Page 8 of Marriage and Murder (The Casebook of Barnaby Adair #10)
CHAPTER 7
W ith Barnaby and Stokes, Penelope had only just entered their private parlor, tossed off her bonnet and coat, and sat, when the door opened, and Henry and Madeline peeked in.
On seeing them, Henry smiled. “There you are. We were waiting in the snug in the hope you might have made some progress that you would be willing to share.”
Stokes waved them in. “By all means, come and join us.”
Penelope smiled warmly. “Indeed. I believe we could do with your insight, Madeline. And yours, too, Henry.”
The five of them settled in the various chairs about the fireplace, with Barnaby and Penelope once again on the old settle.
Stokes opened the discussion with “We seem to have taken a significant step forward today.” He related what they’d learned from Swithin regarding Viola’s visit to his shop on the Wednesday afternoon, which had resulted in him informing Viola that the stones in her bracelet were now fake.
“Oh dear!” Madeline looked horrified. “She would have been…” She broke off, then continued, “Horrified at first, then devastated, then angry.”
Penelope thought, then nodded. “That seems to have been the case.”
Stokes drew the necklace and bracelet from his pocket and handed both to Madeline. “Are these your sister’s?”
Madeline took the pieces and examined both. “This is definitely Viola’s bracelet. I hadn’t seen the necklace before, but as Swithin said, it’s clearly been made to match the bracelet, so I assume this is, in fact, the necklace Viola wrote to me about.” Madeline looked up. “The one her secret admirer, H, had given her.”
Stokes nodded. “Well, the reason Swithin got on to us was that Billy Gilroy had the bracelet and necklace and tried to sell them to Swithin.”
“Billy?” Henry looked shocked. “I know he’s a bit of a difficult lad, but surely, he wasn’t the one who ransacked the cottage.”
“No,” Stokes said, “he wasn’t.” He went on to describe what they’d learned of Viola’s movements in the hours preceding her death and how she’d hidden the two pieces of jewelry in the urn in the graveyard.
Madeline looked utterly bewildered. “Why hide those pieces in the graveyard?”
“Oh.” Penelope searched in her pocket and tugged out the handkerchief they’d found in the urn and handed it to Madeline. “That’s Viola’s, isn’t it?”
Madeline examined the embroidery and nodded. “Yes.”
“The bracelet and necklace were wrapped in that,” Penelope said. “Billy left the handkerchief in the urn when he took the jewelry.”
“I think,” Barnaby put in, “that with Reverend Foswell’s confirmation, we’re correct in thinking it was Viola herself who left the jewelry there.”
Madeline shook her head, then looked at Stokes. “I don’t want Billy charged with any crime. His mother’s life has been hard enough without that.”
Stokes smiled. “As it happens, Billy didn’t commit any crime. Your sister left those pieces in a public place. Finders keepers more or less applies.”
Madeline’s expression eased, but then her frown returned. “Why on earth did she hide her favorite pieces of jewelry?”
“Perhaps,” Penelope said, “because not only weren’t they her favorites anymore, given the stones were paste, but to her, those pieces would have been constant reminders of H’s perfidy.” She looked around the company. “I suspect we can assume that in arranging for such a perfectly matching necklace to be made, H, whoever he is, borrowed the bracelet from Viola to show the jeweler.”
Madeline nodded. “He did. She mentioned loaning the bracelet to him in order to have a matching necklace made.” She grimaced. “After the fact, sadly, or I would have warned her against trusting any man she had only recently met with her favorite piece. The stones might only have been aquamarines, but they were very fine specimens.”
“Swithin mentioned that,” Stokes said.
In her mind, Penelope was turning over all they’d learned, trying to see how the pieces might fit. “Do you think,” she said, “that it’s possible, having realized it had to have been H who stole her aquamarines and had them substituted with paste, that Viola viewed those two pieces of jewelry as evidence of his crime?” Penelope looked at Madeline. “Was Viola likely to have thought that through?”
