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

  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.”

  Stokes was scribbling madly. “Do you know of any particular company? Any specific association?”

  Finsbury frowned as if wracking his memories, but, eventually, he shook his head. “No—he never mentioned any name.”

  “Where in England did he hail from?” Barnaby asked.

  Again, Finsbury shook his head. “It never came up. His accent was…well, he was one of us. Eton, Harrow, Winchester—something of that sort.”

  Or any good grammar school. Barnaby kept the words from his tongue and instead asked, “So your sister Agnes had organized a house party and you invited Mitchell to join you.”

  Finsbury’s lips tightened. “No. I invited Mitchell, then I asked Agnes to arrange the house party to…”

  “Provide social cover for introducing Mitchell to your daughter.” Barnaby nodded easily. “Entirely understandable—that’s how it’s often done, after all.”

  At Barnaby’s tone, Finsbury’s bristling subsided somewhat.

  “Now,” Stokes said, “to the diamond necklace found in Mitchell’s pocket.” Stokes looked inquiringly at Finsbury. “I understand the necklace belongs to you.”

  “Yes.” Finsbury’s expression dissolved into one of transparently genuine confusion. “And before you ask, I have no idea how Mitchell came to have it in his possession. Until your constable showed it to me, I believed the necklace to be in its box in the wall safe behind that picture.” Finsbury nodded to a portrait of some disapproving ancestor hanging on the wall to his right. “The box was still there, in its accustomed place, but it was empty.” Finsbury paused, then went on, “I can only conclude that the safe had been burgled some time previously, and that Mitchell by chance came across the diamonds, recognized them, secured them, and was bringing them back.”

  “I understand he had sent word he wished to meet with Miss Finsbury,” Stokes murmured.

  Lord Finsbury shifted. “I thought perhaps Mitchell intended to return the diamonds to her in an attempt to regain her favor. I understand they parted under strained circumstances.”

  Stokes exchanged a glance with Barnaby; on the face of it, Finsbury’s supposition might explain why Mitchell had been carrying the necklace.

  “If you could clarify, my lord”—Stokes looked down at his notebook—“where were you yesterday afternoon?”

  Lord Finsbury remained silent for several seconds, no doubt wrestling with the necessity of replying, but eventually, he conceded, “I was here. At my desk. Busying myself with letters. To be frank, I assumed that when Mitchell returned, he would at least do me the courtesy of looking in and explaining himself. But he never arrived.”

  Stokes and Barnaby both glanced at the window, confirming that the view ran along the front of the house; the side lawn and the opening of the path from the village were entirely out of sight.

  Looking back at Lord Finsbury, St
okes said, “Thank you, my lord. Given the circumstances, I fear we will need to interview each of your guests in turn.”

  “Merely a formality,” Barnaby put in. “And it will serve to ease the speculation, which I’m sure is already rife.”

  Lord Finsbury had to be well aware of the latter. While he clearly didn’t like the notion, he stiffly inclined his head.

  “We’ll also need to interview your staff,” Stokes said. “If you could tell me their names?”

  “My sister Agnes runs the household—she will be able to give you the names.”

  “Is there some private room in which the interviews could be conducted?” Barnaby asked. “Better to keep the experience comfortable and as undisturbing as possible.”

  Lord Finsbury paused, then somewhat grudgingly volunteered, “There’s the estate office. It’s a trifle cramped, but it should suit your purpose.”

  Fleetingly, Barnaby smiled. “Thank you.”

  He and Stokes rose.

  “Thank you, my lord.” Stokes nodded politely. “We’ll do all we can to conduct our investigation with a minimum of fuss.”

  “To which end,” Barnaby said, “with your leave, Stokes and I will briefly address your family and guests, essentially to reassure them that all is in hand, and that at this point our inquiries are merely the customary formalities and they have no reason to be alarmed.”

  Lord Finsbury hesitated, then said, “If you think it best.”

  Barnaby smiled easily. “We do.”

  Lord Finsbury sighed and rose. “In that case, I believe everyone is presently gathered in the drawing room. If you’ll follow me?”

