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

  Barnaby lifted the necklace from its bed. He held it up before his face, the stones a cascade of brilliant white fire, sparking and flashing as he turned his fingers.

  He didn’t need to look too closely; the weight of the necklace told him all he needed to know.

  Barnaby glanced at Stokes. His stoic friend was staring at the glittering stones as if he’d never beheld such bounty.

  Hiding a smile, Barnaby returned the necklace to the case, then closed the case and held it out to Lord Finsbury. “Thank you.”

  Somewhat hesitantly, his lordship took back the case. A frown in his eyes, he searched Barnaby’s face…then, softly, he sighed. “You know they’re paste.”

  Barnaby inclined his head, his gaze steady on Lord Finsbury’s. “But I can’t see that anyone else needs to know.”

  The relief that swept his lordship was dramatic; for a moment, he hardly dared believe his ears, then he did, and his demeanor, his entire stance, changed, lightening, as if he’d just sloughed off a massive weight. His movements less stiff than before, he inclined his head to Barnaby. “Thank you.”

  “One last question.” Stokes had quickly readjusted his assumptions. He nodded at the black velvet case. “When were the real gems replaced?”

  Lord Finsbury looked down at the case. “In my father’s day.”

  Barnaby remarked, “That’s why the necklace is so rarely seen in public.” Another mystery solved.

  Lord Finsbury nodded. “The events at which it appears have to be chosen carefully—in an old-fashioned ballroom under candlelight, the substitution is effectively impossible to detect, not unless one examines the stones carefully, and even then one would need a good eye and a jeweler’s loupe. But with improved lighting…” He paused, then sighed. “I fear that, at some point in the near future, the Finsbury diamonds are going to be tragically lost.”

  Stokes looked at Barnaby. “So when Fletcher realized the diamonds were fake, he came back to try another tack.”

  Lord Finsbury, not realizing the comment was not directed at him, shook his head. “I have no notion, Inspector. I didn’t speak with the man again. However, you can now understand the depths of my shock when Duffet returned the diamonds to me. I had had no idea they’d been taken, and although Mitchell—Fletcher—was dead, I had no way of knowing if he’d learned our family secret, and if he had told anyone else.”

  Stokes had been studying his lordship; now he nodded. “Thank you, sir.” Stokes glanced at Barnaby. “I believe that will be all.” When Barnaby nodded in agreement, Stokes continued, “We have all the testimony we require. We’ll be relieving you of our company shortly, and taking Riggs and Miss Mallard with us.”

  Lord Finsbury frowned. “As to that, Inspector, Mr. Adair, I wonder if I might make a request?”

  When both Stokes and Barnaby raised their brows in invitation, Lord Finsbury elaborated, “The guests, and Agnes and Gwen, and Frederick, and the staff, too—they’ll all want some explanation and, I fear, dealing with such situations is not my forte. I wondered if you would consent to have a quick word—perhaps in the drawing room once we’ve gathered everyone together?”

  Stokes exchanged a glance with Barnaby. “I think we could manage that.”

  Barnaby grinned. “Why not? Everyone loves a good denouement.”

  * * *

  Leaving Lord Finsbury to gather his household, Stokes and Barnaby stepped out onto the front porch. There they found Duffet standing guard by the front door; Stokes sent him to fetch Kitty Mallard. “Tell her we’ll need her at the Yard to give a full statement. I doubt she’ll argue.”

  Duffet saluted and left.

  Barnaby softly snorted. “I suspect Kitty will be only too grateful for a reason to leave.”

  “Hmm.” Stokes looked across the forecourt to where Phipps, Jones, and the Yard driver were gathered by the coach, which had been drawn to the side of the gravel drive. A few yards away, Riggs sat cross-legged on the lawn. His arms now tied behind his back, he was rocking back and forth and talking aloud, quite intently, to someone who wasn’t there.

  “Do you think he’ll stand trial?” Barnaby asked.

  “I’m not sure.” Stokes shook his head. “Even to the end, he seemed rational enough, but…who knows when it comes to the corruption of men’s minds.”

  A moment passed, then Stokes stirred. “Speaking of corruption of trains of thought, those diamonds have dogged our steps at every turn, yet although we had the chance, we didn’t bother examining them.”