Madeline’s expression firmed. “Oh yes. There was nothing whatever wrong with Viola’s ability to put two and two together.” She paused, then added, “And in this case, I believe she would have been correct.” She looked at the others. “The jewelry itself is the only proof she had of H’s actions.”
A moment of silence ensued, then Henry cleared his throat and said, “If, as the villagers are saying, this man we believe must be H came to call on Viola on the afternoons that Mrs. Gilroy had off, then Viola would have expected H to call that Thursday afternoon.”
Penelope eagerly added, “And she couldn’t put him off because she had no way of contacting him.”
Madeline leapt on the point. “After learning what she did from Swithin, she no longer trusted H at all, so she hid the jewelry so even if he insisted on trying to take it away, he couldn’t.” Eyes alight, she looked around the company. “Viola hid the jewelry so H couldn’t take it. That’s certainly something Viola would do.”
“And,” Barnaby added, “that’s why she chose that particular grave.” He looked at Penelope and Stokes. “That grave is so old that no one knows who’s buried there, which means that no one would have turned up to put flowers in that urn.” He looked at Madeline and Henry. “Given Viola didn’t know Billy was watching her, the urn was a safe place to leave the jewelry.”
They all seemed happy with that piece of deduction.
After a moment of savoring, Stokes looked from Madeline to Penelope. “Am I correct in thinking that the jeweler who made the necklace to match the bracelet so perfectly was the person who switched the stones?”
Penelope nodded decisively. “Given how well the fake stones fit and that they were good enough to fool Viola, the jeweler would have had to be the one who made the substitution.”
“And that means,” Madeline said, “that the jeweler who made the necklace will be able to identify who brought him the bracelet to copy and commissioned the work and, presumably, paid him to switch the stones as well.”
“That’s another reason why Viola might have hidden the jewelry,” Penelope said. “Not only were the pieces the sole proof of H ’s crime, but they were also the best way to trace the jeweler and, perhaps, get back her aquamarines.”
“As matters now stand,” Barnaby concluded, “those two pieces of jewelry are our most promising route to identifying Viola’s secret admirer, H , and potentially convicting him of the greater crime of murder.”
Penelope looked at Madeline and Henry. “In this area, where would you go to find a skilled jeweler?” With her head, she indicated the necklace in Madeline’s hands. “One capable of work of that quality?”
Henry and Madeline exchanged a glance, then looked at the others and, in unison, said, “Salisbury.”
Henry added, “Shaftesbury and Blandford Forum are closer, but neither is large nor boasts any jeweler of that level. Salisbury, however, has several that I know of.”
Madeline was nodding. “It would have to be Salisbury, I think. I can’t imagine Viola allowing anyone to take the bracelet for long. Not long enough to engage a jeweler in London.”
“Right, then.” Penelope looked at Barnaby and Stokes. “I believe we have a solid lead to pursue.”
Henry glanced at Madeline, then ventured, “Actually, aside from learning of your progress, we came looking for you to let you know that Madeline has discovered an unexpected gentleman loitering about the village.”
“Oh?” Stokes reached for his notebook, which he’d laid aside, and looked inquiringly at Madeline. “Who’s that?”
Under the combined weight of their interested gazes, Madeline colored faintly. “His name is Montgomery Pincer. He’s…well, I suppose you could say he’s something of an old flame of mine—more a girlhood fancy, really—from the time we lived in Salisbury many years ago. I met him at the church on Monday morning. He said he’d just returned the day before from America. It sounded as if he’s been living there for quite some years. He said he was passing and saw me going into the church, and having just heard about Viola’s murder, he stopped to offer his condolences.”
The others nodded their understanding and waited as Madeline paused, then, frowning slightly, went on, “The thing is, he joined me in the church this morning as well, and I have no idea why he would still be in the area, simply walking about. When I met him before, on Monday, I thought he was on his way from Southampton to Salisbury. I assumed he was returning to his parents’ house there.”
Penelope frowned. “You said he was an old flame. Is it possible that he has his eye on you? After all, you are still unmarried and will inherit your sister’s estate, and”—she gestured to Madeline’s subdued yet expensive gown—“you are plainly sufficiently well off in your own right.” Penelope paused, then bluntly asked, “Could he be a fortune hunter?”