  He led the way from the study. Stokes and Barnaby fell in at his heels.

  * * *

  On entering the drawing room in Lord Finsbury’s wake, Barnaby eschewed studying the furnishings in favor of studying the assembled company.

  Halting in the center of the room, the instant cynosure of all eyes, Lord Finsbury bluntly stated, “As by now you all know, Peter Mitchell was murdered on the path through the wood. This is Inspector Stokes and Mr. Adair, who have been sent by Scotland Yard to investigate Mitchell’s death. They wish to speak with you all.” Finsbury glanced at Stokes. “Inspector?”

  If Finsbury had thought to unsettle Stokes, he’d misjudged; Stokes was experienced in taking command and exerting control in drawing rooms far more exalted than that of Finsbury Court.

  Stepping forward to where he could see all those present—and they could see him—Stokes swept the gathering with his gray gaze, then said, “Peter Mitchell’s death could not have been anything other than murder. I have been charged with the task of identifying and apprehending his murderer. In order to do so, it will be necessary to interview each of you individually to ascertain what you know about Mitchell and all incidents involving him. Such inquiries are routine and should not be viewed as in any way suggesting that those interviewed are suspected of being involved in the crime.”

  Moving to stand by Stokes’s left shoulder, Barnaby added, “It would also be true to say that such interviews are the simplest way of identifying all those not involved.” Assuming his most reassuring mien, he went on, “At this point, there’s really nothing behind our questions beyond a wish to gain information about Mitchell.”

  “Indeed.” Stokes reclaimed the stage. “We’ll be conducting our interviews in the estate office and we’ll ask to see you one by one”—he glanced at his notebook—“commencing with Mr. Frederick Culver.”

  Both Stokes and Barnaby looked across the room in time to see a tall, lean, athletic-looking gentleman with dark brown hair exchange a glance with the young lady who was standing beside him before the bow window.

  The visual connection lingered for too long to be incidental, inconsequential.

  For her part, the young lady appeared momentarily oblivious of everyone else in the room.

  Then the gentleman looked away—toward Barnaby and Stokes. He nodded. “I’m Culver.”

  Gently pressing, then releasing, the young lady’s fingers, which, Barnaby and Stokes saw, he had been surreptitiously clasping, Frederick Culver walked forward to join them.

  Barnaby nodded to Culver and turned to lead the way. Stokes waved Culver on, then followed.

  * * *

  Riggs conducted Barnaby, Stokes, and Frederick Culver to the estate office; Duffet brought up the rear. The office proved to be small but adequate for their purpose, with a decent-sized desk with a battered admiral’s chair behind it and two straight-backed chairs angled before it.

  After installing Duffet outside the door, Stokes rounded the desk and sat. Barnaby shifted one straight-backed chair to the end of the desk, placing himself in a neutral position, neither with Stokes nor with Culver.

  At Stokes’s invitation, Culver sat in the remaining chair, facing the desk. He appeared cautious, reserved, but faintly curious, and, tellingly, otherwise at ease.

  “Mr. Culver,” Stokes began, “can you tell us what you know of Peter Mitchell?”

  Culver’s features, pleasant, well-formed, but with a hint of steel about his lips and jaw, remained relaxed, the expression in his dark brown eyes direct. “I had never met Mitchell, nor heard of him, until he arrived here on the first day of the house party. That was six days ago. I understand Lord Finsbury was acquainted with Mitchell, but other than that…” Culver paused, then went on, “Apparently everyone here other than Lord Finsbury also knew nothing of Mitchell.”

  Barnaby frowned. “Rattle didn’t know of him?”

  “He said not.” Culver looked at Stokes. “How did Mitchell die?”

  Stokes considered, but could see no reason not to make the revelation—and several reasons why he should. But first… “I believe you were aware that Mitchell had sent word that he intended to return to the house yesterday afternoon, and that he had requested an interview with Miss Finsbury.”

