.
Stokes slowed. Barnaby did the same. Their feet made little sound on the corridor runner as they drew nearer.
Duffet sensed their presence and glanced their way. His expression was already worried before he saw them.
“What is it?” Stokes whispered. Then he, too, heard the voices coming from the office, the words muffled by the thick oak panels. “Who is it?” he amended. When the hapless Duffet didn’t immediately answer, Stokes pinned him with his gaze and baldly asked, “Who did you let in there?”
“The butler, sir. Riggs.” Duffet had the sense to whisper his reply. “He came along with a cup of tea. You said not to let her out, but I didn’t see any harm in him taking her a cup of tea.”
Stokes glanced at Barnaby—who returned the look with interest.
Crash!
The sound came from within the office.
It was instantly followed by a strangled cry.
Opening the door, Stokes rushed inside; Barnaby was on his heels.
Both paused for an instant, taking in the scene—Riggs and Kitty on the other side of the desk, struggling before the window, Riggs with his hands locked about Kitty’s neck, strangling the life out of her—then Stokes went one way, Barnaby the other.
Rounding the desk, Barnaby grabbed Riggs’s shoulders and tried to haul him off, but Riggs, his features contorted, his eyes wild and foam flecking his lips, was intent on crushing Kitty’s throat.
Stokes aimed a fist over Kitty’s shoulder.
Bone crunched. Riggs jerked, his head snapping back.
Stokes pried Riggs’s fingers from Kitty’s neck and swung her away, putting her behind him and facing Riggs himself.
Riggs roared and, dragging Barnaby with him, went after Kitty—entirely ignoring Stokes who stood directly in his way. “Whore! Jezebel! What do you mean you’re going back to London?” His face beet-red, Riggs shook with the violence of his feelings; his eyes, locked on Kitty’s face, burned. “I killed that bounder for your sake, so you could stay here with me—but you’re leaving? Oh, no. No, no, no!” A vicious expression transforming his face, Riggs strained to reach Kitty. “You’re not leaving me. I’ll kill you first!”
Boots thundered in the corridor. Phipps and Jones burst into the room, took stock in one glance, and plunged into action.
Stokes all but lifted Kitty aside. With one boot, he pushed a chair to the side of the room and sat her down. “Stay there.”
The order was superfluous. Kitty was still gasping and wheezing.
Turning, Stokes saw that between them, Barnaby, Phipps, and Jones had managed to restrain the raging Riggs. He still hadn’t quieted but continued to spew invectives and epithets, all directed at Kitty. His earlier “whore” and “Jezebel” were the least objectionable.
Phipps produced a piece of rope and deftly tied Riggs’s wrists.
Stokes waved at the door. “Take him away—preferably outside. Both of you stay with him.”
�
�Aye, sir.” Phipps nodded and, with Jones, half marched, half lifted Riggs out of the room.
Riggs didn’t stop yelling, but his threats gradually faded until finally relative silence returned.
Stokes looked at Barnaby. “Well, that’s the murderer caught.”
“True.” Barnaby was studying Kitty. “But as I see it, we’re still not entirely clear as to his motive.”
Following Barnaby’s gaze, Stokes caught his drift. Riggs might have been the murderer, but had Kitty put him up to it? Had she known of Riggs’ intention and, possibly, encouraged him?
Barnaby drew the other chair around and sat facing Kitty.
Stokes propped himself against the corner of the desk, folded his arms, and watched Kitty’s face.
“Kitty,” Barnaby said, his voice even and unthreatening. “You need to tell us what that was all about.”
Kitty’s face was parchment pale, her eyes huge. She was still in shock—actress that she was, this might well be the best chance they would have to extract the unvarnished truth.
Her gaze unfocused, Kitty swallowed, and winced.
Stokes glanced at the door and saw Duffet, round-eyed, peering in. “Fetch her another cup of tea. And tell the cook to put some honey in it.”
Duffet vanished.
