The Peculiar Case of Lord Finsbury's Diamonds: A Casebook of Barnaby Adair Short Novel (The Casebook of Barnaby Adair) (2 page)

 As the child quieted, Penelope’s mind shifted to Stokes’s new case. “I must remember to ask Mama what she knows about Lord Finsbury.”

* * *

S
urrounded by old, tall trees, the spaces between filled with thick bushes, Inspector Basil Stokes stood on a woodland path high on the shoulder of Haverstock Hill and looked down at the body of a man—a gentleman by his tailoring—that lay sprawled stomach-down on the grassy ground. The man’s head and shoulders were twisted about as if he’d been looking up and back, but, courtesy of the damage wrought by a heavy implement, little remained of his features. Without inflection, Stokes asked, “What do you think?”

 Standing beside Stokes, Barnaby surveyed the body. “Well, he’s certainly dead.”

 The man had been of a good height, perhaps a touch over six feet tall, built lean and well-muscled, with dark wavy hair, fashionably cut. His clothes had been tailored, but not in Savile Row, and his linens appeared to be of decent quality. In lieu of any clear features—none were discernible in what remained of the man’s face—his hands were the best indicator; studying the long fingers, the neatly manicured nails, Barnaby grimaced. “And you’re right—he was a gentleman.”

 Barnaby had driven himself out of London in his curricle. Hampstead village, which lay at the far end of the path, was a coaching halt on the top of Haverstock Hill. Following Stokes’s directions, it had taken Barnaby less than an hour to reach the coaching inn where Stokes had sent a constable to meet him—to lead him up this bucolic woodland path to the murder scene.

 Gaze rising from the corpse, Barnaby looked in the direction in which the man appeared to have been walking. “How far on is Finsbury Court?”

 Stokes grunted. “About a hundred yards before you walk onto the side lawn, but with all these trees and bushes, that’s far enough away for no one there to have seen or heard anything.”

 Registering the disgusted note in Stokes’s voice, Barnaby looked again at the body. Hiking up his trouser legs, he crouched to get a closer look at what was left of the man’s face. “So he, whoever he is, walks up from the village, heading for Finsbury Court…this path leads nowhere else?”

 Stokes glanced at the young constable who was standing rather stiffly at ease to one side. “Duffet?”

 “No, sir.” Duffet swallowed rather nervously. “It’s purely a short-cut between the village and the Court.”

 Nodding, Barnaby continued, “So our victim walks up the path—and steps into a foot-trap.” Looking down the body to where the steel jaws of a trap had clamped unforgivingly around the man’s right ankle, Barnaby winced. Shifting, he looked more closely at the trap, which had been concealed in a natural dip in the ground, and confirmed that the contraption was well-anchored via the usual steel pegs. “I think we can assume that the trap immobilized him. That said, if he’d had time to come to grips with the pain, he would probably have been able to release himself—except that whoever set the trap was waiting, and as soon as our man was on the ground, they stepped in and bashed his skull in with…” Barnaby glanced up inquiringly.

 The young constable had fine, gingery hair. Looking even paler than before, he held up a long-handled sledgehammer. “We found this slung into the bushes over there.” With his head, he indicated a thick clump several yards closer to the house.

 Barnaby frowned. “Was it just flung there, or had there been some attempt made to hide it?”

 “Just flung, sir. We—the butler and me—saw the handle sticking out when we came down the path. The butler, Riggs, said as he thinks it’s the hoop-hammer from the croquet shed. Apparently old Miss Finsbury—she’s his lordship’s sister—wanted a long-handled one so she could thump in the hoops without having to bend down.”

 “I see.” Frowning, Barnaby rose. He glanced at Stokes. “In your note, you said the victim was a house guest. Do we know who he is?”

 “A Mr. Peter Mitchell.” Stokes consulted his notebook. “And although he
was
a guest at the house party still underway at Finsbury Court, it seems he was shown the door three days ago.”

 Barnaby met Stokes’s eyes. “Any notion as to why?”

 “Apparently,” Stokes dryly returned, “we’ll need to address such inquiries to his lordship in person.”

 Barnaby arched his brows but made no comment.

