The Confounding Case Of The Carisbrook Emeralds Read online

With nods, they parted.

  Barnaby took Penelope’s arm and steered her toward the study door. Jarvis and Jeremy had followed them into the hall; while Jarvis went to show Stokes into the drawing room, Jeremy knocked on the study door and, on hearing a muted “Come,” opened the door for Barnaby and Penelope.

  Following his wife into the room—a gentleman’s study like many another, unremarkable in its conformity—Barnaby noted Franklin Carisbrook hovering uncertainly by the bookshelves near the window. His father was seated in one of three armchairs before the fireplace, more or less on the opposite side of the room.

  The distance between father and son struck Barnaby as curious, although given the way Franklin continued staring at the door even after it closed, he seemed more concerned with Stokes—or perhaps his mother.

  Lord Carisbrook heaved his bulk up from the chair to greet them. “Thank you for stopping by.”

  Penelope smiled reassuringly and, when Carisbrook waved her and Barnaby to the vacant armchairs, took the one nearest the fire, leaving Barnaby to sit in the other chair, at a slight angle to Carisbrook but still able to study his face.

  Barnaby glanced at Wilkes and Fitch, who had halted just inside the door. “I regret the necessity, my lord, but the inspector needs this room searched, too.”

  “Heh?” Still on his feet, Carisbrook looked across and saw the two policemen, then realized what Barnaby was saying. His lordship waved and looked away, moving back to his chair. “Search as you wish. I’m sure there’s nothing to be found, but by all means, look.”

  Barnaby nodded to the men, then sat.

  After settling in his armchair, Lord Carisbrook glanced at Barnaby and Penelope, then cleared his throat and somewhat gruffly said, “While I understand what the inspector said, I wanted to ask if there truly is no way that we can’t just drop this whole thing. Well, I mean to say, it’s only jewelry, and it’s patently obvious that the emeralds going missing has nothing whatsoever to do with dearest Cara.”

  From the corner of his eye, Barnaby saw Franklin, who had been watching Wilkes and Fitch commence their careful search, shift his gaze to his father. A puzzled frown overtook Franklin’s expressive countenance; it seemed he couldn’t understand his father’s tack any more than Barnaby could.

  “I understood,” Barnaby ventured, “that the Carisbrook emeralds are rather valuable.”

  “Well, yes.” Lord Carisbrook’s color deepened. “But they are as nothing to Cara’s well-being.” His jaw firmed. “I would give up the emeralds rather than cause her distress. It’s beyond ludicrous to accuse her of stealing them.” His lordship met Barnaby’s gaze and declared, “No matter what my wife imagines, I would happily take any oath that Cara is entirely innocent of this crime.”

  Barnaby exchanged a fleeting glance with Penelope, then evenly replied, “Sadly, once such an accusation is made, it must—as Stokes said—be proven either true or false.”

  “Indeed, my lord, that is the case.” Penelope leaned forward, her gaze on his lordship’s face. “Just think—no matter if Lady Carisbrook herself was to withdraw her accusation, suspicion of a sort would always hover over Cara. So as matters stand, the best way you and all others here can help Cara is to assist the inspector in determining exactly where the Carisbrook emeralds have gone and who removed them from this house.”

  Lord Carisbrook seemed to deflate, his pugnacious expression dissolving. He looked down at his hands clasped between his knees.

  After another swift glance at Barnaby, Penelope said, “There’s one point you might clarify for us, sir—we assume the emeralds weren’t normally left in her ladyship’s room.”

  “No, no.” Lord Carisbrook had spoken distractedly, but then he seemed to focus on what Penelope was asking and raised his head. “Normally, of course, the emeralds are kept in the safe in here.” He swung around and pointed to the wall behind his desk. “It’s behind the painting.”

  At his lordship’s wave, Wilkes, who was just straightening from the desk, turned and examined the right side of the painting, then released a catch and swung the framed canvas out to reveal a safe built into the wall.

  “The emeralds are almost always in there,” Lord Carisbrook said.

