The Peculiar Case of Lord Finsbury's Diamonds: A Casebook of Barnaby Adair Short Novel (The Casebook of Barnaby Adair) (3 page)

Also a friend of Gwen’s, Juliet was pretending to listen to the older ladies, but Gwen would have wagered that Juliet was actually thinking—dreaming—of her fiancé, Mr. Jeremy Finch, who was a secretary in the Home Office and presently traveling with the Minister.

 The older gentlemen, Mr. Pace and Mr. Thomas Shepherd, were quietly chatting in two armchairs on the other side of the room.

 Everyone present had been invited by Agnes. The only exception had been Mr. Peter Mitchell, who had been invited by Gwen’s father; as Gwen understood it, her father had decided to invite Mitchell and had subsequently asked Agnes to organize a house party, and, as usual, had left all the rest to Agnes.

 That being so, Gwen had yet to comprehend the reason behind the frown her father had directed at Frederick when Frederick had arrived. Admittedly her father wouldn’t have expected to see Frederick, who had only that week returned from countless years in deepest Africa. However, given that Frederick was the only child of the Culvers, longtime neighbors now deceased, who had been very close friends with her father, her late mother, and Agnes, who, as a spinster, had lived at Finsbury Court all her life, Gwen was at a loss to account for the antipathy she’d detected in her father’s welcome. Aside from all else, Frederick was Agnes’s godson.

 It was Agnes who had run Finsbury Court ever since Gwen’s mother had died over a decade ago. Gwen was very close to her aunt, who had never attempted to step into her mother’s shoes with respect to Gwen herself, but, instead, had always been there, a rock-solid support.

 What truly mystified Gwen was that the only instance she could recall of her father involving himself in any social decision was his invitation to Peter Mitchell—and look how that had turned out!

 “Murder.” She whispered the word. After a moment, she murmured, “Everyone is talking about inconsequential things, but, inside, all of us are wondering who murdered Peter Mitchell—and why.”

 Frederick arched a brow. “I think the overwhelming consideration goes somewhat deeper into self-interest than that.” A cynical comment, but, he was certain, all too true.

 Gwen looked at his face. Studied his expression. “What do you mean?”

 Frederick met her gaze. “I mean that the primary question in the minds of everyone here who isn’t the murderer goes more along the lines of: Will there be a scandal? And, if so, will it affect me?” He grimaced and added, “Or my daughter and her chances of a good marriage? Or my husband’s connections? Or my wife’s social standing?” He surveyed the group, then looked at Gwen. “You know as well as I how it goes.”

 She held his gaze for an instant, then nodded and looked again at the others. The potential for scandal, the possibility of being tainted by it, was, indeed, the threat hovering over them all.

 The clang of the doorbell echoed through the house.

 All conservations suspended. Everyone strained to hear…

 Footsteps—Riggs’s—crossing the front hall. The telltale squeak of the front door being opened.

 Murmurs, but in deep voices too low to make out any words. Then the sound of the front door closing.

 Everyone waited, breath bated.

 Footsteps again, this time more than just Riggs’s, but fading away, presumably down the corridor to Lord Finsbury’s study where his lordship had retreated to await the arrival of the police.

 Algernon eased out an audible breath and smiled winningly at Harriet, Mrs. Pace, and Agnes. “His lordship will take care of the authorities—just see if I’m not right. No need for us to be involved.” He lifted an elegant shoulder. “None of us knew Mitchell, after all—no reason any of us would have wished him harm.”

 Algernon’s gaze briefly rose to Frederick’s face, then smoothly slid away as Mr. Pace and Mr. Shepherd both seconded Algernon’s comforting reassurance.

 Frederick glanced at Gwen. “I fear that’s wishful thinking. Perhaps in the past such incidents could be brushed aside, but not these days.” He wanted to warn her; ignoring what was likely to come wouldn’t help her weather the storm.

 She met his gaze, read his eyes, then nodded. “I suspect you’re right.”

 He watched as she drew in a deeper breath; resolution, and a strength she hadn’t had years ago, seeped into her expression and etched her fine features.

 Features the memory of which had kept him going—struggling and working to the limit of his capacity—throughout his long years in Africa. He’d always loved Gwen, although he was certain she had never known. From the time she’d been an awkward ten-year-old tumbling out of trees—he’d laughed and caught her and admired her spirit. His fascination with her had started then.

