CHAPTER 10
To visit Mrs. Adair, in order to avoid being seen by others of the ton, Cynthia and Hartley had met in the porch of St. George’s and taken a hackney to Albemarle Street. But when they emerged from the Adairs’ house, there was no hackney in sight.
Pausing on the front step, Hartley looked up and down the street, then met Cynthia’s eyes. “We could go back inside and ask for a footman to be sent to summon a hackney.”
Cynthia held his gaze, then her lips firmed. “I’m fast approaching the point where I no longer care. Should anyone see us together, let them make of it what they will.”
Hartley studied her eyes, read her resolution, then he offered his arm. “In that case, let’s stroll down to Piccadilly. We’ll be able to get a hackney there.”
Taking his arm, Cynthia went with him down the steps. As they set off strolling along the pavement, openly together, she felt a smile tug at her lips. Gradually, she gave in to the impulse, smiling as a degree of happiness—a small degree, perhaps, but definite nonetheless—warmed her. As they neared the end of the street and the busy thoroughfare of Piccadilly, she leaned closer to Hartley and murmured, “It feels good to be able to be together like this. To simply be us, openly, without obfuscation.”
Hartley glanced down and met her eyes. “To stop pretending.” He nodded. “I know.”
Reaching Piccadilly, they paused and considered the passing carriages, then they exchanged a glance and, in mutual accord, turned and strolled on along the street.
Let anyone seeing them make of it what they would.
The ornate entrance of Burlington Arcade lay just past the end of Bond Street; another shared glance and, both smiling to themselves, Cynthia and Hartley let their feet carry them into the enclosed avenue of shops. The arcade was well known as a precinct hosting shops of the best art and antiquities dealers; at that hour, with most of the ton heading home to prepare for their evening entertainments, the arcade was quiet. Only a few other shoppers were idly strolling, peering into this window or that, and most of those looked to be collectors or scholars, not the sort to concern themselves with social gossip.
Ambling past windows stacked with curiosities from Egypt and the Orient, or packed with ancient tomes and scientific devices, Cynthia thought back over the events of the last days—over all that had happened after she and Hartley had met in the folly at Fairchild House. She glanced up at Hartley. “I’m so glad we took the bit between our teeth and went to see Mrs. Adair. If we hadn’t, I never would have recalled all I’d seen of those shoes.” She paused, then, looking ahead, went on, “I knew—in my heart, if you like—that the lady we saw could not possibly have been one of my sisters or my mother, but having the proof of my own eyes to back that up…it’s comforting.”
Hartley nodded. “The mists that have been obscuring who the murderer is are thinning.”
“I believe,” Cynthia said, her voice growing stronger, “that we can safely leave identifying the murderer to Mrs. Adair and her colleagues, and Mr. Adair and the police.”
“I admit,” Hartley said, “that I now feel much more confident that they will, indeed, succeed. And with luck, fairly soon.”
“Which brings us”—Cynthia glanced up and met his eyes—“to our next question. How much longer should we wait?”
Hartley knew she meant how much longer should they wait before telling their families of their wish to marry, of the fact that they already considered themselves betrothed and had for years. How many more days should they wait before they made a push to reunite their families? “Our families, both sides, need each other.”
Cynthia halted and waited until he did the same and faced her, then she said, “Your family might need my family’s support, but my family is aching to be able to give that comfort—it’s hurting them that they can’t.”
Taking her hands, Hartley squeezed her fingers lightly. “And your family’s support would mean immeasurably more to all of us than the superficial condolences extended by those others who have called. Augusta Gresham and Mrs. Foley, for example.” He shook his head. “Both sides, your family and mine, are not just hurting but bleeding.”
Lips firming, Cynthia nodded. “They are—and it’s time we put a stop to it. It’s time we brought them together again so we can all start healing. So we can all be stronger.”
Looking into her eyes, Hartley drew on the strength she always offered him. Taking a breath, he admitted, “My father and my sisters…the funeral’s tomorrow. If they can’t lean on your family for support, I honestly don’t know how any of them are going to get through it—and having half the ton watching is only going to make things so much worse.”