 Stokes went on, “Mitchell left the house, bags and all, and was driven to the coaching inn—the same one you stopped at—late in the afternoon three days ago. Duffet asked, and the inn folk say Mitchell purchased a ticket and managed to squeeze onto the London coach that afternoon, and rattled off to town. No one at the house saw anything more of him until this morning, when the cook sent the scullery maid to fetch more eggs from a nearby farm, and the maid took the path and found him”—Stokes nodded at the body—“like this. Unsurprisingly, the maid went into hysterics, rushed back to the house, and alerted the staff. The butler sent for Duffet here, who came, saw, and sent word to the Yard.”

 “So,” Barnaby said, “thus far only we three, and the butler and the scullery maid, have seen the body.”

 “And the murderer,” Stokes grimly replied.

 “Indeed.” Barnaby glanced at Duffet, then looked back at Stokes. “Any clue as to when it was done? From the relative dryness beneath the body versus the dampness on his back, I would assume it was sometime yesterday.”

 Stokes nodded. “According to the butler, Mitchell had sent word two evenings ago that he would be returning to speak with Miss Finsbury yesterday afternoon. He was expected, but he never appeared. Duffet checked, and Mitchell did arrive on the coach that stopped at Hampstead yesterday afternoon.”

 “So the murderer knew Mitchell was coming to the house and guessed he would be walking up this path. The murderer seized the chance and set the trap, and kept watch. When Mitchell stepped into the trap and went down, the murderer emerged from the bushes and repeatedly struck him until he was most assuredly dead. Then the murderer flung the hoop-hammer into the bushes and…” Frowning, Barnaby paused.

 “Walked back to the house,” Stokes filled in. “That’s the most likely scenario. No one in the village saw any stranger around yesterday afternoon, arriving or leaving, other than Mitchell himself.”

 Stokes paused, then went on, “But that’s not the end of the complications.”

 When Barnaby looked his way, Stokes said, “On being shown the body, Duffet searched Mitchell’s pockets—and found a diamond necklace.”

 Barnaby glanced at Duffet.

 The young man’s face lit. “A fabulous thing, sir. It glittered like stars.”

 “According to the butler, who, Duffet says, goggled as much as he did, the necklace belongs to Lord Finsbury.” Stokes read from his notebook. “It’s known as the Finsbury diamonds, is hugely valuable, and, in some circles at least, is well-known.”

 Barnaby grimaced. “Old family jewelry, unless stolen, holds little interest for me, but if we need to know more, I know who to ask.”

 “Cynster?” When Barnaby nodded, Stokes said, “It’s possible we might need to know more about the necklace, but at this point I can think of several more urgent questions.”

 “But”—Barnaby glanced from Stokes to Duffet—“where are the diamonds now?”

 “As mentioned,” Stokes grimly said, “the butler, Riggs, went into a tizzy at the sight of them, and he insisted they be immediately returned to his master. Duffet here, not understanding the usual procedures of a murder investigation, allowed himself to be swayed. He and Riggs took the diamonds back to Lord Finsbury.”

 Eyes on Duffet, Barnaby asked, “How did Lord Finsbury react?”

 Obviously regretting his unintentional lapse, Duffet hurried to assure him, “Exactly as one might expect, sir. He was stunned and shocked.”

 “Apparently,” Stokes said, “Lord Finsbury had no idea the diamonds weren’t in the safe in his study.”

 “He really was rattled, sir,” Duffet opined. “Went pale as a sheet. Then he took the diamonds and put them back in the safe—in a black velvet box, which he said was where he’d thought they’d been.”

 Barnaby struggled to fit the puzzle piece of the diamonds into the picture of the murder forming in his mind. After several seconds, he met Stokes’s gaze. “That’s…a very confounding complication.”

 “Indeed.” Stokes glanced at the body, then slid his notebook into his greatcoat pocket. “If you’ve seen all you need to see here, I suggest we go and speak with Lord Finsbury. The message I received, conveyed by the butler, was that his lordship is not best pleased to have the police about and he wants us out of his hair and off his property as soon as may be.”

 They covered the body with a canvas and weighed it down with rocks. “The police surgeon’s men should be along any minute.” Stokes glanced at Duffet. “You left directions for them at the inn?”

 “One of the stable lads will show them the way.” Duffet set the last rock in place.

 With an approving nod, Stokes turned toward the house.

Starting up the path, pacing side by side, shoulder to shoulder with Stokes, with Duffet falling in behind, Barnaby quietly said, “Lord Finsbury can want and even demand all he likes, but this is murder—violent murder—and the guilty party has to be identified and brought to account.”

 Stokes’s lips curled in a cynical little smile. “Which is why you’re here.”