 And had matured with the years. He had never questioned it; the emotion had simply always been a part of him. Gwendolyn Finsbury had been created for him.

 Then his parents had lost much of their wealth in a fraudulent investment scheme and he had had to do something. He’d been good with languages, good at managing people; he had signed on with a company eager to expand their mines in Africa.

 He’d worked hard. He’d succeeded.

 Then his parents had died and he’d realized that although he’d amassed a fortune, he had no assured future, no one with whom to share his life.

 It had taken several months to arrange, but he had come back to England with his heart in his hands, hoping against hope that Gwen would still be there. Still unmarried, still the same fascinating girl. Agnes had written occasional letters, but he had never given his godmother any reason to suppose that he was in love with her niece.

 And he had never, ever, done anything to communicate his feelings to Gwen.

 Within a day of returning to his parents’ house and sending a note around to Agnes, he’d received an invitation to the Finsbury Court house party. He’d deemed that beyond fortuitous, a sign that Fate had elected to smile on his suit and hand him the perfect situation in which to gauge Gwen’s feelings toward him, and, if the signs were propitious, to make his feelings known to her and beg for her hand in marriage.

 He’d arrived at Finsbury Court—and instead of the girl he remembered, a woman had smiled sweetly at him and given him her hand.

 He’d been ridiculously tongue-tied, smitten all over again, but in a much more adult way.

 The Gwen who stood beside him now was not the girl he’d idolized, who he had set on a pedestal and worshipped from afar.

 She was so much more.

 She had facets he hadn’t imagined, layers he longed to explore.

 And he wanted her with an even greater, more burning desire than before.

 From that first instant, his attention had locked on her and hadn’t wavered.

 And she’d seemed to return his regard.

 Then Mitchell had laid hands on her and—

 Frederick drew in a deeper breath of his own and quietly stated, “In case it crosses your mind, I didn’t even think of killing him—not even at the time.”

 Gwen’s lips twisted. “I can honestly state that you’re a better man than I.” Briefly, she met his gaze. “I did think of it—for a fleeting moment. He made me so furious.” She paused, then added, her voice lowering to a whisper, “I feared you might think that I’d encouraged him, perhaps to make you jealous—”

 “No.” Lips thinning, Frederick shook his head. “That didn’t even occur to me.” He glanced down and met her hazel eyes. A moment passed, then he simply said, “I know you.”

 And, he realized, he did.

CHAPTER 2

B
arnaby followed Stokes through the door the butler, Riggs, held wide. Lord Finsbury’s study was located down a corridor off the front hall; with Penelope’s instructions high in his mind, Barnaby had used the moments since entering the house to look about him. Accustomed as he was to the homes of the ton’s elite, the interior of Finsbury Court did not match his expectations; instead, the furnishings echoed the exterior—a bit of a hodgepodge, and while everything had once been of good quality, most items appeared worn, even a trifle shabby.

 One quick, comprehensive glance informed him that his lordship’s study was at one with the rest of the house.

 Somewhat unexpectedly, Lord Finsbury was standing in the middle of the room in front of a large desk and the pair of chairs facing it, an unsubtle indication that he expected this meeting to be too short to warrant sitting down. Of average height and build, and showing a tendency to portliness, with thinning gray-brown hair, heavy brows nearly meeting over a patrician nose, and an expression of deep resistance, his lordship appeared a veritable caricature of an old-school peer of the stuffy, reactionary, stiff-upper-lip sort. Predictably, he frowned at Stokes as Stokes halted on the rug before him.

 Stokes inclined his head. “Lord Finsbury. I’m Inspector Stokes of Scotland Yard.”

 Finsbury’s gaze had already moved on to Barnaby.

 “And,” Stokes smoothly continued, “this gentleman is the Honorable Barnaby Adair. The Chief Commissioner has requested that Mr. Adair assist in this case to ensure that the social ramifications are kept to a minimum.”

 That wasn’t exactly the Chief Commissioner’s direction, but Stokes and Barnaby had learned that those words best served to excuse Barnaby’s presence and ease their way. Duly adopting a reassuring expression, Barnaby halted beside Stokes and nodded to Finsbury. “My lord. Rest assured the inspector and I will endeavor to conduct our investigation as expeditiously, and as discreetly, as possible. And with as little disruption to your house guests as we can manage.”

