Cynthia met her gaze. “Because, quite frankly, I seriously doubt that any of my sisters, and certainly not Mama, could have reacted so swiftly. Even if they had done such a thing, immediately they had done it, they would have been horrified. Aghast. Stricken and unable to move.” Cynthia paused, then more reflectively went on, “I suppose what I’m saying is that none of us—the Latimers—wished Aunt Marjorie dead, so even if you imagine some sort of fleeting rage, it’s hard to see any of my sisters or my mother reacting and fleeing so very swiftly.”
“There was less than a minute, I suspect,” Hartley said, “between the time the ball fell and the time we saw the lady disappearing.”
Penelope thought, then said, “I’m going to suggest an alternative scenario. I want you to consider it, and then tell me whether, in your opinion, it might be possible.” She paused to order the facts in her mind, then commenced, “Let’s say that Lady Galbraith left the ballroom and headed for the side terrace—at this point, we do not know if there was someone with her or if she was alone. Regardless, one of your sisters or your mama saw Lady Galbraith leaving the ballroom.” Penelope pushed her glasses higher on her nose. “For argument’s sake, let’s say that her ladyship was with someone, and the sight made one of the Latimer ladies suspicious enough to follow, but, of course, she—the follower—hung well back.
“Our Latimer lady reaches the door to the side terrace in time to see someone—we don’t know who—drop the ball on Lady Galbraith. The perpetrator then goes quickly down the steps and leaves via the gardens. We know that, from where you stood, they could have done that and you wouldn’t have seen them—the trees along the path you were on block that view. Our Latimer lady rushes onto the terrace to the balustrade, looks over, and sees Lady Galbraith dead on the path. The Latimer lady panics and flees inside, and hers are the shoes you glimpsed.” Penelope studied Cynthia’s and Hartley’s faces. After a moment, she asked, “Could it have happened like that?”
It was Hartley who first shook his head; he now seemed as immersed in the mental vision as Cynthia. “I don’t think so. There wasn’t enough time for her to come to the balustrade, look over, take it in, and then reach the door again before we saw her.”
Cynthia frowned. “There’s that, and I agree, but in addition…” She refocused on Penelope. “Hartley sent me inside almost immediately. I returned to our group—the whole family was standing chatting to others but we were all in the same area of the ballroom. I reached the spot less than five minutes after the…murder. Of my family, Georgina and Cecilia were with Fitzforsythe and Brandywell the entire time, and I remember they were laughing at something as I came up. And Millicent was chatting avidly with her friends. They had their heads together and were deep in some subject—I could tell Millicent hadn’t a care in the world beyond deciding which gentleman at the ball was the most handsome.” Cynthia straightened. “I came up beside Mama.” Cynthia met Penelope’s gaze and wryly said, “I’m widely known as ‘the quiet one,’ so standing beside Mama raises no eyebrows and is usually the safest place for me when I wish to avoid attention. So I was right beside Mama as she was talking to her friends about her plans for Millicent’s come-out ball.” Cynthia held Penelope’s gaze. “Mama is reserved and can hide her feelings well, but she’s no great actress. I cannot conceive of her having seen Aunt Marjorie murdered, then fleeing and, within minutes, laughing and sharing stories about musicians and decorations. That…really isn’t possible.”
Penelope returned Cynthia’s gaze, then, eminently satisfied, nodded. “Thank you. I now understand why you’re so certain the lady you saw fleeing the terrace wasn’t one of your family. And despite not having checked their alibis, I accept that your reasoning is sound—the lady you saw wasn’t a Latimer.” She paused, then said, “All right. Let’s leave aside the question of the lady’s identity and return to an earlier point.” She looked at them both. “Why did Lady Galbraith leave the ballroom and come out to the side terrace? Do either of you have any idea?”
Hartley glanced at Cynthia; resettling her hand in his, he grimaced. “I’ve been trying to think of the answer.” He drew in a deeper, slightly unsteady breath and looked at Penelope. “And I suspect that Mama was following me.” He hesitated, then went on. “She was always eager to arrange my life for me—it was one of the reasons I moved into lodgings. Over recent years, she’s tried to foist any number of young misses on me, and if anything she’s been getting even more insistent… Well, if she’d entertained any suspicion that I was meeting with some lady alone, she would have followed me without hesitation.”
