The Peculiar Case of Lord Finsbury's Diamonds: A Casebook of Barnaby Adair Short Novel (The Casebook of Barnaby Adair) (5 page)

 “That,” Stokes admitted, “is another excellent question.” He glanced at Barnaby, who shrugged faintly, indicating he had no further questions for Culver.

 Stokes looked at Culver. “Thank you—you’ve been most helpful.” Somewhat cynically, he added, “I can only hope the others are equally forthcoming.”

 A quick grin flashed across Culver’s face, then they all rose.

 Stokes showed Culver to the door, sent Duffet to fetch Miss Finsbury, and returned to his seat behind the desk.

 While they waited for Gwendolyn Finsbury, Barnaby replayed and dissected Culver’s replies. Eventually, he met Stokes’s gaze. “Unless Miss Finsbury is an accomplice, it wasn’t Culver.”

 Stokes nodded. “But what he told us is going to make questioning and assessing the others easier—he’s made it clear what questions we need to ask.”

 Barnaby listed them on his fingers. “One—did they know anything of Mitchell before the house party? Two—did they know he was returning not simply yesterday, but specifically yesterday afternoon? Three—are their alibis for yesterday afternoon vouched for by others? Four—what did they know about the diamonds? And five—did they learn anything at all about Mitchell from the man himself while he was here?” Barnaby paused, then glanced at Stokes. “Is that it?”

  “Hmm…most of it.” Stokes leaned back. “There’s also the matter of access to the foot-trap and the hoop-hammer, but, if I understood correctly, other than Rattle, most of those here have visited many times over the years—they might have stumbled on the trap and the hammer at any time. And, of course, there’s all the staff—we have to assume that any of them would have known where to find both items.”

 Barnaby snorted. “Death by hoop-hammer—that’s doubtless a first.”

 Stokes grunted. “Given the way some of those old ladies play croquet, I wouldn’t be too sure of that.”

 A tap on the door heralded the arrival of Gwendolyn Finsbury. While she was understandably a touch nervous, she made a determined bid to hold her head high—and exonerate Frederick Culver at every turn.

 Other than confirming, had they been in any doubt, that she was in love with Culver, her statements added nothing of moment to Culver’s observations.

 Barnaby resisted the urge to ask Gwendolyn if she had done anything to encourage Mitchell—instead, he asked Agnes Finsbury, Gwendolyn’s aunt.

 Only to receive a very firm “No.” Agnes paused, then added, “I have to admit I did wonder whether Mitchell’s polish—he really was very charming when he set himself to it—would sway Gwen, but she never looked away from Frederick, not even for a second. I have no difficulty imagining Mitchell seeing her lack of response as a challenge, but he took things far too far. I was exceedingly grateful that Frederick stepped in.”

 “Did either of the other young ladies show any susceptibility to Mitchell’s charms?” Stokes asked.

 Agnes considered, then shook her head. “Not that I saw. Juliet is spoken for, and her mind is constantly engaged with planning her future with Jeremy Finch. As for Harriet, she seems entirely happy with Mr. Rattle and I saw no evidence of any falling out there—and I’m sure I, or Mrs. Pace, or Mrs. Shepherd would have noticed if there had been.”

 Unlike Culver and Gwendolyn, Agnes had been alone in her private sitting room through most of the previous afternoon, doing the accounts and organizing the coming week’s menus. “Given the circumstances of our parting, I had no interest in speaking with Mitchell again, and Gwen had told me that Frederick would stay with her throughout any meeting—and Frederick, dear boy, had reassured me of that.”

 They let Agnes go. She was replaced by Algernon Rattle, who provided a breath of fresh air with his bright and breezy style, but when they distilled all he said, it amounted to nothing more than confirmation of what their previous interviewees had told them—except for one point. When asked for his assessment of Mitchell, Rattle scratched his head, then opined, “A good enough sort, don’t you know, but…well, there was just something that didn’t quite sit right. I asked him where he hailed from, and he never quite answered, so I can’t help you there.” As for the diamonds, Rattle had absolutely no idea what they were talking about; he had no notion a necklace known as the Finsbury diamonds even existed and, patently, didn’t really care. As for his alibi, he’d been with Harriet Pace, her mother, and both the Shepherd ladies all through the afternoon.

 Rattle was followed in quick succession by all the other ladies, who verified his alibi and those of each other. None of them had succeeded in prizing anything of Mitchell’s background from him, but, in the usual way of well-born ladies, all had tried. 