Madeline’s expression eased, and she laughed. “Oh yes. Monty Pincer is assuredly that. For as long as I’ve known him, which is virtually from childhood, he’s been intent on marrying money. Indeed, that was the cause of the rupture between us all those years ago. So yes, it’s likely he’s still very much of that mind, and he’s already told me he hasn’t yet married.”
She paused, then sighed. “Given he’s tallish, lean, and dark-haired, it did occur to me that he might be Viola’s secret admirer, except that his name doesn’t begin with H, and I can’t imagine Viola setting aside my past experience with him.”
“Nevertheless,” Stokes said, scribbling in his book, “do you know where he’s staying?”
Madeline shook her head. “The oddity of him still being around the village only struck me later.” She looked at Henry. “While we were having luncheon in Shaftesbury.”
“Well,” Stokes said, “if you see Monty again, ask him where he’s staying. It would be useful to know so he won’t confuse matters if we end up having to search the area for our mystery man.”
Madeline nodded. “If I do cross his path again, I’ll ask, if nothing else, to appease my own curiosity.”
Penelope had been thinking. She looked at Madeline. “Returning to our earlier point of finally having a solid lead to pursue regarding identifying H, I believe our next steps will involve interviewing Salisbury’s jewelers until we discover who made the necklace and substituted the fake stones for the aquamarines in the bracelet.” She arched a brow at Barnaby and Stokes, and when they said nothing to discourage her, she returned her gaze to Madeline. “It would be a great help if you could accompany us. You’re the victim’s sister and her heir, and you know Salisbury and the jewelry in question better than any of us.”
Without hesitation, Madeline nodded. “Yes, of course. I’ll be happy to help.”
The answer pleased everyone, and they settled to make plans for the following day, then Madeline and Henry accepted the investigators’ invitation and joined them for dinner, during which the company spoke of other, more relaxing subjects.
The following morning, as arranged, Henry dropped Madeline off at the inn in time for breakfast. Henry had estate business he needed to attend to that day, for which he’d been sincerely apologetic, but Madeline had assured him she quite understood, and Penelope had watched the exchange with a gleam in her eye and a calculating smile on her lips.
After breakfast, the company set off in the carriage and reached Salisbury in good time. Along the way, they had discussed the most effective strategy to find the jeweler who had made the necklace and had settled on a two-pronged approach. Consequently, Phelps drove directly to the police station, where Barnaby and Stokes parted from the ladies and went inside to inquire of the local force regarding any likely suspects known to the police among the jewelry-making community.
Phelps then turned the carriage and drove back to Silver Street and Swithin’s Jewelers.
When the carriage drew up outside that establishment, Penelope and Madeline were handed to the pavement by Connor and, accompanied by him and Morgan, who had been delegated to assist as required, proceeded into the shop.
In the lead, Penelope spied Mr. Swithin behind the rear counter. She smiled and went forward with Madeline on her heels. Swithin recognized Penelope and, by the way his eyes widened, he also recognized Madeline.
Penelope halted before the counter and nodded amiably. “Good morning, Mr. Swithin.”
Swithin returned her greeting with a half bow.
As he straightened, Penelope gestured to Madeline. “I suspect you’ll recognize Miss Madeline Huntingdon of old.”
“Indeed.” Swithin bowed to Madeline. “Permit me to offer my sincere condolences on the loss of your dear sister, Miss Huntingdon. I was deeply saddened to learn of her death.”
“Thank you, Mr. Swithin.” Gravely, Madeline inclined her head. “As it happens, it’s in relation to Viola’s murder that we are here.”
Swithin appeared momentarily flustered. “Oh—I do hope that the information I gave your sister didn’t in any way lead to her death.”
Madeline shared a glance with Penelope, then returned her gaze to Swithin. “As to that, sir, at this time, it’s impossible to say. Until we catch the man who killed her, we cannot be certain of his motives.”