Her gaze on Hartley’s face, Cynthia said, “I do think she had started to become suspicious.” Cynthia swung her gaze to Penelope. “Not that it was me Hartley was seeing, but that he was meeting with some lady clandestinely—”
“And that,” Hartley said, “the clandestine nature of our meetings, would have alarmed her and made her even more intent on finding out who I was seeing.” Hartley paused, then said, “We had been meeting at my lodgings—for all his faults, or perhaps because of them, Carradale can be exceedingly discreet—but with the balls starting in earnest, it wasn’t going to be so easy, which is why we’d arranged to meet in the folly.”
After a moment’s pause, Hartley stated, his tone flat, “I think the reason Mama came out onto the terrace and then down the steps was because she was following me.” Cynthia gripped his hand tighter and shifted closer. Hartley glanced at her, met her gaze, then looked at Penelope. “I think that Mama wanting to know who I was meeting with secretly led to her standing where she was when she was killed.”
Penelope heard the underlying emotion in Hartley’s tone, saw the veiled guilt in his eyes. Straightening, she crisply stated, “It was certainly not your fault that someone capitalized on her standing there and dropped that ball on her. You cannot hold yourself responsible for that.”
Cynthia flashed a grateful look Penelope’s way, but had the sense to stay silent.
Penelope approved, both of Cynthia’s behavior and also the patently genuine link between the pair. “Now—”
The sound of arrivals in the front hall brought her up short. The front doorbell hadn’t pealed, which meant…
The drawing room door opened, and Violet and Griselda came in. From the intrigued looks on their faces, Mostyn had told them who Penelope was interrogating.
Noting their bright eyes and guessing that they’d had some measure of success, with a delighted smile of her own, Penelope rose, along with Hartley and Cynthia. “Allow me to present…” Penelope introduced Violet and Griselda to Hartley Galbraith, then gestured to Cynthia. “You’ve already met Miss Latimer—who, as it transpires, is Hartley’s intended.”
Violet and Griselda had assumed as much, but they were quick with their congratulations and good wishes.
Under cover of the talk, Penelope leaned closer to Violet and whispered, “Any luck?”
“Yes,” Violet whispered back. “We think we’ve located the other shoemaker.”
“Excellent,” Penelope returned. “But keep that for later.”
Meeting her eyes, Violet nodded.
In the shuffling as Penelope, Hartley, and Cynthia reclaimed their seats and Violet and Griselda settled alongside Penelope, Violet murmured to Griselda, “Keep mum about our discoveries for the moment.”
Griselda faintly inclined her head and turned her attention to the pair on the sofa opposite.
In broad strokes, Penelope described what they’d concluded about why Lady Galbraith had gone outside, what Cynthia had confirmed regarding her and Hartley’s seeing the lady fleeing the terrace, and Cynthia’s observations on the conduct of her mother and sisters immediately after the murder.
At the end of the recitation, Griselda looked at Cynthia. “Tell me, Miss Latimer, can you see the lady and her shoes vividly in your mind?”
Cynthia nodded. “Yes.” She glanced at Hartley. “I suspect it’s a sight neither of us will ever forget.”
“
Perhaps,” Griselda said. “But not everyone recalls with the same degree of clarity.” She glanced at Penelope, then looked back at Cynthia. “I would like to try a trick that I occasionally use with ladies who want me to recreate some particular bonnet they’ve seen. They usually give me a vague description and think that’s all they’ve noticed, but by using this trick, we usually discover that they can tell me a great deal more.” Without challenge, Griselda held Cynthia’s gaze. “Are you willing to try it?”
Cynthia lightly shrugged. “If it might help, then yes, of course.”
Griselda nodded. “Very well. All you have to do is close your eyes and bring to mind the image of the lady fleeing the terrace.” She paused as Cynthia complied, then asked, “Can you see her?”
“Yes.” Eyes closed, Cynthia nodded. “Quite clearly.”
“Excellent. Now I want you to look more closely at her shoes. Can you do that?”
Again, Cynthia nodded.
