Barnaby nodded. “Despite his panic and his not reporting the crime at the time, everything he’s told us is not only true, but it proves he’s not the murderer.”
“And,” Stokes said, “that a lady who was wearing those Lady Latimer’s shoes is.”
“Hmm.” Penelope was not yet convinced about the latter. “Let’s go back and try your suggestion with the ball. Meanwhile,” she went on, as they all fell into step, “we have to inform you that we—me, Violet, and Griselda—have been commissioned by Lady Latimer to investigate and assist the authorities in whatever way we can to find Lady Galbraith’s murderer.”
Barnaby and Stokes turned to stare at the three ladies—whether in awe, stunned surprise, or both wasn’t clear.
Then Barnaby said, “But you would have done—are doing—that anyway.”
“Yes, but Lady Latimer wasn’t to know that,” Penelope replied. “And, of course, her agreement to fully cooperate means we can ask about the shoes—which we clearly need to learn more about. Although supposedly no lady bar the Latimer ladies has access to those shoes, we need to confirm that that is, in fact, the case, and that someone else hasn’t either bribed Lady Latimer’s secret shoemaker, or alternatively, found another shoemaker who knows the trick of creating those shoes.”
Stokes grunted. “Better you three than we.”
Grinning, Griselda patted his arm. “Indeed. And we’ll also relieve you of the burden of interviewing the Latimer ladies and taking down their alibis.”
Penelope was nodding. “And, if need be, checking those alibis.”
Slowly, Stokes smiled. He met Barnaby’s eyes. “It’s like having another group of constables, only this lot wear skirts.”
Penelope and Griselda hit Stokes’s arms in mock-umbrage, but everyone was smiling.
“I should also point out,” Penelope said, “that by requesting our assistance in this, Lady Latimer is making something of a statement.”
Barnaby nodded. “An unspoken declaration that neither she nor any of her family are guilty and they have nothing to fear from an investigation.”
“Indeed,” Violet said. “And, at least to me, Lady Latimer was very convincing in her confidence and certainty that she and hers had nothing to hide.”
“Interestingly,” Penelope said, “her ladyship brought up the point that, after the Latimers, the other group the ton’s suspicious minds will focus on will be the Galbraiths themselves. While that’s not a pretty thought, it is an accurate prediction.”
Stokes humphed. “Sadly, the ton’s view has some justification. Most murders are committed by family members, or at least those close to the victim.”
“And in this case,” Barnaby pointed out, “all the Galbraiths were present at the ball, just as much as the Latimers.”
They reached the steps in the bank and descended to the path below the terrace. Barnaby slid his arm free of Penelope’s, squeezing her hand before releasing it. “Go up to the terrace and try to push that ball, the one you earlier tried to lift.”
Raising her skirts, Penelope climbed the stone steps.
“Gather your strength first,” Stokes advised. “Shove the ball as if you’re in a rage with someone and want to throw something at them.”
Penelope peered over the balustrade to make sure all the others were standing well back. They’d moved several yards away, onto the grass. Reassured, she stepped up to the ball, considered it, then thought of being in a temper, mustering her strength. Abruptly, she brought her right hand up and pushed hard at the ball, swinging slightly as she shoved at the face nearest her.
She had doubted the ball would even move.
Instead, it sailed off the pillar, falling quickly due to its weight, but her shove had given it the angle Stokes and Barnaby had been hoping to duplicate.
Following the flight, she rushed to the balustrade; looking over, she saw the ball land almost on the other side of the gravel path.
Stokes looked at Barnaby. “That’s it. That’s how it was done.”
Barnaby nodded.
When no one volunteered anything else, Penelope leaned on the balustrade and stated, “Yes, but it’s hardly a sound way to commit murder, is it?”
The others looked up at her, but none of them argued, so she continued following that train of thought. “I agree that’s how the ball was launched at Lady Galbraith, but surely that suggests it was a spur-of-the-moment act—a sudden flaring of temper and a consequent lashing out. Pushing a ball at someone like that might cause them harm, but it’s more likely to give them a scare. It doesn’t suggest planning, much less premeditation, does it?”