Somewhat at a loss, Swithin looked at Penelope.
Quickly, she explained, “The jewelry itself is the reason we’ve returned to consult with you.” She looked at Madeline, who drew the bracelet and necklace from her reticule and carefully laid both on the counter. Penelope went on, “We are seeking to identify the jeweler who fashioned the necklace. We presume he was also the person who substituted the paste imitations for the real aquamarines.”
Swithin’s professional gaze had locked on the bracelet and necklace. He nodded almost absentmindedly. “That’s certainly possible—indeed, it’s very likely. Only a skilled jeweler could have done this work, and if he was copying the design and fabricating the necklace, it would be the work of minutes to switch out the bracelet’s stones. Assuming, of course, that he was the sort of jeweler who would perform such substitutions at his customer’s request.”
As if unable to help himself, Swithin pulled a loupe from his pocket, picked up the bracelet, and examined the paste replicas. “I thought so when I saw these before, but truly, these are excellent fakes.” He lowered the loupe to tell them, “We often see quite poor substitutions, but these would fool most people.”
“What of the work on the necklace itself?” Penelope asked.
Swithin put down the bracelet and picked up the necklace. He raised it to the loupe he’d settled in one eye socket and carefully appraised the links of the necklace. “This,” he pronounced, “is also truly excellent work. A very decent copy of my bracelet design. Unfortunately, although not surprisingly, there is no maker’s mark, so there’s no way to tell who did the work.”
He lowered the necklace to the countertop.
Penelope regarded him steadily. “Do you suspect or can you guess whose work it is?”
Swithin looked uncomfortable. “There’s no way to be sure, and truly, I’m not inclined to hazard a guess, as one would have to assume that whoever made the necklace was also guilty of substituting the stones.”
Studying Swithin—an upright pillar of the commercial community—Penelope realized that pressing him to make a guess was unlikely to bear fruit. She exchanged a swift look with Madeline and, from Madeline’s fleeting grimace, assumed she’d come to the same conclusion.
As agreed, they shifted to their next avenue of attack, and Madeline asked, “How many jewelers are there in Salisbury?”
Swithin was relieved they’d let the matter of who made the necklace go and answered readily, albeit with a wry quirk of his lips. “More than you might think. There are at least ten and possibly more. I only really interact with my major competitor, Carlsbrook, whose shop is farther along Silver Street.”
Penelope leaned on the counter. “You must know the local fabricating workshops. You and Carlsbrook must discuss the local industry from time to time. Do you have any suspicions of any workshop that might be involved in underhanded practices such as substituting paste for stones?”
Swithin shifted and looked even more uncomfortable, but under the unrelenting pressure of intent gazes from two pairs of eyes, he eventually conceded, “Well, it’s really not something we like to speak of, but between us, Carlsbrook and I have heard of at least three jewelers—two relatively recent to the town and one longtime bane on our existence—who might, from time to time, dabble in questionable commissions.”
“And these gentlemen are?” Penelope inquired.
Swithin eyed her determined expression and sighed. “Conrad, Kimble, and the old-timer is Jacobs. Their workshops are farther out, not in town. All three have stalls at the market.”
Madeline smiled and collected the necklace and bracelet. “Thank you, Mr. Swithin.”
Penelope inclined her head graciously. “You have, indeed, been a very real help.”
Swithin looked doubtful, but replied, “I’m happy to have been so.” He came out from behind the counter to escort them to the door.
Penelope and Madeline followed Connor and Morgan out of the shop. As they stepped onto the pavement and the door closed with a jingle behind them, Penelope smiled. It seemed to her that Swithin was equally happy to have weathered their inquisition and to see them leave his shop.
After dispatching Penelope and Madeline to discover what Swithin could tell them of the jeweler who had fashioned the necklace, Barnaby and Stokes entered the police station in search of information on shady jewelers. While making their plans, Stokes had stated, “The local force always has some idea about dodgy operators on their patch.”
They approached the young constable on the desk, and he greeted them with the news that the medical examiner was ready to release Viola Huntingdon’s body to her family for burial.