“Now,” Griselda said, “you’ve described the shoes as Lady Latimer’s shoes because of the crystals on them. Can you see the crystals?”
A faint frown formed between Cynthia’s brows, but she nodded. “Yes, I can see them. They’re definitely the same crystals—I can tell by the way they sparkle.”
“What color are the shoes?”
Cynthia wrinkled her nose. “I can’t really tell—the light’s too weak.”
“Pale- or dark-hued, then?” Griselda asked.
“Pale—definitely pale.” After a moment, Cynthia added, “They might even be white.”
“What about the pattern of the crystals?” Griselda asked. “Is that the same as on your Lady Latimer’s shoes?”
Cynthia’s frown deepened. “I can’t really tell. The distance is too great, but…how odd. These shoes have a line of crystals down the back seam of the shoe. Ours don’t have that.”
“Stay there—keep looking.” Griselda exchanged an excited glance with Penelope and Violet, then returned her gaze to Cynthia. “Now look at the shoes themselves. Look at the heel and the cut of the shoe. Are they the same as on the Lady Latimer’s shoes Myrtle Hook makes?”
Cynthia’s jaw slackened. Her features eased as astonishment took hold. “No. These shoes are different. They have a straighter heel, not the in-swept Louis heel we prefer, and…good heavens!” Opening her eyes, Cynthia met Griselda’s gaze. “The shoes that lady wore had a higher, quite different cut to ours.” Excited herself, Cynthia gestured, then, frustrated, said, “I don’t have the right words to describe them, but I could draw them.”
Violet bounced to her feet. “I’ll get some paper and a pencil.”
As Violet whisked out, Cynthia, her face and eyes alight, looked at Griselda and Penelope. “I got a very clear view of the shoes in the instant when the lady stepped into the house. I didn’t realize how well I saw them.” She inclined her head to Griselda. “Thank you. I never would have realized if you hadn’t had me go back and look again, so to speak.”
Griselda beamed.
“Does this mean,” Hartley said, “that there’s some other source of Lady Latimer’s shoes?”
Penelope nodded. “That’s what we believe. Once we identify the shoemaker involved, we’ll be able to learn who his customers are, and then we’ll know who the lady fleeing the terrace was.”
Cynthia was still looking faintly stunned. “I can’t believe the proof that it wasn’t a pair of our shoes has been simply sitting in my memory all this time, and I just hadn’t looked closely enough.” Turning her head, she exchanged a delighted smile with Hartley.
While he returned the smile and encouragingly squeezed Cynthia’s hand, he didn’t look quite so relieved; Penelope suspected that Hartley, at least, had seen the difficulty in using what Cynthia had remembered to exonerate her family from all suspicion. They had only Cynthia’s word for the critical details; Hartley couldn’t recall well enough to confirm her testimony.
But Penelope kept that observation to herself and watched as, supplied by Violet with several sheets of paper and a sharpened pencil, Cynthia quickly sketched the shoe she’d seen.
“I only saw it from the back with just a little of the side view as she stepped up, so I can’t draw the toe.” Like most young ladies, Cynthia had been trained to draw; her sketch quickly took recognizable shape. Completing it, she rapidly sketched a second shoe seen from the same angle. “This,” she said, pointing to the second shoe, “is one of our Lady Latimer’s shoes. The style is of a typical ballroom pump, cut reasonably low around the ankle and foot, and with a Louis heel. We insisted on the Louis heel because, while it looks delicate, with the point of the heel directly below the middle of the heel, it’s nicely stable.”
Penelope nodded. “My sisters and I prefer Louis heels for dancing, too.”
“But the shoes I saw on the terrace had this sort of heel.” Cynthia pointed to her first sketch. “A wider one, with the back of the heel more in line with the back of the shoe—quite unlike a Louis heel. And even more telling, those shoes were cut higher around the ankle and foot. That’s quite a different style to our Lady Latimer’s shoes.”
Along with Violet and Griselda, Penelope studied the sketches, then she glanced at her colleagues. “A different style of shoe—a different shoemaker.”
Cynthia frowned. “I haven’t heard any whispers of a new source of Lady Latimer’s shoes, and with the Season commencing, you would think that would be one of the most talked-of topics in the drawing rooms.”