 Lord Finsbury’s frown deepened until his shaggy brows formed a single line. “I really don’t see that there can be any connection with anyone in this house. Mitchell was murdered in the woods—presumably by some vagabond.”

 Barnaby could almost hear Stokes’s inward sigh.

 “As to the matter of Mr. Mitchell’s death, my lord”—Stokes’s voice took on an authoritative edge—“I’m unsure how much you’ve heard, but the gentleman was first incapacitated by a foot-trap, then beaten to death with a hammer identified as the hoop-hammer from your croquet shed. It’s clear the gentleman was headed for the house and he had, indeed, sent word that he would arrive yesterday afternoon. We also understand that, several days ago, an altercation of sorts occurred between the victim and other members of the house party resulting in the victim’s ejection from the house. In short, my lord, all the evidence before us suggests that Mitchell was murdered by someone with, at the very least, access to this house and knowledge of recent happenings within it. Against that, we have thus far found no evidence of any stranger in the vicinity, vagabond or otherwise.”

 Lord Finsbury drew himself up and attempted to look down his nose at Stokes, who was several inches taller. “I find the suggestion that anyone presently in this house was involved in such a crime utterly preposterous.”

 “Be that as it may, my lord”—Barnaby’s tones were more dulcet, yet held no more softness than Stokes’s—“the law requires a full investigation of such cases and there is no avoiding that necessity.”

 Lord Finsbury stared at Barnaby for several moments, his pale blue gaze searching.

 Barnaby looked back unmoving. Immovable.

 Lord Finsbury glanced briefly at Stokes, then deflated. “Very well.” Lips thin, he peevishly gestured at the butler to leave them. Rounding his desk, he waved Barnaby and Stokes to the chairs facing it. “But I will hold you to your claim of discretion. And expeditiousness.”

 “It is our intention to settle this matter as soon as may be.” Sitting, Stokes drew out his notebook; thus far, the interview had gone much as he’d expected. “If you could answer the questions we have to this point, it will assist us in keeping the disruption to your household to a minimum.”

 When his lordship said nothing, merely waited, tight-lipped, Stokes asked, “Who are the guests presently staying at Finsbury Court?”

 Clasping his hands on the blotter, his lordship rattled off names—the Shepherds, the Paces, Algernon Rattle, and Frederick Culver.

 “And your connection with these people?” Stokes asked.

 Lord Finsbury paused, then offered, “The Shepherds and the Paces are friends of Agnes, my sister. I know them through her, although our acquaintance has stretched for many years. Their daughters, Juliet and Harriet, are friends of my daughter, Gwendolyn. As for Rattle, he’s a younger man and I gather he’s hanging about Harriet’s skirts, but I know relatively little of him.”

 Stokes arched a brow. “And Culver?”

 His features hardening, Lord Finsbury dipped his head. “I’ve known Frederick Culver all his life. His late parents were neighbors, but fell on hard times and Frederick left the country adventuring—I believe in Africa. He’s Agnes’s godson. It was she who invited him—I had no idea he would be here until he arrived.”

 Stokes tried to read Lord Finsbury’s expression. “Am I to take it you don’t approve of Culver?”

 Lord Finsbury hesitated, then raised one shoulder. “I know little of the man he might now be, but he was the one who threw Mitchell out two—no, three—days ago. They nearly came to blows, I understand.”

 “Over what?” Barnaby asked.

 “As to that, I wasn’t there, so cannot say. You must inquire of those who were present.”

 “And they would be?” Barnaby prompted.

 With obvious reluctance, Finsbury replied, “My daughter, Gwendolyn, and Culver. Agnes was involved as well, although to what extent I can’t say.”

 Eyes on his notebook, Stokes nodded.

 “The one guest you haven’t mentioned is Mitchell himself.” Barnaby caught Finsbury’s gaze. “How did he come to be here?”

 Stokes looked up and saw Finsbury’s defensiveness intensify, but Finsbury worked to keep his tone level as he said, “I invited Mitchell. I met him at White’s, and he seemed the right sort to introduce to Gwendolyn. She’s twenty-three and I would like to see her appropriately settled.”

 Barnaby managed to stop himself from glancing at the shabby furnishings. “I take it Mitchell was wealthy?”

 Lord Finsbury’s lips pinched even more. “I had reason to believe he was well-off. He spoke of business successes in the colonies and the Americas.”