She paused, then said, “Which brings us to the question of: Was this even cold-blooded murder? Or was it a lashing out in a fit of temper, an attempt to harm that, in this instance, actually killed?”
Stokes grimaced. He glanced at Barnaby, then looked at Penelope. “It is still murder, whether murder was intended or whether the intention was simply to harm.”
Penelope regarded him, then nodded. “Yes, that’s true. But apropos of the ball being pushed rather than dropped, there’s something you might not have noticed.” She walked back to the empty pillar at the head of the terrace steps. She examined the upper surface, then pointed. “You can still see it. Although it’s dying off and flaking away now that the sun is reaching it, there was a cushion of lichen around the base of the ball, thicker on the terrace side than on the garden side because of the shadow cast by the ball.” She glanced up as the others joined her, crowding around to see. Once they’d looked, she pointed to the second empty pillar; Stokes had brought the ball she’d pushed off it back up. “You can see the same growth of lichen on that one, too, but on the night of the murder, the uneven cushion of lichen on the pillar at the top of the steps was considerably thicker. I noticed it at the time.”
Barnaby and Stokes examined the seating of the ball she’d pushed off, then replaced it.
When they straightened, Penelope stated, “I suspect that on the night of the murder, the ball on the pillar at the top of the steps would have been even easier to push off than that one.”
No one disagreed.
“Right, then.” Stokes looked at the ladies. “What’s next on your slate?”
“We have an appointment with Lady Latimer and her family at half past two,” Violet said. “We’ll go there as soon as we’ve finished here.” She looked at Penelope. “Don’t forget we want to speak with the maids who were in the withdrawing room to see if they noticed any lady in distress.”
Stokes’s brows rose.
Barnaby nodded. “An excellent idea. They might have seen or even heard something relevant.”
“Exactly.” Penelope was pulling on her gloves. “After that, we’ll head to the Latimers’ house in Hanover Square and see what we can learn there.”
“Hopefully we can learn about the shoes,” Griselda said.
“Whatever we find, we’ll share with you this evening.” Penelope looked at Stokes and Barnaby. “We’re meeting for dinner at Violet and Montague’s apartment. Don’t be late.”
“And put the good Mrs. Trewick out?” Barnaby grinned. “We’ll see you there.”
“But where are you going?” Penelope asked.
Stokes exchanged a glance with Barnaby. “First, back to the Yard to give Pemberton his measurements and our revised thoughts on what actually occurred. Then I believe we’ll go and have another chat with Hartley Galbraith. As it appears he truly did see his mother killed, it’s possible that, branches notwithstanding, he actually noticed more than he’s realized.”
The group parted. Stokes and Barnaby set off along the path around the house, making for the carriage they’d left in the drive. After one last look at the empty pillar at the top of the steps, Penelope led the way back into the house.
She took one step into the corridor and stopped dead.
Violet nearly ran into her. “What is it?”
“Move back a bit.” Looking down, Penelope stepped b
ack, over the shallow step that marked the threshold. “Aha!” Glancing at Griselda and Violet, she explained, “I had wondered how it was that Hartley and his intended saw the shoe so clearly. Normally when a lady walks, her hems largely conceal her shoes. However, here we have a step. The lady, even fleeing, would have lifted her skirts—we all do it without even thinking. I just did.” Penelope paused, head tilting. “I wonder how much of the shoe Hartley—and even more likely his intended—saw?”
Griselda followed the thought. “Do Lady Latimer’s shoes have different styles?”
“I don’t know,” Penelope said. “We’ll have to ask.”
Violet had been studying the step, experimenting by raising her own hems while glancing out to where Hartley and his intended had stood. “They might, indeed, have had quite a decent view.” Violet met Penelope’s gaze. “In the moonlight, they might not have been able to see color, but style is a different matter altogether.”
“Indeed.” Penelope’s eyes gleamed. “We really must learn more about these shoes—that’s becoming imperative.” She looked at Violet. “Do we have time to question the maids before going on to the Latimers’?”