  “Indeed.” Barnaby paused, then continued, “Yet if we had…”

  “Precisely.” Stokes nodded. “Lord Finsbury would have gone straight to the top of our list of suspects and, most likely, stayed there. We wouldn’t have kept blundering around searching for clues—his lordship would have had opportunity, means, and one hell of a motive. Even the Chief Commissioner would have pressed ahead with the case. And we would have been wrong.”

  After a moment, Barnaby offered, “The Finsbury diamonds might be fake, but, rather than being cursed, perhaps they’re blessed.”

  “His lordship still needs funds,” Stokes said.

  “True,” Barnaby allowed. “But if the looks exchanged between Miss Finsbury and Culver are any guide, his lordship will be hearing wedding bells soon enough, and, while I was inquiring after the non-existent Mitchell, I heard a whisper or two about Culver, who is anything but non-existent. The word is that he returned from Africa a very wealthy man, but has chosen to play his cards close to his chest—the assumption being that he doesn’t want to be hounded by the matchmakers.”

  “Wise man—especially as it seems he’s had his match in his sights all along.”

  “Indeed.” Barnaby looked across at Riggs. “Oddly enough, I think it must have been Culver who, entirely innocently, was behind Fletcher returning here. The instant Fletcher learned that the necklace was paste, his mind would have turned to blackmail, but he knew Lord Finsbury had no wealth to speak of—the fake diamonds were testament enough to that. But Culver? Culver wanted to marry Gwen. Fletcher would have immediately asked around and he would have heard the same whispers about Culver that I did. So Fletcher sent his letter to Gwen, asking to meet her, but it was Culver he intended to speak with—after their earlier contretemps, Fletcher knew Culver would be by Gwen’s side.” Barnaby paused, then, his tone hardening, he concluded, “Fletcher was planning to use Gwen’s family’s standing, her happiness, to blackmail Culver.”

  A moment ticked past, then Stokes said, “Culver would have paid.”

  “Yes, he would have. Most likely for the rest of Fletcher’s and Kitty’s lives.” Barnaby stirred. “Which is why Fletcher considered his revised plan to be even better than stealing the diamonds.”

  After a moment, Stokes murmured, “Rather than being blessed, perhaps fake diamonds bring death to those who steal them.”

  Barnaby’s lips eased. He tipped his head. “Perhaps. There would be a certain appropriateness in that.”

  The door opened and Duffet looked out. “His lordship says as they’re ready for you, sir.”

  Meeting Barnaby’s eyes, Stokes arched his brows. “Ready for our performance?”

  Barnaby grinned and waved him on. “After you.”

  * * *

  That was, in fact, how they tackled their denouement. They entered the drawing room to discover that everyone, not only the guests and family, but every member of the staff barring only Riggs and Kitty, were gathered to hear their report.

  Lord Finsbury briefly introduced them, then Stokes took the floor and gave a concise account of what was now known to be the sequence of events, commencing with Fletcher’s scheme to steal the diamonds, then explaining Kitty’s part in the plan and Riggs’s unanticipated jealousy over her undeclared attachment to Mitchell-Fletcher, which had led to Riggs laying the foot-trap on the path and beating Fletcher to death.

  Stokes tied all the physical evidence neatly into his tale, and before anyone could question why Fletcher h
ad returned to the house with the diamonds in his pocket, Barnaby stepped in. “Everything we now know indicates that Fletcher had had a change of heart.” He smiled easily at all the attentive faces. “We believe he intended to return the necklace to the family.”

  Both statements were entirely true.

  Stokes retook the stage to conclude, “While the violent murder of Gordon Fletcher, known to you as Peter Mitchell, has undoubtedly been a trial to you all, we are confident we have apprehended all those involved, and that none of those remaining at Finsbury Court had anything whatever to do with the crime.” He glanced at Lord Finsbury. “On behalf of the Chief Commissioner, I would like to thank his lordship for his support and assistance in allowing us to deal with this matter expeditiously, and also to extend special thanks to Mr. Culver and Miss Finsbury for their efforts in uncovering the source of what were, in effect, the murder weapons.” Stokes favored the company with a half-bow. “Thank you all for your assistance.”