Sitting back as the door closed behind Mrs. Shepherd, the last of the female guests, Barnaby met Stokes’s gaze. “It’s starting to look like Mitchell was being not just careful but obsessive over deflecting all interest away from his background.”

 “Indeed,” Stokes replied. “Which raises the question of why?” He paused, then glanced at a clock on a nearby shelf. “Let’s interview the rest of the gentlemen, then see if a break for lunch and digestion results in any fresh insights before we continue with questioning the staff.”

 Barnaby agreed.

 The two older gentlemen had spent the previous afternoon in the library, dozing over the news sheets. Although the conversation had been sporadic, both were quite sure the other had not left at any point throughout the critical period.

 On the question of Mitchell, from Mr. Pace they heard, “Asked him if he was related to the Helmsley Mitchells, but he said not. Didn’t volunteer much of himself, now I think of it.”

 Mr. Shepherd was more definite. “I couldn’t place him, and when it came down to it, he couldn’t place himself, if you know what I mean. I started to wonder if there was something havey-cavey about him—when I heard he’d been murdered, I wasn’t all that surprised.”

 Both men knew of the Finsbury diamonds, but neither had seen the necklace in years, and neither showed the slightest interest in it now, beyond the fact that it had been found in Mitchell’s possession.

 That occasioned an exclamation from Mr. Shepherd. “Gads! Whoever killed him left a fortune behind!”

 “Which,” Stokes said, as he and Barnaby rose and headed for the door after Mr. Shepherd had left, “is a fair comment.”

 Rather than remain at the house and impose on the staff who they would later be interviewing, they ambled back down the woodland path to the village. While they’d been up at the house, the police surgeon’s men had arrived and had taken Mitchell’s body away, along with the foot-trap and hoop-hammer. A patch of flattened grass and disturbed leaves was all that remained to mark the spot; Barnaby and Stokes skirted it and walked on.

When appealed to, Duffet, trailing respectfully behind, directed them to a smaller tavern which, he assured them, served better fare than the bigger and much busier coaching inns.

 Barnaby and Stokes were pleased to approve of the tavern’s ale and rabbit pie.

 Pushing away his empty plate, Barnaby sat back. “You know, the usual murder has only one mystery attached to it—who killed the victim? In this case, we not only have that mystery, but also a mystery over who the victim was, as well as the joint mysteries of how he got the Finsbury diamonds and why he was bringing them back.”

Stokes grimaced. “And given the mystery over Mitchell himself, I find myself less inclined to believe Lord Finsbury’s rose-tinted theory that Mitchell somehow stumbled on the diamonds, managed to secure them, and was bringing them back to right his standing with the family. That’s too far-fetched.”

 “Indeed.” Barnaby pushed back his chair and rose. “Let’s get back and see what the staff can tell us.”

 They returned to the estate office to discover the neat list of all the staff Agnes had promised to provide waiting on the desk. They started with Riggs. As the butler had already seen the body and knew about the diamonds, there was no beating about any bush.

 “I can’t say as I took to Mr. Mitchell.” Riggs gave the word rigidity new meaning; he sat poker straight, fists on his thighs, and stared straight ahead rather than meeting their eyes.

 It was the pose of a proper servant, but Stokes found it irritating. “Why was that?”

 Riggs was silent for nearly a minute before replying, “I suspected that he was one of those gentlemen who should not be trusted around ladies, sir. And I was right. I couldn’t say I disapproved of Mr. Culver and Miss Agnes throwing the man out on his ear.”

 “Where were you during the afternoon yesterday—over the time Mitchell must have walked up the path?”

 “I was in the butler’s pantry polishing the silver.”

 Stokes glanced at Barnaby, who shook his head. They dismissed Riggs and called in the footman, and in turn the groom, the general-hand-cum-garden boy, and the grizzled gardener. As with Riggs, Stokes put their questions, leaving Barnaby to watch and assess. As it happened, none of the other male staff had any opinion whatever about Mitchell. However, like Riggs, all of them had been alone during the critical hours.

 The cook, who they interviewed next, explained, “That’s the one time in the day when we’ve all got a bit of free time to spend as we wish. Lunch is all cleared away, and afternoon tea will either be waiting to be served or already served—it’s only Kitty, the parlormaid, who has to tend to that. All the rest of us are free until five, when we start getting things ready for dinner.”