“Indeed.” Penelope straightened. “But that doesn’t mean that such a new source doesn’t exit. There may be a good reason for the secrecy, but we”—she glanced at Violet and Griselda—“need to dig deeper on that score.”
Penelope rose, bringing everyone else to their feet. With assurances that she, Violet, Griselda, and their husbands were doing and would continue to do all in their power to solve the mystery, and that as soon as possible, she inexorably steered Hartley and Cynthia to the drawing room door.
Pausing before the door, Cynthia glanced at Hartley, then met Penelope’s gaze. “I sincerely hope you, your friends, and your husbands discover the answer to this riddle soon. The suspicions and anxieties the situation is breeding within both our families are tearing at them all. Hartley and I had already recognized the need to heal the rift and bring everyone together again—it was bad enough before—but, instead, we’ve had Aunt Marjorie murdered, and everything’s got so much worse.” She hesitated, then went on, “Indeed, Aunt Marjorie’s murder is a very real obstacle to everything Hartley and I had hoped, through our marriage, to achieve—the healing of our families.”
Sober, Hartley nodded. “We—all of us—were so much happier before. Now…each family has itself, but after all the years of being together, we need each other as well.”
Penelope could almost see the weight the pair had willingly taken on their shoulders—could read in their expressions that each took responsibility for their respective families, and also each other’s. They were, she realized, alike in bearing that familial devotion. Every bit as serious as they, she inclined her head in reply, then accompanied them into the front hall and watched Mostyn see them out of the front door.
The instant the door shut, she swung about and, frowning, walked quickly back into the drawing room.
Violet and Griselda had shifted to take their usual places, Griselda on the first sofa alongside Penelope’s preferred position, with Violet on the sofa opposite.
Reclaiming her spot, Penelope looked from one to the other. “Well? Don’t keep me in suspense. What have you discovered?”
They told her. Penelope’s eyes gleamed. “Well done! Gibson and Sons in Mercer Street—that’s in the theater district.”
Griselda nodded. “Yes, and I’ve heard of the firm before. I believe they’re quite old and established, but not, I think, in the ton side of the trade.”
Violet was studying Cynthia’s sketches. “If we take these, perhaps Danny Gibson can confirm that this is the style of
the Lady Latimer’s shoes he makes.”
“That,” Penelope said, “would be my hope, because otherwise we only have Cynthia’s word that the lady she and Hartley saw fleeing the terrace was wearing that different style of shoe, rather than the same style she, her sisters, and her mother wear. I’m certain that Hartley didn’t notice the shoe well enough to describe it. If asked, he’ll support Cynthia, but that’s not going to stand up in court, and evidence that only Cynthia saw will not be sufficient to clear the Latimer ladies of suspicion.” Penelope paused, then added, “And, indeed, Cynthia and Hartley themselves are still very much potential murderers, no matter what we might believe. There is no unequivocal evidence to clear them, either.”
Griselda and Violet grimaced.
Penelope focused on Violet. “I’m starting to feel a sense of urgency over this, as if fate is prodding. Consider—if I hadn’t remained at home with my nose in that translation, I wouldn’t have been here when Cynthia and Hartley called, and so we wouldn’t now know all we do—and we wouldn’t, I suspect, have felt any need to go and speak with Danny Gibson until sometime tomorrow.”
Griselda glanced at the clock. “We’ve just got time to reach Mercer Street before the shops shut.”
Penelope met Violet’s eyes. “The translation’s not yet done, but I believe this takes precedence.”
Violet widened her eyes. “Oh, indubitably. We tend the living before the dead.”
“Indeed.” With one of her signature brisk nods, Penelope rose. “I vote we take the carriage around to Mercer Street immediately, and see what Danny Gibson can tell us about this new version of Lady Latimer’s shoes.”
Griselda gathered her reticule and stood. “Let’s go.”
Violet folded Cynthia’s sketches, tucked them into her reticule, then came to her feet. She glanced at the clock, then followed Penelope and Griselda to the door. “We’d better tell Phelps to hurry if we want to catch Danny Gibson before he leaves for the day.”
The Curious Case of Lady Latimer's Shoes: A Casebook of Barnaby Adair Novel Page 17