  As Stokes stepped back, Barnaby swept the company with a smile. “And might I tender our hopes that the rest of the house party passes with a little less excitement?”

  Laughter rippled through the assembly. People smiled and turned to speak to each other.

  Lord Finsbury shook Barnaby’s, then Stokes’s hand. “Thank you both. That will silence the whisperers.”

  “Indeed.” Agnes Finsbury had come up, Gwendolyn and Frederick in her wake. Agnes shook Barnaby’s hand, then, without a blink, extended her hand to Stokes. “I can’t thank you enough, Inspector—that was very well done. While there will certainly be talk about this incident—the murder at the house party at Finsbury Court—rather than being scandalized, the tone of such comments will now be about the drama and excitement our guests were privileged to witness.”

  Stokes struggled to hide a cynical smile. “If you say so, ma’am.”

  “Oh, I know so, sir.” With a pat on Stokes’s arm, Agnes moved on.

  Somewhat to Stokes’s surprise, if not Barnaby’s, many of the guests milled around, wanting to shake their hands and compliment them on a job well done.

  They’d expected to leave immediately, but the minutes ticked on.

  Faint sounds came from outside, then a thunderous knocking on the door shocked everyone into silence.

  Everyone waited, then, with a startled yelp, Percy, the footman, now elevated to butler, remembered the duty that was now his and rushed out to open the front door.

  A deep voice sounded briefly in the hall; a prickle of awareness tickled Barnaby’s nape.

  Then heavy footsteps approached. A second later, Conner, Barnaby’s groom, appeared in the doorway. The usually imperturbable man looked disheveled and wild. Conner’s gaze swept the gathering and landed on Barnaby. “Sir! It’s the mistress!” Suddenly becoming aware of the interested crowd, Conner swallowed the words he’d been about to say and substituted, “You have to come now.”

  Barnaby’s world stopped turning; the summons could mean only one thing.

  Stokes slapped him on the back. “Go! I’ll take care of all here.”

  Eyes round, Conner said, “I’ve brought the curricle.”

  Barnaby managed a nod. To Lord Finsbury, he said, “I have to go.”

  Even those words were an effort; his heart had leapt and lodged high in his throat.

  With a general nod to the company—he was barely aware of them now—Barnaby made for the doorway. Waving Conner back, he strode quickly out of the room. Reaching the front hall, he broke into a run.

  * * *

  It was one thing to know that your wife was going to have a baby, and quite another to discover that she was actually having it.

  Several hours later, Barnaby paced before the fireplace in his library, a glass of brandy clutched in one hand, and tried to think of something—anything—other than the fear that, entirely unexpectedly, had him in a viselike grip.

  He’d driven back to town like a madman. Leaving his curricle slewed in the street, he’d rushed into the house and raced up the stairs—only to be met at the door of the bedroom Penelope had chosen as her accouchement chamber by a wall of disapproving females.

  His mother, Aurelia, Countess of Cothelstone, together with Penelope’s mother, Minerva, Dowager Viscountess of Calverton, had smiled somewhat patronizingly on him and gently, but firmly, shooed him away.

  Penelope’s sisters—Emily, Anne, and Portia—had ignored him entirely.

  He hadn’t even managed to get a clear glimpse of the small but bloated figure lying in the bed.

  His wife. And for the first time in his life he was truly terrified that he might lose her.

  Women—even ladies—died in childbirth every day.

  What if Penelope died?

  If she was close to death, would they tell him?

  Or would he be left down here in ignorance while she passed away without him there?

  Helpless. He truly was helpless to save her.

  About him, their staff crept about, as unnerved as he.

  Eventually, he’d had the bright idea of sending Mostyn up to inquire whether the doctor—Simmonds from Harley Street—should be summoned.

  The answer had been “No.”

  Apparently it was too early.

  Which suggested that there were many more hours of the torture of not knowing ahead of him.

  After delivering the news, Mostyn had quietly retreated. Barnaby had half a mind to join the staff in the kitchen—if he remained here alone, by the time anything happened and he was told whatever news there was, he would be three sheets to the wind and in no state to cope.

