The Confounding Case Of The Carisbrook Emeralds Page 18

  What odds he had visited the Iveses?

  Penelope refocused on Hugo and Cara as, several yards ahead, they laughed, talked, and less and less shyly, responded to each other—and, Penelope knew, shared their hopes and dreams. This was what courtship should be, and while in her own case, she had never needed any encouragement, not all young ladies were as confident and self-driven as she, and not all gentlemen were as single-minded as Barnaby.

  Some young ladies and gentlemen needed encouragement—needed to be given a nod and a smile and the chance to find happiness.

  Lady Carisbrook, Penelope suspected, didn’t understand that, or if she did, had shut her mind to the concept and, instead, had embarked on a quest to manage her children’s lives for her own social gain.

  As Penelope stood and watched love unfold between Hugo and Cara, she acknowledged the significance of what her mentors had always maintained: that this, too, was a part of her duty—hers as much as it was theirs—to foster the relationships that, as the years rolled on, would strengthen their families by laying down the bedrock on which those families stood.

  Love was that foundation—that true bedrock of family life.

  Apparently, Franklin Carisbrook had found his way to that realization without his parents’ help.

  The question that thought left Penelope facing sent a chill sliding through her. Did Franklin’s pursuit of love have anything to do with the missing emeralds and Simpkins’s death?

  It was past four o’clock in the afternoon before Barnaby and Stokes finally ran the individual known as Gentleman George to earth. Their original directions to the bench in Chatham Square had proved to be only the first in a series of steps that, ultimately, had brought them into the East End, to the Bully Boy tavern off Stepney Green.

  Impatience riding him, Stokes led the way inside. Barnaby followed. They stopped just inside the door and scanned the dimly lit space, then Barnaby spotted the man they’d been told would be waiting; he was unmistakable, being close to the size of two men combined, and was seated on a bench in the front corner.

  Barnaby nudged Stokes and, with his chin, directed his friend’s gaze. “Gentleman George, at last.”

  Stokes looked, grunted, and headed toward the table behind which George sat. Stokes pulled out a chair and sat opposite. Barnaby drew out the second chair and set it a trifle farther back and to the side—allowing him to keep a watchful eye on the rest of the tavern’s patrons.

  George noticed and smiled faintly. “No need to be on guard—no harm will come to you while you’re with me.”

  Despite it being a tavern, George wasn’t drinking. In the circumstances, neither Stokes nor Barnaby wanted a drink, either, and the barmaid, after one glance their way, didn’t bother to approach.

  “So now, I’ve been told I oughta help you gents with your inquiries.” George looked at them through surprisingly clear hazel eyes. “So let’s have your questions, then.”

  Without further ado, Stokes said, “We want to know about a certain set of jewelry—a necklace and earrings, in gold, and set with large rectangular emeralds.”

  George nodded. “Thought it might be that.”

  Stokes arched his brows. “You know of them?”

  George eyed Stokes for a full minute, then glanced at Barnaby, before returning his gaze to Stokes’s face. “Roscoe’s requests ain’t ones to turn down, so I reckon it can’t hurt to tell ye that a party came to see me Sunday—late afternoon, it was. Later than this. The gent said as he was wishful of pawning the emeralds in that bloody great necklace, and the earrings, too.”

  Stokes drew out and unfolded Cara’s sketch of the parure. “These the ones?”

  George took the sketch, glanced at it, and nodded. “Good likeness. Yes, that’s them.” He handed the sketch back and looked at Stokes. “But the stones were already fake.”

  Stokes opened his mouth, and George pointed a finger at him. “Don’t ask me if I’m sure. I’ve been in this business since before you was born, and those stones…they were pretty much the best fakes I’ve ever seen, but fakes they were.” George sat back. “I told the gent straight up I could offer him something for the gold, but the stones were near worthless.”

  “You gave the necklace back?” Barnaby asked.

  George nodded. “Not much use to me—it’d have to be melted down as it was.”

  “And this gent took it back,” Stokes said.

  “Aye—he was shocked to begin with. Shocked to his back teeth, I’d say. But once that wore off and he accepted I knew what I was telling him, he was right cast down. You could see it clear as day—written all over his face.”