  Culver nodded. “Gwen—Miss Finsbury—read out the note—” Culver paused, clearly thinking back, then went on, “Well, she read out the bit about him returning yesterday and having something to show her, so everyone knew that. Later, she showed me the note, and it did say yesterday afternoon, so, yes, I was aware he intended to return then.”

  Stokes blinked; would that all his witnesses had Culver’s sense of exactitude. “So where were you yesterday afternoon?”

  Culver replied evenly and without hesitation, “Miss Finsbury and I went for a walk in the shrubbery. There’s a break in the hedges and a bench placed to look out over the side lawn—from the bench we could see the opening of the path.” He paused, then volunteered, “Given the circumstances behind Mitchell’s earlier departure, Gwen didn’t want to meet him alone.” Culver met Stokes’s gaze. “And I agreed.”

  Barnaby stirred. “The circumstances behind Mitchell’s earlier departure—what were they?”

  Culver hesitated; Barnaby got the impression Culver weighed not his words themselves but rather how they would influence Barnaby and Stokes’s view of the situation. Eventually, Culver said, “Three days ago, in the afternoon, Mitchell approached Miss Finsbury and”—Culver’s jaw tightened—“convinced her to walk alone with him in the conservatory. There, out of sight of all others, he attempted to press his attentions on her.”

  “But you’d followed them,” Barnaby guessed.

  Culver nodded. “I didn’t trust him—and I was right. Gwen struggled, but he wouldn’t let her go. He tried to kiss her—and that’s when I hauled him off. He took a swing at me, but missed, and I got my arms around him, trapping his. By then, Agnes had joined us—she’d seen me slip away and had followed. Agnes had seen what had happened—all of it. She gave Mitchell a verbal dressing down—I held him while she did it. Then Gwen slapped him. She was furious. Agnes declared that Mitchell had to leave immediately, and to give the man his due, he agreed to go. I released him and he stalked off. Agnes followed him, and she and Riggs eventually saw Mitchell off in the pony-trap to the village.” Culver shrugged. “That’s a
ll there was to it.”

  Inwardly, Barnaby frowned. “You said you didn’t trust Mitchell—was there any specific reason for your distrust?”

  Culver paused, then, clearly reluctantly, shook his head. “There was nothing I could put my finger on—he was charming and seemed a good enough sort. Easy-going, easy to talk to, yet…there was something just not quite right. I can’t be more specific. And, truth be told, if it had been one of the other girls he’d set his sights on rather than Gwen, I probably wouldn’t have been so suspicious.”

  “To return to yesterday afternoon”—Stokes frowned at his notebook—“you and Miss Finsbury were watching the end of the path. Did you see anyone coming out from the path or anywhere in the vicinity?”

  “No. And we were watching. We’d planned to meet Mitchell on the lawn, in the open. When he didn’t arrive by the time we’d expected him, Gwen and I went into the house to see if, contrary to what we’d thought, the pony-trap had been sent to fetch him, but it hadn’t.” After a moment, Culver raised his gaze to Stokes’s face. “You still haven’t said how Mitchell was killed.”

  Stokes studied Culver’s face as he said, “He was immobilized using a trap, then bludgeoned to death with the long-handled hammer from the croquet shed.”

  Culver’s face was akin to an open book as he tried to imagine what Stokes had described. Eventually, Culver frowned. “Trap—what sort of trap?”

  Which, Barnaby reflected, was exactly the question an innocent man would ask. “An old-fashioned, steel-jawed animal trap, one large enough to crush a man’s ankle. It had been hidden in a dip in the path along a narrower stretch.”

  Culver looked genuinely shocked. But after a moment, he frowned. “Why trap him first?”

  “Indeed,” Stokes said. “And regardless of the reason, sadly that means we cannot rule out the possibility that Mitchell was killed by a woman.”

  Culver appeared even more affronted. A bare second passed before he said, “I cannot imagine any of the ladies of the family, or their female guests, doing such a thing.” He looked at Stokes, then at Barnaby. “Aside from all else, as I told you, no one really knew Mitchell. What reason could a stranger have for killing a man like that?”