  Wilkes swung the picture to the wall again, and his lordship turned to face Penelope. “However, as I’m the only one with the key, on those evenings on which my wife wants to wear the emeralds, she comes in before she leaves, and I take the case from the safe, hand the emeralds to her, and she dons them. Later, when she returns, as I’m usually in here by that time, she comes directly in and hands the jewels back, and I return them to the safe.”

  “I gather,” Barnaby said, “that on this occasion that didn’t occur because you were out of town.”

  “Just so.” Lord Carisbrook sank back in his chair. “If I go down to Surrey—to Carisbrook Hall—and her ladyship wishes to wear the emeralds, I leave them with her until I return.”

  “In this instance,” Penelope asked, “when did you take the emeralds from the safe?”

  “On Friday morning, just before I left town. And if everything had gone as it usually did, Livia would have handed me the emeralds in their case when I came home.” His lordship frowned. “She’s usually as careful with them as I am.”

  “There’s nothing to suggest that her ladyship was any less careful than usual,” Barnaby felt forced to say. “I imagine that, over time, she’d grown accustomed to thinking the emeralds safe on her dressing table overnight.”

  “Indeed,” Penelope said, “most ladies would think the same.”

  Barnaby caught the pointed look she sent him; while he could imagine several of the thoughts behind it, he didn’t want to discuss them further now, not in front of his lordship.

  Uncrossing his long legs, he said, “As that’s all we have to share or ask at this moment, my lord, we should be on our way.” He stood, and Penelope got to her feet.

  His lordship rose more ponderously. He looked into Barnaby’s face. “You will let me know of any progress, Mr. Adair?”

  Reaching for his card case, Barnaby inclined his head. “We’ll be sure to share whatever we can. Meanwhile”—he extracted a card and held it out—“if you think of anything pertinent, send either to Stokes at the Yard or, if you prefer, to us at Albemarle Street.” He nodded at the card. “A message to that address will always find us.”

  Lord Carisbrook took the card, studied it, then looked at Penelope. “If I might ask…you will let me know of anything—anything at all—we might do to ease Cara’s way. I’m concerned about how the poor child is bearing up through all this.”

  Sincerity poured from Carisbrook; genuine anxiety resonated in his tone.

  Franklin, who had drawn nearer while they talked, also nodded earnestly.

  Penelope reached out and squeezed his lordship’s hand. “We’ll let you know where she will be staying once that’s decided.”

  “Thank you.” His lordship bowed to them both. “You’ve been very kind.”

  With a gentle nod, Penelope led the way from the room.

  As Barnaby passed Wilkes and Fitch, who was holding the door, the sergeant infinitesimally shook his head. Understanding that to mean that no sign of either the jewels or the case had been found in the study—confirming what they’d all expected—Barnaby followed Penelope into the front hall.

  There, they found an impatient and clearly exasperated Stokes waiting for them. He looked at Wilkes. “Nothing?”

  When Wilkes shook his head, Stokes sighed through his teeth. “Of course, that would have been far too easy.”

  As he turned toward the door, Penelope asked, “Just to be clear, no sign of a jewel case—even an empty one—was found anywhere?”

  Stokes glanced at her, then at his men, all of whom shook their heads. “The answer appears to be no.” He hesitated, then asked, “Is that significant?”

  Penelope frowned. “I’m not sure, but it might be.” She started for the door.

  Jarvis, who had remai
ned on duty to see them out, opened the door and bowed them through.

  Once the door had shut firmly behind their party, Barnaby glanced at Stokes. “Did you get anything at all from that harpy?”

  Stokes laughed. “No, but the epithet is appropriate. For most of the time, she treated me to a distempered harangue to the effect that Cara Di Abaccio was obviously guilty and I should simply cow her into telling us where the emeralds are now and then return them forthwith to her ladyship.” As they stepped onto the cobbles, heading for the coach, Stokes added, “The way she carried on…it was as if she believed that stating her version of events loudly enough and often enough would somehow make it true.” He tipped his head. “That said, the daughter—Julia—didn’t seem anywhere near as convinced of Cara’s guilt.”

  Barnaby arched his brows. “Interesting. But Cara did say she and Julia are close, and they are of similar age.”

  Ahead of Barnaby and Stokes, Penelope reached the coach, opened the door, and saw Hugo sitting beside Cara; he was holding Cara’s hand and looking more lethally menacing than Penelope had ever seen him—enough, certainly, to remind her that, despite never having fought in any war, Hugo had spent a good decade in the cavalry.