 The maids who followed—Rhonda, the upstairs maid, Fitts, Miss Agnes’s dresser, Polly, Miss Gwen’s lady’s maid, Ginger, the maid-of-all-work, and Betsy, the scullery maid—were quickly dealt with; none knew anything about Mitchell.

 But the appearance of the last maid on their list, Kitty, the parlormaid, who until then had been busy serving afternoon tea, jolted Barnaby and Stokes to attention. It wasn’t the fact that Kitty—“Kitty Maitland, sir”—was uncommonly pretty, with rioting blonde curls tucked under her prim cap and a shapely, far-from-girlish figure, nor that her voice was husky and low that riveted their focus. Kitty had been crying.

 Barnaby would have taken an oath on it, although she’d clearly made an effort to hide the evidence. More, she was pale and wan, and appeared drained and close to exhaustion.

 But Kitty steadfastly denied any knowledge of Mitchell, or of anything else to do with the case.

 Reasoning that the source of her upset might be something—or someone—entirely irrelevant to their investigation, Barnaby signaled to Stokes to let her go.

 The instant the door closed behind her, Stokes arched a brow his way.

 Barnaby offered, “There’s no reason to assume that it’s Mitchell’s death that’s so overset her, but her state highlights just how
unaffected
everyone else has been by this murder.”

 Stokes nodded. “A gruesome enough murder, too. But you’re right—no one has shown the slightest sympathy toward Mitchell, which suggests that, despite his oft-mentioned charm, he didn’t truly connect with anyone here at all.”

 Barnaby sighed. “We’ve interviewed nearly everyone and got nary a hint of any convincing motive.” He consulted the list. “We only have the housekeeper, a Mrs. Bateman, to go, and if she’s the murderer, I’ll eat my hat.”

 “You don’t wear a hat,” Stokes replied. “But, regardless, let’s have Mrs. Bateman in.”

 Mrs. Bateman had seen Mitchell about the house, but hadn’t so much as spoken to the man, so had nothing to offer in that regard. When Barnaby questioned her about the source of Kitty’s distress, Mrs. Bateman shook her head in motherly dismissal. “They all do it—they decide they’ve fallen in love with some gentleman and assume that he’ll fall in love with them, and then they get cast down when he doesn’t reciprocate. Mind you, I’m not saying Kitty had anything to do with Mitchell—it could equally well be Mr. Culver or Mr. Rattle she’s set her silly heart on, and no foul to either gentleman.” Mrs. Bateman paused, clearly thinking back. “I can’t say I ever saw Kitty anywhere near Mr. Mitchell. Indeed, I had hoped she wouldn’t be so susceptible, given as she’s a touch older than the norm.”

 Like the other members of the staff, Mrs. Bateman had been alone in her sitting room reading a novel through the critical time.

 When, accepting their polite refusal of her offer of a cup of tea, the housekeeper left them, Barnaby and Stokes shared a long glance, then both rose.

 “Let’s get back to London.” Stokes led the way. “The Chief Commissioner will want to hear what we’ve found.”

* * *

T
hey walked back to Hampstead village, reclaimed Barnaby’s curricle, and he tooled them swiftly back to town.

 Stokes went straight to the Chief Commissioner’s office to report, taking Barnaby with him.

 They detailed what they’d found. The Chief Commissioner harrumphed. “Sounds complicated. Clear it up as fast as you can, but keep the whole thing quiet. I don’t need the likes of Finsbury griping in my ear.”

 Thus adjured, Stokes and Barnaby headed downstairs to Stokes’s office.

 “What’s next?” Barnaby followed Stokes into the small room. “Should we list all the players and try to define some direction from the myriad unconnected and mostly irrelevant facts, or…?” Pausing, Barnaby looked at Stokes.

 After rounding his desk, Stokes had halted, his long fingers holding down a sheet of paper that had been left, folded, on his blotter.

 He’d unfolded it and had been reading the contents.

 Stokes grunted. “Dinner.” A smile of gentle expectation softened his features. He held out the note to Barnaby. “We’ve been summoned.”

 “Ah.” Taking the note, Barnaby scanned the few—direct and to the point—lines within, inscribed in his wife’s dashing hand. He grinned. “I see.”

 Picking up the scarf he’d dropped on the desk, Stokes waved Barnaby back to the door. “No sense keeping our ladies waiting—let’s go.”

 Chuckling, Barnaby tucked the note in his pocket and together they made for Albemarle Street.

CHAPTER 3