Kitty vaguely nodded her thanks. She moistened her lips. “I didn’t realize…” The words were a thread of sound. Drawing in a deeper breath, one hand rising to her bruised throat, she went on, “I told you that I had to encourage Riggs a trifle to get him to tell me what we—Fletcher and I—needed to know. Afterward, he—Riggs—was…attentive. I said it wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle, and it wasn’t, but there was an intensity about his regard that was…unsettling. Then when Fletcher arrived, Riggs saw the pair of us meeting in the shrubbery. I played it off, and so did Fletcher, as just a flirting exchange, but from then on Riggs watched me like a hawk. I had to be extra careful slipping away to meet Fletcher—I made sure Riggs was busy in the house before I did. Then Fletcher left—meaning that as Mitchell he was thrown out—and Riggs…relaxed. I thought with Fletcher gone, I would have no more trouble.”
Dragging in a shuddering breath, Kitty paused. Her expression was all contrition and sorrow; tears glimmered in her eyes.
If this was an act, Barnaby thought, it was the performance of her life.
Her voice little more than a whisper, Kitty went on, “Then Fletcher’s letter arrived. I didn’t realize until later that, of course, Riggs receives the mail. He brought my letter to me. I took it and tucked it into my pocket and went on with my work. He waited for a minute, then left. I didn’t open the letter until I was alone in my room, and I burnt it after I’d read it.” Kitty shivered. “But, of course, Riggs also delivered Fletcher’s other letter to Miss Finsbury. I can’t be sure, but I suspect that Fletcher hadn’t thought and his handwriting was the same on both letters. Riggs guessed—well, knew—that the letter I’d received came from, as he thought, Mitchell.”
Kitty paused to pass her tongue over her lips. “I told you that, on the night before Fletcher returned, I packed my bag just in case his new plan meant I had to leave with him. Riggs came to my door while I was packing. I didn’t let him in—he said he wanted to talk, and I said I was tired and I would see him the next day. But the bag was open on the bed—he saw it over my shoulder. I know he looked, then he looked back at my face, but he said nothing and I told him good night and shut the door.”
She drew in an even more shaky breath, and when she spoke, her voice quavered. “I gathered”—she tipped her head toward the space before the window—“that Riggs believed that Fletcher had charmed me into running away with him. I…suppose that’s why he decided to kill Fletcher before he reached the house.” She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
After a moment, Barnaby asked, his voice calm, almost gentle, “I asked earlier why you’d left this morning. I don’t think you would have planned to go, so….”
Kitty’s breath caught. She glanced at Stokes. “I wasn’t intending to leave, not until you’d found who’d murdered Fletcher.” Her voice steadied; her features firmed. “I wanted to know who had killed him. But then this morning Riggs came rushing up and told me you’d arrived, and that he’d heard you tell Lord Finsbury that you were convinced that I’d killed Fletcher—he had the name, Fletcher, so I knew you’d learned that much and that Riggs was speaking the truth. He insisted that I had to leave. I didn’t know what to do. Riggs all but bundled me out of the house. He told me to go to a nearby barn and wait for him there, that it would be all right—that he would sort it all out.”
Meeting Barnaby’s eyes, Kitty shook her head. “I have no idea what he meant by that, but I didn’t wait to find out. I left via the path—the barn is a little way off it—but instead of going there, I went on to the village, to the coaching inn, and bought a ticket back to London.” She looked at Stokes. “That’s where your men found me.”
Stokes nodded. He glanced at Barnaby, but he, too, had no more questions.
Kitty stared across the room, then her face crumpled. “I tried to let Riggs down gently—it should have worked. It has in the past….” A second ticked by, then she bowed her head, covering her face with her hands. “Oh, my God—he killed Fletcher because of me.”
Kitty’s shoulders shook as she wept.
Stokes exchanged an uneasy glance with Barnaby.
Then a stir at the door heralded Mrs. Bateman with a tray.
The housekeeper took in the scene, then bustled forward. “There, there, dear.” Setting the tray on the desk, the older woman shooed Barnaby aside and swooped in and took the weeping Kitty into her arms. “It’ll be all right—you’ll see.”