“But if the police haven’t identified the murderer before then…?” Cynthia raised her brows. Her tone steady, she said, “Having my family supporting yours through the ordeal is going to cause a furor. That said, I’m sure my family would do it without hesitation, if your family wished it.”
“Just as I’m certain that my family, all of us, want more than anything to have your family with us, at our sides.” He paused, then, features shifting, lowered his voice to say, “Burying one’s mother is always hard, but in this case…”
Cynthia squeezed his hands, then, releasing them, wound her arm around his and started them strolling once more.
After a moment, Hartley closed his hand over hers where it rested on his sleeve. “It’s time to do it.”
Cynthia glanced at him, read the certainty etched in his face, and nodded. “Yes. It is.” She’d already reached that conclusion, but the decision had had to be his.
“We can’t wait any longer for the police to determine who the murderer is. We know who it isn’t—namely, any of your family.” Hartley’s voice gained in strength, in decisiveness. “Our families need to be together to weather the funeral tomorrow. So we bring them together.”
Cynthia had already thought of how to manage it. “It has to be done, accepted, and all in place before the funeral tomorrow afternoon, so I suggest we—you and I—meet in Hanover Square after dinner.” Tipping her head closer to Hartley, as they walked on through the arcade, she explained how she thought they should go about bringing their estranged families together again.
* * *
Penelope, Violet, and Griselda hadn’t needed to fear missing Danny Gibson; the Gibson family lived over the Mercer Street shop, which they had owned for decades. According to the notice hanging in the window, three generations of Gibsons were currently active in providing shoes, boots, and leather goods to the theatrical trades. Danny Gibson’s name appeared to have been penciled in only recently.
A bell tinkled as Penelope led the way inside. The shop was quite different to Myrtle Hook’s establishment; here, walls comprised of wooden pigeonholes reached nearly to the ceiling, dividing the shop into long, narrow aisles. Each pigeonhole in every wall was crammed with shoes, gloves, gauntlets, wristbands, leather ties, bags, and every other conceivable leather-based item. The smell of leather was nearly overpowering.
The walls blocked the light from the wide window facing the street, leaving the interior decidedly gloomy, but the glow of lamplight from deeper in the shop drew Penelope down the center aisle. At its end, she stepped into a narrow space before a long wooden counter that extended across the width of the shop.
Perched behind the counter, a rather ancient personage tipped his head down to peer at Penelope over the top of his spectacles; in his hands he held a gauntlet that he’d been stitching.
Penelope smiled and walked forward.
As Violet and Griselda followed her into the light, the old man’s eyes widened. Setting aside his work, he got off his stool and faced them. “Can I help you, ma’am?” He nodded deferentially. “Ladies.”
“We do hope you can,” Penelope said. “We’re looking for a shoemaker making a particular style of shoe.”
Joining Penelope, Violet had Cynthia’s first sketch ready. Taking it, Penelope glanced at it, then turned the sheet so t
he old cobbler could see. “This is a partial sketch of the style.”
Resetting his spectacles, the old man looked, then straightened. “That’s similar to a very old style. I used to make shoes like that when I first started.”
Penelope allowed her smile to grow conspiratorial. “We had heard that…your grandson, is it? Danny Gibson? We heard that he’s making shoes in this style.” She widened her eyes. “Perhaps he got the notion from old sketches of yours?”
The old man eyed her with a certain native shrewdness. “Aye. Happen he did. Nothing wrong with that.”
“Not at all,” Penelope agreed. “But we’d like to speak with Danny, if we may?”
The old man studied her for a long moment, then, slowly, he nodded. “Aye—that might be best.” He turned to the screened doorway leading to the rear of the shop. “He’s in the workshop. I’ll fetch him.”
The instant the leather dividing curtain fell back into place, Penelope turned to Griselda. “Damn! He’s guessed there’s something going on. I hope he doesn’t take it into his head to tell Danny to run away and hide.”