  A sharp glance at the brandy decanter revealed that Mostyn must have filled it to the brim in anticipation of his need.

  Barnaby grunted, turned, and paced back across the hearth.

  The front door bell rang.

  Halting, Barnaby listened. Had the harridans upstairs relented and sent for the doctor after all?

  But then he heard footsteps heading for the library, a heavy, deliberate tread he recognized.

  The door opened and his father entered. Locating Barnaby, the earl smiled, closed the door, and came forward. He pointed at Barnaby’s glass. “You can give me one of those.”

  Moving to oblige, Barnaby glanced at his father. “What are you doing here?”

  The earl subsided into one of the pair of armchairs before the hearth. “I was at the Yard when Stokes brought in his prisoner. He gave us the bare outline—enough to ease the Chief Commissioner’s mind. But as for the rest—ah, thank you.” The earl accepted the glass Barnaby handed him and took an appreciative sip. “Where was I? Oh, yes—Stokes mentioned that you had rushed off as Penelope’s time had come, so being an old hand at suffering through the hours of waiting, I thought I’d come here and get the full details of the case from you—and, in so doing, keep you from going insane.”

  Looking into his father’s cheery face, into his understanding eyes, Barnaby couldn’t help but smile, however wanly, in reply. “Yes, well—I admit it’s wearying in a way I hadn’t foreseen.”

  “Precisely.” The earl waved Barnaby to the other chair. “So do as I say, and sit and tell me everything that happened with this case. Trust me”—a twinkle in his eye, the earl met Barnaby’s gaze—“the first time is almost always hellishly long—you’ve got hours more to endure.”

  With a resigned sigh, Barnaby sat, focused his mind on the events at Finsbury Court, and proceeded to tell his father all.

  * * *

  Dinner that evening at Finsbury Court was a relaxed and truly pleasant affair. Everyone was pleased with the outcome of the investigation. As Agnes had foretold, all the guests were delighted to have had the experience of watching a murder investigation unfold; when they returned to their separate spheres, their observations would make them interesting for weeks, if not months.

  Relief was the principal emotion felt by the family, and that on so many counts. As for the staff, despite having been their leader for a decade and more, Ri
ggs had had no real friends; on inquiring, Agnes had discovered that he had never been popular, merely tolerated. His loss was not felt deeply.

  Eventually, the ladies rose from the table and left the gentlemen to pass the port. The gentlemen did, but didn’t linger, rejoining the ladies in good time. This was the last night of the house party; tomorrow, everyone would return to their homes. For once, the gentlemen joined the ladies in their groups, the better to share the memories.

  Frederick had eyes only for Gwen. He made his way to where she stood beside Harriet and Algernon. After greeting the others, under cover of their conversation Frederick leaned closer to Gwen and murmured, “I’ve asked your father for an interview. He agreed and has gone ahead to his study. I would like you, and Agnes, too, to be present.” He met Gwen’s widening eyes. “Will you come?”

  Her smile lit his world. “Of course.” Setting her hand on his arm, she turned and excused them. Leaving Harriet and Algernon deep in their own exchanges, Gwen steered Frederick to where Agnes sat beside Mrs. Shepherd and Mrs. Pace.

  With a quick word, Gwen extracted Agnes and Frederick escorted both ladies from the room.

  In such a small party, their departure would be noted and everyone would, of course, guess the cause. An unexpected betrothal would set the seal on this house party being declared an unmitigated success.

  Ushering Agnes and Gwen into his lordship’s study, Frederick felt an unaccustomed flutter afflict his usually rock-steady nerves. This was it—the moment he’d worked toward for more years than he wished to count. And quite aside from his request, he would have to make a confession.

  Worse, as he saw Agnes and Gwen to the chairs before his lordship’s desk, Frederick realized that his confession would have to come first, before he could ask Gwen for her answer.

  “Well, my boy.” Lord Finsbury looked at Frederick as he straightened, standing beside Gwen’s chair.

  To Frederick’s eyes, Lord Finsbury did not appear to be as resistant toward him as he had been, yet neither did his lordship appear encouraging. Resigned was nearer the mark.