  Hiding a smile, she climbed into the coach. He truly did look as if he was fully prepared to charge into battle in defense of Cara Di Abaccio.

  Luckily, Penelope seriously doubted violence would be required to lift suspicion’s cloud from Cara’s head; she was already convinced—albeit purely on instinctive grounds—that Cara was in no way involved in the theft.

  After Stokes dispatched the other men back to the Yard, he, Barnaby, and Wilkes followed Penelope into the coach. They sat on the seat opposite, and briefly, Stokes summarized what little they had determined. “In short, the Carisbrook emeralds have disappeared. They are not in the house, and therefore the crime Lady Carisbrook reported has been substantiated and must be investigated.” Stokes shot Barnaby a glance. “I don’t need to describe the brouhaha that would ensue if it got out that jewel thieves were operating in Mayfair, taking jewels of this type, and the Yard wasn’t expending every possible effort to find said thieves and get the jewels back.”

  Barnaby humphed. “Pandemonium wouldn’t be the half of it, with calls to the commissioner to have every last policeman patrolling Mayfair’s streets.”

  Penelope glanced sidelong at Hugo. “I believe we’re all agreed that it’s now imperative to focus our considerable talents on finding the emeralds. However, because of Lady Carisbrook’s denunciation of Cara, it’s even more vital that we identify the real culprit and so clear her name.”

  “Exactly!” Hugo said.

  Cara’s big eyes looked at them all in patent hope.

  Regarding her, Barnaby stated, “We need to decide where it would be best for Cara to stay.”

  “My parents’ house has plenty of room,” Hugo said.

  “True,” Penelope replied, “but that won’t wash. At least, not yet. We need somewhere…neutral. She can’t just go from police custody to free in society. What’s more, there’s always the question of—” She broke off at a tapping on the carriage door.

  They all looked out and saw Lord Carisbrook standing on the pavement.

  Stokes swung the door open. “My lord?”

  But Carisbrook’s gaze had gone straight to Cara. “My dear Cara, I can’t tell you how sorry I am about all this. If I could…” His lordship gestured weakly.

  Cara’s smile was swift. She leaned forward to say, “It’s all right, Uncle Humphrey. I know this isn’t any of your doing.”

  “Yes, but…” His lordship looked utterly wretched. He glanced at Penelope. “I truly don’t know what to do.” Then he looked back at Cara, and his face firmed. “I cannot apologize enough, but rest assured, my dear, that regardless of her ladyship’s ridiculous claims, I will do everything in my power to put this right.”

  “If I might ask, sir”—Stokes caught his lordship’s gaze as he glanced his way—“what do you think has happened to the emeralds?”

  Lord Carisbrook blinked, then refocused on Stokes. “Inspector, I honestly have no idea. I am as thoroughly mystified as everyone else.”

  Immediately, his lordship returned his gaze to Cara, and his expression turned troubled. “My dear, as my ward, you really should return to the house, but in the circumstances, I would not subject you to the…the vilification that Livia might visit on you. I cannot be with you every moment of the day, so…”

  Penelope spoke up, her tone bracing. “In the circumstances, with Lady Carisbrook as Cara’s primary—and, indeed, sole—accuser, I have to inform you, my lord, that any notion of Cara returning to reside under your roof prior to this case being solved is entirely untenable.”

  The building tension in the carriage—from Cara, from Hugo, from Stokes, and even Wilkes—subsided.

  Her gaze on Lord Carisbrook’s earnest face, Penelope smiled sympathetically. “As you arrived, we were discussing where Cara should stay—and I was just about to point out that, as we don’t know the motive behind this crime, it would be remiss of us to assume that Cara is in no physical danger.”

  Lord Carisbrook’s anxious concern flared. “What about Grillon’s? She would be comfortable there, and I would foot the bill, of course.”

  “That won’t do.” Hugo spoke with certainty and an absolute authority Penelope had not before associated with him. “Quite aside from any more nefarious danger, what about the newshounds? Once they hear of the charge, they’ll be hot to learn all. They’ll…well, hound her.” Her hand still locked in his, Hugo met Cara’s eyes while, to the others, he stated, “Cara can’t be left defenseless.”