Leaving Mrs. Bateman to comfort Kitty, Barnaby beat a hasty retreat, unsurprised to find Stokes close behind him.
Quietly shutting the door, Stokes met his gaze. “I believe that gives us our motive.”
Barnaby nodded. “I sincerely doubt that that was an act. She and Fletcher were a true team.”
The word was one their wives—Penelope especially—were wont to use.
“But,” Barnaby said, “we’re still left with one burning question unanswered.”
Stokes frowned. “What question?”
“Why did Fletcher return to the house?” Barnaby paused, then said, “I need to listen to my wife more often.” He met Stokes’s gaze. “She instructed me to get a look at the Finsbury diamonds, and I believe in her condition I should do all I can to humor her.” He tipped his head. “Coming?”
“If you think that’s going to answer our burning question”—Stokes waved him on—“lead the way.”
CHAPTER 7
Barnaby knocked on the door of Lord Finsbury’s study.
Hearing a gruff, “Come,” he opened the door and went in.
Lord Finsbury was sitting behind his desk. He’d been staring out of the window, but now swiveled to face them. Anxiety rode his features; uncertainty filled his face. “I heard the commotion. What’s happened?”
The study was in a separate wing from the estate office; his lordship would have been able to hear the noise, but wouldn’t have been able to discern who was involved.
Stokes had followed Barnaby into the room. At a glance from Barnaby, Stokes replied, “We’ve apprehended the murderer, my lord. It was Riggs, your butler.”
“Riggs?” Incredulity banished anxiety; Lord Finsbury goggled. “Great heavens! What possible reason could Riggs have had for attacking Mitchell—that is, this Fletcher person?”
“As to that,” Stokes said, “we believe the reason was the parlormaid, Kitty Mallard. As we mentioned earlier, she was Fletcher’s lover and accomplice, introduced into the household to collect the necessary information for Fletcher’s scheme, but all Riggs saw was a maid he wanted being seduced by the charms of a gentleman-rake. He killed Mitchell-Fletcher out of jealousy, because he saw Fletcher as a successful rival for Kitty’s affections.”
Stokes paused, then added, �
�We have no reason to suppose that Kitty was involved, other than inadvertently—she did not appreciate the danger Riggs, being the sort of obsessively possessive man he is, posed to her and Fletcher.”
Clasping his hands before him, Lord Finsbury stared at them for several moments, then the brittle tension that had held him eased. “So.” He raised his gaze to Stokes’s face. “It’s over, then.”
Stokes glanced at Barnaby.
“In the main.” Barnaby met Lord Finsbury’s gaze. “But there’s one point we have yet to resolve. To do so, we need to examine the necklace—the Finsbury diamonds.”
Lord Finsbury had long ago lost the ability to hide his emotions; deep-seated reluctance colored his features. He regarded Barnaby steadily, resistance holding firm, but then his shoulders lowered and, slowly, he nodded. Pushing back from the desk, he rose. “Yes, I suppose you do.”
His tone held threads of regret and re-emerging anxiety.
Crossing to the large portrait hanging on the side wall, his lordship swung the picture aside, revealing a large wall safe.
Barnaby noted that it was an older model from a popular maker; child’s play for any decent cracksman—or a dexterous amateur like Fletcher.
After spinning the large dial, then opening the heavy door, Lord Finsbury reached inside. He hesitated for a moment, then, his posture suggesting he was girding his loins, he lifted a black velvet jewelry case and, turning, returned to the desk.
Halting behind it, Lord Finsbury opened the case, looked down at the contents for several seconds, then, raising his head, he held out the open case to Barnaby. “These are the Finsbury diamonds.”
The introduction was hardly necessary; the diamonds, dozens of square stones each as large as the nail on Barnaby’s little finger, plus several even larger round ones, all set in a heavy but simple setting, were every bit as fabulous as their reputation painted them. Even in the relatively poor light in the study, the diamonds blazed.
The Peculiar Case of Lord Finsbury's Diamonds: A Casebook of Barnaby Adair Short Novel (The Casebook of Barnaby Adair) Page 11