  Stokes glanced at Barnaby, then looked back at Gentleman George. “I don’t suppose this gentleman gave you a name?”

  George laughed. “Nah—they never do.”

  Stokes nodded. “In that case, can you take a stab at describing him?”

  Barnaby wished he’d had Cara do sketches of all the males in the Carisbrook house. Sure enough, as George’s description unfolded—dark hair, pale complexion, a gentleman’s clothes but not showy, medium height, medium build—it became increasingly clear that the so-called gent could have been any one of a thousand such gentlemen in London.

  When George finished, Stokes stared at the fence, then in a resigned tone, asked, “Would you be willing to identify the man—to pick him out of a line of several men?”

  George shook his head. “Not even for Roscoe will I do that—very bad for business, you see.”

  Stokes sighed and nodded.

  “One more thing you might be able to tell us,” Barnaby said, “given your undoubted expertise.”

  George showed his teeth.

  Barnaby grinned back and asked, “Can you give us any indication of how long ago the fake stones were put into the necklace?”

  George blinked. He frowned, then stared at the scarred tabletop and sucked his teeth. After several long minutes, he raised his head and looked at Barnaby. “Just my opinion, mind, but from the look of how settled the stones were in the setting—which is an indication of how long they’ve been undisturbed—combined with the type of crystals used, I’d say the fakes were put in some years back. Possibly six or more years ago.”

  Barnaby and Stokes exchanged glances, then Barnaby inclined his head to George. “Thank you. Despite not being able to help us with identifying the gentleman, you’ve nevertheless been a great help.”

  George looked curious, but curbed the impulse to ask questions and just nodded. But as Barnaby and Stokes pushed back their chairs and rose, George said, “Seeing as I’ve been such a help to you, it’d be a help to me if you’d pass on your satisfaction to Roscoe—just to let him know I held up my end. Never hurts to stay on his good side.”

  Stokes’s lips curved wryly. “Done. We’ll pass on a few good words.”

  Barnaby tipped a salute George’s way and followed Stokes out of the tavern.

  They paused on the pavement, and Stokes met Barnaby’s eyes. “So the emeralds have been fakes all along—that puts quite a different slant on things.”

  Sobering, Barnaby nodded. “It does, indeed, and in more ways than one.”

  They gathered in Greenbury Street that evening, with everyone bubbling with something to tell. Stokes and Barnaby were the last to arrive; at six o’clock, they walked in to discover their wives and Montague on the floor, playing a rowdy game with Oliver and Megan with Martin smiling and babbling, looking on from the safety of Violet’s lap.

  Having halted in the doorway to take in the view, Stokes and Barnaby, both grinning, went forward to join the fray.

  Their wives surrendered their positions, retreating to sit on the sofa and an armchair and smile indulgently on their husbands’ antics.

  After a moment, Griselda sat back and looked at Penelope. “Where are Hugo and Cara this evening?”

  Penelope smiled smugly. “Before I left, I saw them off to Hugo’s sister’s house for dinner with her family, along with the family of one of
his other sisters, and then the adults are making up a party to go to the theater.”

  Violet exchanged a glance with Griselda, then asked, “Is there likely to be any…well, nastiness, given Lady Carisbrook’s regrettably public accusation against Cara? I imagine there are many who’ve heard her ladyship’s views by now.”

  Penelope inclined her head. “Undoubtedly, but I suspect the majority who’ve heard of the emeralds’ disappearance are awaiting further confirmation—her ladyship isn’t well regarded. But with the ton in mind, this afternoon, I sent word to the Adairs—all of them in town—that the necklace had been returned to the Carisbrooks’ house overnight, and as Cara has been with us constantly throughout, there’s no possibility that she had had any hand in that.”

  Her eyes gleaming behind her spectacles, Penelope stated, “I believe that news will be taken as permission for the family to forge ahead in their quest to encourage Hugo and see him appropriately settled. Cara’s the first young lady he’s shown any real interest in, and the family has quite taken to her. His mother is delighted and, along with his sisters, is busily engineering Cara’s acceptance into the ton. If Hugo fails to come up to the mark, it won’t be for lack of familial support.”

  Griselda laughed. “It sounds as if poor Cara won’t know what’s hit her.”