They decided that they did. Penelope inquired of the butler, who, it transpired, had been instructed by Lady Fairchild to grant Penelope whatever she desired. Following in Penelope’s wake, Violet soon found herself seated on a sofa alongside Penelope and Griselda in Lady Fairchild’s elegant white-and-gilt drawing room. The two senior maids who had tended the ladies’ withdrawing room on the night of the ball stood on the rug before them, nervously wondering why they had been summoned and what was to come.
Penelope reassured the maids, and Griselda’s calm presence put them at ease.
But when informed of Penelope’s wish to know if, early on the evening of the ball, they had noticed any lady upset or displaying signs of shock, the older of the pair shook her head. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but we see so many ladies of a ball-night, we’d be hard-pressed to remember any of them, not in particular, and there’s always upsets and dramas going on.” She glanced at her colleague. “I can say that I didn’t see or hear anything that made me think any lady had seen the dead lady.”
The second maid nodded. “Nor me. But even if we had, even if we saw them again, they’d have to be in the same gowns and with their hair done the same way, with the same jewels and such, for us to be sure of them.”
Penelope swallowed a sigh and dismissed both maids with thanks.
Rising, she, Violet, and Griselda returned to the front hall where the butler was waiting to see them to Penelope’s carriage.
“Off to Latimer House, Phelps,” Penelope called up to the coachman. “It’s in Hanover Square.”
Phelps raised his whip in acknowledgment. Penelope climbed in, followed by Violet and Griselda. Conner, the groom, shut the door, and seconds later they were rolling down the Fairchild House drive.
“I can only hope,” Penelope said, settling back against the squabs, “that we can persuade Lady Latimer that she really does need to entrust us with the secret of her shoes.”
* * *
On arriving at the Latimers’ house, Penelope, Violet, and Griselda were shown into the drawing room. It was a little after two thirty, and it was clear that the assembled ladies had been awaiting their arrival with some degree of anxiety.
Penelope intended to soothe them by apologizing for being late, but the information that she, Violet, and Griselda had just come from Fairchild House didn’t really help. The tension in the room remained high.
Penelope introduced Violet—“Mrs. Montague”—and Griselda—“Mrs. Stokes”—to Lady Latimer, then her ladyship introduced her daughters. All four were present—Georgina, the eldest, married and more experienced, Cecilia, the next, about to become formally betrothed to Mr. Brandywell, Cynthia, not yet spoken for, and Millicent, who had been expecting to enjoy her first Season and instead was coping with grief. Penelope took due note of their expressions, of their tones and the way they moved—of every little sign that testified to their frames of mind.
The overwhelming impression she received was one of sadness and regret. Sadness over Lady Galbraith’s demise, and regret—very much ongoing—that the existence of the feud prevented them from comforting the Galbraiths.
Who, Penelope recalled, reminded by several glances toward the window associated with mention of that family, lived just across the square.
Seeing her comprehension, Lady Latimer said, “We bought the houses so we could remain close. That’s a major reason why the children are so…intertwined. My girls were forever over there, and her girls—and Hartley, too—were forever over here.” She hesitated, as if she’d intended to say more, but then she glanced at her daughters. “Very well, Mrs. Adair, ladies.” As her daughters fell silent and expectantly looked Penelope’s way, Lady Latimer turned to her and asked, “How may we best aid you in helping us?”
Penelope rapidly ordered her questions. “The first thing we need is, not to put too fine a point on it, your alibis. That’s the easiest thing to get out of the way, and short of identifying who did kill Lady Galbraith, you having sound alibis declared and checked is the surest way to eliminate each of you as suspects.”
After an instant of silence, Georgina asked, “So what do you need? A list of all those with whom we spoke at the ball?”
“Yes, but only over the first hour or so.” Penelope glanced at Lady Latimer. “You told us that you and your daughters arrived at a little after nine o’clock, and we have reason to believe that Lady Galbraith was dead before half past ten.”