 Barnaby humphed. As they walked toward the house, while he mentally rehearsed the arguments with which to persuade Lord Finsbury of the unavoidable necessity of a detailed investigation, another part of his mind was busy juggling all the bits of evidence he’d already absorbed.

 Reaching the end of the path, they stepped out of the screening trees and bushes onto a swath of lawn.

 Barnaby and Stokes both halted, in wordless accord seizing the moment to study the house and glean all that the sight could tell them. A sprawling old manor with central parts dating from Tudor times, the building was larger than Barnaby had anticipated. A small forest of tall, ornate chimneys rose above the lead roof; it was the first week of December and smoke rose in thin columns from half a dozen terracotta pots. They were facing the southwest façade; the front entrance lay around the corner to their right, where the carriage drive emerged from the trees to end in a graveled forecourt. From where they stood they couldn’t see the front door.

 Roughly half of the house had two stories with attics above, while the rest was comprised of ground-floor rooms somewhat haphazardly attached to the original structure.

 Stokes stirred; having looked his fill, he was ready to move on.

 Holding his ground, Barnaby murmured, “The price for my presence was a promise that I would tell Penelope all.”

 From the corner of his eye, he saw Stokes’s lips quirk in a wolfish—teasing but understanding—grin. “Ah—I see.” Stokes settled again.

 Barnaby consciously tried to see the house as Penelope—or, for that matter, Griselda—would; he and Stokes had learned that both ladies saw things neither he nor Stokes did. Or, rather, deduced relevance from details neither he nor Stokes even registered.

 So he looked at the curtains, at how many rooms showed signs of occupation rather than being closed up. He noted the kempt-ness—the paintwork, how clean the windows were, the neatness of the flowerbeds. In the end, he simply tried to fix the picture in his mind.

 Shifting, he glanced at Stokes. “I have no idea what we’ve missed, but I’m sure there’ll be something.”

 Stokes grinned and they started walking across the lawn—a touch over-long—toward the front of the house.

 When they rounded the corner and stepped onto the gravel of the forecourt, Barnaby halted again, taking another moment to fix an image of the front façade in his mind.

 That done, he blinked, and his mind swung back to the body. To the question that kept niggling.

 Stokes was patiently waiting. Meeting his eyes, Barnaby said, “If, unbeknown to Lord Finsbury, Mitchell had this fabulous necklace in his keeping, why was he bringing it back to Finsbury Court?”

 Stokes held Barnaby’s gaze, then nodded and looked at the house. “Let’s go and find out.”

 Side by side, greatcoats swinging, they headed for the front steps.

* * *

I
n the shadows cast by the curtains of the bow window in the drawing room of Finsbury Court, Frederick Culver stood beside Gwendolyn Finsbury. Both studied the men who had paused in the forecourt to look up at the house before striding toward the front door.

 “The first two don’t look like policemen.” Gwen slanted a glance at Frederick. “Do you think that’s who they are?”

 The men in question climbed the porch steps and moved out of Gwen and Frederick’s sight; Duffet, the local constable, followed. Turning his head, Frederick met Gwen’s gaze. “I don’t know, but we were told to expect an inspector from London—the dark-haired one might be he. He looks grim enough. The other…” Frederick frowned. “I don’t know about him—he doesn’t fit the bill.”

 The second man, the one with curly fair hair, had moved with a certain indolent grace that in Frederick’s experience usually signaled a member of the upper echelons of the ton. “Then again, appearances can be deceiving.”

 
They certainly had been in Peter Mitchell’s case.

 Gwen didn’t need to hear the words to know what Frederick was thinking; the tightening of his mobile lips was indication enough. And, truth be told, she was still somewhat stunned at Mitchell’s transformation from charming gentleman to loutish libertine.

 Turning from the now empty forecourt, she let her gaze travel the room, taking in all those seated on the sofas or in armchairs, or, in the case of Algernon Rattle, posing before the fireplace. Algernon was present because he was courting Miss Harriet Pace, daughter of Gwen’s Aunt Agnes’s old friends, Mr. Herbert Pace and Mrs. Olivia Pace. A close friend of Gwen’s, Harriet presently sat beside her mother on the corner of the sofa closest to Algernon, with whom she was conducting a low-voiced conversation. Beside her, Mrs. Pace was chatting earnestly to Agnes, seated on the other end of the sofa, and Mrs. Lucy Shepherd, who, along with her daughter, Juliet, occupied a love-seat angled to that end of the sofa.