  “Indeed.” Penelope pushed up her spectacles. She met her husband’s gaze, and when, having understood her wordless question, he nodded, she went on, “Because of that and several other reasons, I would suggest that until we resolve this case to the commissioner’s satisfaction, the safest and most appropriate place for Cara to reside”—she met Stokes’s gaze—“a place that will satisfy the commissioner and any judge asked for an opinion, is with Barnaby and me in Albemarle Street.”

  Stokes blinked, but when Penelope—along with Hugo—looked at him challengingly, he nodded. “Yes, that will satisfy all the obvious quibbles and questions. Or at least, we can make it seem to.”

  Penelope cast her gaze over the other men, but no one argued. Finally, she looked at Cara and arched her brows. “I take it you won’t be averse to spending the next few days at our house?”

  Cara gazed into Penelope’s eyes in a vain attempt to read her thoughts in the dark-brown depths—not an easy task at the best of times. Defeated, Cara tipped her head and regarded Penelope in something like wonder. In her faintly husky voice, Cara said, “I am a stranger accused of a serious crime, yet you would do this for me, welcoming me into your home?”

  Penelope’s smile was entirely spontaneous. She patted Cara’s hand and explained, “Giving succor to the innocent is our favorite pastime.”

  Chapter 4

  By six o’clock that evening, Penelope had settled Cara into one of the guest bedchambers in her and Barnaby’s town house in Albemarle Street. She had also found time to send word to Violet and Heathcote Montague and to Griselda, Stokes’s wife, informing them that the group had a new case to pursue and inviting them to gather at Albemarle Street with Penelope, Barnaby, and Stokes for dinner and discussion.

  Initially, it had been Barnaby who had been drawn to solving crimes. His path had crossed that of Stokes several times, over several different cases, leading to a friendship and an undefined working partnership whenever Stokes’s investigations involved members of the ton. Thus, when Penelope had stumbled upon disturbing disappearances among foundlings who should have come to the Foundling House, she’d known to approach Barnaby, and that case had also brought Griselda into Stokes’s life. After Griselda and Stokes had married, followed soon after by Penelope and Barnaby, the foursome had worked together on several further ca
ses, pooling their considerable resources and talents. And then, last year, their circle had expanded to include Heathcote Montague, renowned man-of-business to many of the great families of the ton, and Violet, now his wife. While Montague and the men in his office possessed unrivaled insight and expertise in assessing matters financial, Violet had proved invaluable with her ability to organize them all and keep track of the various threads that invariably surfaced during their investigations.

  When the clocks chimed six, Penelope was in the drawing room, directing Hugo and James, her footman, in adding a love seat to the arrangement of armchairs and sofas situated before the hearth. “Just there.” She pointed. “Between the ends of the sofas and facing the fireplace.” The position would allow Hugo and Cara to sit side by side and join the group in discussing the disappearance of the Carisbrook emeralds.

  Penelope and Barnaby’s sturdy two-year-old son, Oliver, clung to Penelope’s skirts and, along with Cara, who stood by the windows, watched the proceedings with open curiosity.

  Hugo and James gratefully set down the love seat at the edge of the Aubusson rug. Hugo glanced at Cara, then walked to join her.

  “If there’s nothing else, ma’am?” James asked.

  Penelope smiled. “Thank you—I believe we’re ready for the evening.”

  At that moment, the front doorbell pealed. Oliver let out a joyful squeal and toddled off in a wobbly run for the door. Smiling indulgently—and expectantly—Penelope hurried after him. Oliver had insisted on coming downstairs to await the arrival of Megan, Stokes and Griselda’s two-year-old daughter and Oliver’s dearest friend.

  Penelope caught up with her son and, laughing at his eagerness, steadied him through the door onto the black-and-white tiles of the front hall.

  Mostyn, their butler, had already opened the door, admitting not only Griselda, Stokes, and Megan, along with Megan’s nursemaid, Gloria, but also Montague and Violet, who was cradling their three-month-old son, Martin. Bringing up the rear was Hilda, Martin’s recently hired nursemaid.