  Violet smiled. “When I was chaperoning them yesterday, I got the impression Cara’s greatest difficulty is believing her luck.”

  “Speaking of luck”—Penelope jiggled her knees—“I gather we’ve all been visited to some degree. It sounds as if we’ve a lot to share.”

  “You’re right, and time’s getting on.” Griselda glanced at the men and the children, then rose and crossed to the bellpull.

  The nursemaids arrived and took the children, now flagging, off to be tucked up to sleep. The three men rose and settled into armchairs, then at Penelope’s suggestion, Stokes summarized what he’d learned since they’d met on Sunday evening—his visit to Rundell, Bridge, and Company, his detour to Montague’s to send a request to Roscoe, then the gist of what he, Barnaby, and Penelope had stumbled on during their interviews with the Carisbrook staff.

  “A mystery man who might be wandering around at night and who no one there has actually seen…” Violet widened her eyes. “It’s the stuff of Gothic novels.”

  Stokes grunted. “That’s something I could do without. Nevertheless…” He continued, detailing the events of their morning’s summons to the Carisbrook residence, where they’d found Simpkins dead and the jewels returned to her ladyship’s dressing table drawer. “There’s no evidence either way to say whether Simpkins was pushed or simply missed her footing and fell, although with a maid of her experience…it’s stretching credulity to say she stumbled and somehow fell backward in the way she did—falling straight back down the stairs. And then the emeralds turned up in a place in which we know they hadn’t been thirty-six hours before, and on top of that, the stones were fake.”

  Griselda frowned. “Did the family—any of them—react oddly to being told the emeralds weren’t genuine?” She looked from Stokes to Barnaby, then at Penelope.

  Barnaby shook his head. “Not oddly enough to point to. I would have said all were shocked and stunned by the news.”

  He glanced at Penelope, who nodded. “They were…flummoxed. We didn’t get anything useful from them.”

  “So,” Montague said, “were the emeralds already fakes, or were they stolen, replaced by fakes, and the necklace returned?”

  “And was Simpkins falling to her death on the same night the jewels turned up again a coincidence or linked?” Violet said.

  Stokes shifted. “I don’t like coincidences at the best of times. Regardless of the lack of evidence of foul play in Simpkins falling, I’d take an oath the two have to be linked in some way—that the jewels going missing and Simpkins’s death will prove to be connected.”

  “I concur.” Barnaby looked at the others. “Subsequently, Stokes and I followed Roscoe’s lead and learned several interesting things about the emeralds and where they’ve been.”

  “And I,” Penelope declared, “went to a garden party near Richmond and—entirely unexpectedly—learned that Franklin Carisbrook is leading something of a social double life.”

  Stokes and Barnaby both focused on her, but before they could speak, Penelope waved at Griselda, Violet, and Montague. “But before we get to what we learned today, we should catch up with the information you three have managed to ferret out.”

  Violet and Griselda exchanged a look, then Violet reported, “Griselda and I went to visit Madame Renee, the modiste in Bruton Street who has supplied gowns to Lady Carisbrook and her daughters for many years.”

  “I’ve known Renee since we were girls,” Griselda said, “and when we asked whether she’d ever had reason to suspect that the Carisbrooks were short of funds, she told us of a time eight years ago when her ladyship had her two older daughters on her hands at the same time and was somewhat desperately trying to get them wed.”

  Violet eagerly added, “According to Renee, her ladyship was entertaining lavishly, too—and she had that from Lord Carisbrook himself, when he came to see Renee about her ladyship’s bills—”

  “Which,” Griselda triumphantly stated, “he was having difficulty paying!”

  Violet looked at Montague. “His lordship approached Madame Renee, and they agreed on a schedule to pay off the debt. Renee said his lordship adhered to the plan, and the debt was paid off as arranged.”

  “She had nothing but good to say of his lordship,” Griselda added, “but her view of Lady Carisbrook is no more favorable than the others we’ve heard.”

  “And how is Lady Carisbrook’s spending now?” Penelope asked.

  “Apparently, she’s still profligate over her own gowns,” Griselda replied. “Renee said she orders gowns more frequently than any of her other ladies. But that’s all for herself—she isn’t spending on Julia as she did with her elder daughters.”