Griselda considered, then shook her head. “Families like the Gibsons don’t work like that. This is their trade—Danny will be expected to stand up for his work, especially if he used his grandfather’s designs.”
Penelope blinked, then nodded. “I hadn’t thought of it like that.”
Griselda proved to be correct; three minutes later, the leather curtain was lifted aside and a bright-eyed, rather lanky young man of perhaps twenty summers presented himself. He looked at Penelope, Griselda, and Violet, and gave them all a respectful smile. “Granddad said as you were asking after the new style of shoe I’ve been making. So how can I help you, ladies?”
Penelope showed him Cynthia’s first sketch. “This is the style of shoe we’re interested in, but the shoes we want to know more about are the Lady Latimer’s version.” Danny’s gaze had dropped to the sketch, but at Penelope’s last words, he looked up and met her eyes. She smiled intently. “The ones covered with the special crystals you buy from Olson’s Emporium.”
Danny looked from Penelope to Griselda, then at Violet. “Ah…I’m not sure I know—”
“Danny.” Penelope waited until he looked back at her. “We already know that you are creating this new style of Lady Latimer’s shoes. There’s nothing wrong with that. But we need to know the name of the lady or ladies you’ve supplied with these shoes. It’s important.”
Danny frowned. “It was supposed to be a secret—an exclusive secret license, just like Lady Latimer has with whoever’s making the shoes for her. She—the lady—said I wasn’t to tell anyone, or show anyone else the shoes, or the deal couldn’t be made. She had to have an exclusive supply, or there could be no guarantee of me selling the shoes to her family for the special exclusive price.”
Griselda stepped to the counter. “Danny, I’m a milliner to the ton. I know all about exclusive licenses. We’re not here to ask you to break faith with any deal you’ve made with your client. But we do need information about her.”
Violet, too, fronted the counter on Penelope’s other side. “Just think—it’s not Lady Latimer’s identity that’s a secret. There’s no reason to keep your exclusive customer’s name a secret, either. And if you tell us her name, we promise not to tell anyone else about you making this new version of Lady Latimer’s shoes.”
“Well,” Penelope amended, “we won’t tell anyone other than the police.”
“The police!” Danny goggled at her.
Penelope grimaced. “Sorry.” She glanced at Griselda and Violet. “That just slipped out. The downside of having a too-logical brain.”
Danny blinked. He glanced at the leather curtain, then, facing them, leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Why do the police want to know about my shoes?”
Penelope pointed to the sketch. “These shoes were worn by a lady the police want to speak with in relation to a murder.” She waited until Danny looked up, and caught his gaze. “It’s vitally important, Danny. We don’t want or need to cause any problems for you. We just need to know who—which ladies—you’ve supplied with these shoes.”
Danny searched her eyes, then he swallowed and straightened. “It’s just one. One lady. A young lady. I’d heard about Lady Latimer’s shoes—well, who in the trade hasn’t? And the exclusive deal that shoemaker has with Lady Latimer must be worth a pretty penny—who wouldn’t want a deal like that? So I thought I should try to see if I could make my own version, and eventually, I did. Took me months and months, but I got it right. I asked around quiet-like, and heard that a Lady Galbraith was the lady most interested in getting her own version of Lady Latimer’s shoes—she’s been asking around lots of shoemakers. So I thought that, if I wanted an exclusive deal, she—Lady Galbraith—was the one to go and see.”
He paused, then went on, “Only she wasn’t at home. Wasn’t in London, apparently. This was early December, you see. So I was walking away, a bit hangdog, from the Galbraiths’ house, when this young lady came pelting after me. She asked me about the shoes. She said she was Lady Galbraith’s daughter and that if the shoes were as I said, proper Lady Latimer’s shoes, that she would show them to her mother and help to arrange an exclusive deal, just like I wanted. I wasn’t sure, but she was really convinced, and I thought, why not? She was heading off to the country the next morning, but I always have my tape with me, so we did a quick measurement in the park there, and I agreed to make her a pair in white satin, and to hold off offering the shoes to anyone else until she came to get the shoes in February.”