Lady Latimer almost winced. But she nodded. “Very well.” She looked at her eldest daughter. “Perhaps, Georgina, you could start?”
Georgina inclined her head and obliged. Violet had pulled a notebook from her capacious reticule and duly wrote down the names and details Georgina rattled off. Cecilia followed with another comprehensive list; the sheer number of names made it highly unlikely that either young lady could possibly have squeezed in a trip to the side terrace.
Cynthia, however, had significantly fewer people who might vouch for her whereabouts. “I felt the hem catch as we climbed the front steps. I spoke with Henrietta Martin in the foyer and, once in the ballroom, I chatted with Melinda Wyman and Mr. Chatteris, but then I realized my hem really had come down and I told Mama that I was going to fix it. I went to the withdrawing room to do so.” Cynthia paused, as if remembering, then went on. “When I returned to the ballroom, the first dance was in progress, so I waited by the wall. When the dance ended, I spoke with Susan Watkins and Mr. Molloy, and the Webb sisters.”
Penelope knew ton balls; by her calculation, Cynthia’s alibi left over twenty minutes unaccounted for. “How was the hem?”
Cynthia grimaced. “It was properly torn. I couldn’t pin it up—it was that new slinky silk, and the pins wouldn’t hold—so I had to sew it up, which is why I took so long.”
As Lady Latimer had said, Cynthia was the quiet one. Her recitation of what she had done and with whom she had spoken had been exceedingly spare compared to her older sisters’ more detailed accounts. But Cynthia wasn’t only quiet in that sense; she also sat still where others fidgeted. She projected a sense of deep and immovable calm, while her sisters appeared much more fashionably flighty, although none of them, thankfully, took that to extremes. Yet…Penelope wondered about Cynthia.
And, as if she could read Penelope’s mind, Cynthia stated, with that entrenched calmness that rendered the statement a solid, uncontestable fact, “Regardless, I can assure you, Mrs. Adair, ladies, that I was not the lady your witness saw fleeing from the side terrace.”
After a moment of studying Cynthia’s face and detecting not the slightest sign of any degree of prevarication, much less guilt, Penelope inclined her head in acceptance. She and Violet moved on to the youngest daughter, Millicent.
As she was not yet formally out, Millicent had not danced but, instead, had been chatting the entire time with a grou
p of similarly restricted young ladies; Millicent rattled off their names, along with several of the topics they’d discussed. The latter, more than anything else, served to convince Penelope, as well as Violet and Griselda, that Millicent’s alibi resembled cast iron.
Finally, Lady Latimer gave them her own list of friends with whom she had conversed; it, too, was comprehensive. Penelope knew enough of those mentioned to feel certain that Lady Latimer had not been the lady seen fleeing the side terrace.
After writing down the last name, Violet showed Penelope her notebook. Penelope glanced down the fifty or so names and nodded. “Should it come to it and the police need to formally eliminate each of you as suspects, these lists should be more than adequate to the task.” For all except Cynthia, at any rate; Penelope kept that observation to herself. “However,”—looking up, she let her gaze travel over all five Latimer ladies’ faces—“this being the haut ton, it would be better all around if we could avoid having to ask others to confirm each of your whereabouts.”
None of the Latimer ladies were fools; it was clear from their expressions that all of them—even Millicent—followed Penelope’s reasoning perfectly.
“Consequently,” she went on, “if we accept that the lady wearing Lady Latimer’s shoes who was seen fleeing the side terrace immediately after Lady Galbraith had been struck down wasn’t, in fact, any of you, then the tack I believe we need to take is to clarify just what the witness actually saw. As I mentioned, we revisited Fairchild House earlier. There, we confirmed that several corroborating points in the witness’s statement are factually correct. Both the police and we are inclined to believe that the witness has spoken the truth. That being so, we need to account for the pair of Lady Latimer’s shoes that he saw, apparently quite clearly.”
Lady Latimer and her daughters exchanged glances, then Lady Latimer looked at Penelope. “In light of what you told me this morning, I asked the girls to check—none of us has lost a pair of our shoes. All are accounted for and still in our possession.”
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