  Penelope arched her brows cynically. “From what I’ve seen of her, Julia Carisbrook would still rank as well turned out.”

  Montague had been staring at the carpet and tugging at his lower lip. Penelope and Violet both regarded him fondly, then Penelope prompted, “Clearly, Montague, you’ve something to report.”

  He looked up, blinking, then smiled somewhat sheepishly. “Indeed. I was testing whether Violet’s and Griselda’s information fits, and I think it does. I had a chat—purely social, so to speak—with his lordship’s man-of-business. I gather that the Carisbrook estate has always been…modest is the word that springs to mind. The family has always scraped by—they’ve had just enough, but extravagances were beyond their reach.”

  Stokes grunted. “That doesn’t fit well with Lady Carisbrook’s activities eight years ago.”

  “No, indeed.” Montague went on, “The family has no meaningful debts, but the estate also has no accumulated capital—no investments. They rely on the income from the estate itself, and that’s been the case for decades. As far as his lordship’s man was aware, there’s never been an issue—not since his lordship came into the estate on his father’s death more than twenty years ago.”

  “Hmm.” Penelope pushed her spectacles up on her nose. “Correct me if I err, but what his lordship’s agent has confirmed is that any excessive spending would have—should have—plunged the Carisbrook estate into a debt the estate wouldn’t have been able to pay off.”

  Montague nodded. “Given there was no extra income at any time over the years, that would be my supposition, too.”

  Violet said, “But we know Lady Carisbrook ran up monstrous bills that his lordship couldn’t pay.”

  “So,” Barnaby said, “where did his lordship get the funds to cover his wife’s debts?”

  Stokes frowned. “It’s tempting to assume he sold the emeralds and used the cash for that purpose.” He glanced at Montague. “I’m assuming Lord Carisbrook’s man-of-business would have known nothing of that?�
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  Montague nodded. “No reason his lordship couldn’t have accomplished such a sale without anything showing up anywhere, financially speaking.” He glanced at Griselda and Violet. “In such cases, the only firm evidence would come from suppliers with bills paid that the estate shouldn’t have been able to meet.”

  “Quite,” Barnaby said. “And that the emeralds in the Carisbrook parure were replaced with fakes eight years ago matches what Stokes and I—eventually—learned from Roscoe’s Gentleman George. Even more to the point, George was the fence approached on Sunday, late in the afternoon, by a gentleman hoping to sell the Carisbrook emeralds.”

  “George had to disappoint them both—himself as well as the gentleman,” Stokes cynically said, “by telling the gentleman that the stones were fake.”

  The others stared at them. “Who was the gentleman?” Penelope demanded.

  Stokes grimaced. “Would that life were so easy. The description George gave us would fit half the gentlemen in London—dark haired, neatly dressed, average height and build.”

  “And, of course,” Barnaby put in, “we have zero chance of convincing George to formally identify—much less testify against—a man who approached him as a client.”

  Somewhat to Barnaby’s surprise, Penelope was looking at him with a light in her eyes that suggested she’d made some revelatory connection. “Did George tell you what the gentleman did after George had informed him that the emeralds were worthless?”

  Stokes—who was also eyeing Penelope with interest—replied, “Apparently, the gentleman looked shocked, then cast down. George told him he could get something for the gold, but the gentleman declined and took the necklace back.”

  Penelope smiled intently, as if that somehow confirmed something.

  Barnaby caught her eye. “Your turn—you’re the last to report, and you’ve clearly learned something relevant.”

  She smiled swiftly at him—a different sort of smile—then glanced around at the others. “I believe we’re all clear, at least in our minds, that Lord Carisbrook sold the emeralds eight years ago to pay for Lady Carisbrook’s excessive spending over the years she had their two older daughters to establish.” When the other five all dutifully nodded, she went on, “And while I agree that, in the wider sense, George’s description is of little use in identifying the gentleman who brought him the necklace, we know that description matches Franklin Carisbrook. What I learned this afternoon—the information that quite literally fell into my lap while chaperoning Hugo and Cara at Lady Hestley’s garden party—is that, apparently unknown to all others in his family, Franklin Carisbrook is unofficially engaged to a Miss Lilibeth Ives, the daughter of a curator at the museum.”