He shrugged. “As most of the nobs seem to go off to the country for December and January, it wasn’t likely I’d get any other chance to get the sort of exclusive deal I wanted, so I decided I’d do better to be patient and see what this Miss Galbraith could arrange.”
“And…?” Penelope prompted.
“She came back in February and tried on the shoes. Like a little princess, she was, twirling and swirling. She was that thrilled with the shoes. She assured me her mother—Lady Galbraith—would definitely be interested in doing an exclusive deal, just like I wanted, but that I had to let her, Miss Galbraith, present the shoes to Lady Galbraith in the best possible way. And to do that, she’d have to wait until about now. Late March, she told me. Meanwhile, she ordered two more pairs, one in pale pink and the other in pale green.” Danny pulled a face. “Truth to tell, I’ve been waiting for her to come in and pick them up. She hasn’t paid for any of the pairs and those crystals…they’re expensive.”
He looked increasingly despondent. “We don’t do much on tick here—Granddad’s against it. But even though those shoes have costly materials and are hellishly time-consuming to make, I figured the potential return was worth taking a risk on them—and that giving Miss Galbraith the shoes without demanding payment first was worth it to get her to show them to her mama.” He grimaced. “I guess she didn’t. Or at least, she hasn’t yet.”
The comment confirmed that Danny had no notion that it was Lady Galbraith who’d been murdered, but his words made Penelope blink as a completely novel perspective on the case unfolded in her mind.
Noting Penelope’s sudden abstraction, Griselda said to Danny, “I don’t think you’ll have any difficulties recouping your costs and establishing a very viable line of business with those shoes.”
Recognizing the voice of experience, moreover of one who supplied the ton, Danny started to look more hopeful. “You think they’ll want them?”
“I think,” Griselda said, “that if and when you choose to make your shoes generally available, you’ll have ladies literally beating a path to your door.”
“So not an exclusive deal, then?” Danny inquired.
Griselda considered, then said, “If I were you, I’d talk to your father and grandfather and see what they think. An exclusive deal will be easier to manage with a small workforce, but if you make your shoes in limited numbers and sell to whoever is willing to pay the
best price, then I suspect you’ll be able to charge a very high price and still find ladies willing to pay it.” She held Danny’s gaze. “In the end, it’s a balance, but I believe you’ll do better without an exclusive license.”
Danny looked much struck by Griselda’s wisdom.
Shaking free of her thoughts, Penelope refocused on the young shoemaker. “The last thing we need from you, Danny, is the name of the Miss Galbraith for whom you made those shoes.”
Danny blinked. “She just said Miss Galbraith. Is there more than one?”
Penelope nodded. “There are three. But if you don’t know her name, perhaps you could describe her?”
Danny had the eye of a craftsman; he rattled off a description that could only have fitted one Miss Galbraith.
After thanking Danny and departing the shop, then climbing into her carriage, Penelope tipped her head back against the squabs and heaved a troubled sigh. “There are times when I wish my logical mind wouldn’t come to such disturbing conclusions.”
Now free of the need to reassure poor Danny, both Violet and Griselda were also looking grim.
“Griselda and I haven’t yet seen any of the Misses Galbraith,” Violet said, “but I assume that Danny’s description fits only one.”
Griselda said, “The one who would naturally ask for the first pair of shoes to be made in white satin.”
Penelope nodded. “Exactly so. And no, I cannot for the life of me understand what it means. I had no inkling that this murder was a case of matricide. And I cannot conceive of what situation could have driven Monica Galbraith to murder her mother.”
* * *
After a short discussion, the ladies detoured to Greenbury Street. They were largely silent as Penelope’s carriage rumbled north, each busy with their own thoughts—none of which, Penelope felt certain, were likely to be cheery. Matricide was shocking enough in concept, as an abstraction, but to have to genuinely face it in real life—that was something else again.
The Curious Case of Lady Latimer's Shoes: A Casebook of Barnaby Adair Novel (The Casebook of Barnaby Adair) Page 18