“I’ll let Miss Huntingdon—the sister—know,” Stokes said. “Meanwhile, we’re here to speak with Superintending Constable Mallard.”
The constable went to check with Mallard, then returned and showed them to his office.
They entered to find Mallard behind his desk, and as they claimed the chairs before it, he directed an inquiring and rather hopeful look their way. “Any advance?” he asked. “Did Swithin identify the man involved?”
“He did,” Stokes confirmed. “But it seems all is not as it appeared at first glance.” Briefly, he explained what they’d learned from Billy Gilroy. “And as that was verified by Reverend Foswell, we’re treating Viola hiding the jewelry as fact.”
Mallard was frowning. “But why on earth would she do such a thing?”
Barnaby outlined their current hypothesis. “Her sister believed Viola was quite capable of such reasoning, and it does fit with her being furious about being deceived and wanting to ensure H got his comeuppance, which is entirely understandable.”
“Hmm, yes. I see.” Mallard shrewdly eyed Stokes. “Are you after tracing the jeweler, then?”
Stokes grinned. “That’s why we’re here—to pick your brains as to dodgy jewelers in Salisbury.”
Barnaby put in, “They have to be skilled to have copied the bracelet so well.”
Mallard sucked his teeth, his gaze growing distant as he trawled his memory. Eventually, he admitted, “There are all sorts of jewelers in this town. There are two well-established firms—Swithin’s and Carlsbrook’s. I’ve never heard a whisper about either. Straight as a die with reputations to protect, so I doubt it would be either of them. Next, there are four smaller outfits with shops in the streets around the square, but all of those are trying to make their mark, and getting taken up for shady doings isn’t going to help them with that.” Mallard straightened. “I’d say your best bet will be one of the five who have stalls at the market. Each have workshops outside town—out in the villages—and they’re the ones we keep our eyes on as the most likely outlets for stolen items.” He grimaced and looked at Stokes. “Hard to catch them, though. They see us coming and spirit away anything incriminating long before we can get close enough to nab them.”
Stokes nodded understandingly. “Markets are always difficult. So”—he glanced at Barnaby—“we have five possibilities.”
Leaning forward on his forearms, Mallard said, “I honestly can’t see it being anyone else, so the stallholders you want are Hatchard, Jacobs, Kimble, Millbank, and Conrad.”
Stokes jotted down the names, and Barnaby asked, “When’s the next market day?”
“Tomorrow.” Mallard leaned back. “All five should be in the square by eight in the morning. All five stalls are scattered along the central row.”
Stokes had been consulting his notebook. “While we’re here”—he looked at Mallard—“and I ask purely to be thorough, have you had any reports or concerns regarding a Jim Swinson or William—Billy—Gilroy, both of Ashmore village?”
Mallard thought, then shook his head. “Can’t say either name rings any bells, and I don’t know as we’ve ever had any reason to suspect anyone from that tiny place of anything. But I’ll check.”
“Thank you,” Stokes said.
“What about a Pincer?” Barnaby asked. “Montgomery—Monty—Pincer, apparently a Salisbury native believed to have spent the past several years out of the country, but now recently returned.”
Mallard frowned. “Pincer? How far back was it that he was living here?”
Barnaby calculated, then grimaced. “Possibly as many as ten or even fifteen years ago.”
“Ah. That explains why the name doesn’t register,” Mallard said. “I moved up here from Southampton five years ago. But I’ll ask around. There are some old hands still about who might remember if we’ve ever had cause to look sideways at this Pincer.”
Barnaby inclined his head. “Thank you. It might be nothing or not connected with the case, but he seems to have turned up at a curious time. That might just be coincidence, but…”
“Coincidences are suspicious,” Mallard darkly opined.
Barnaby grinned. “Indeed.”
Stokes tucked away his notebook and nodded to Mallard. “Thank you for the help. We might see which of the local jewelers we can cross off our list today, and we’ll be back tomorrow to investigate the stallholders at the market.”
Mallard pushed away from the desk as Stokes and Barnaby rose. “If you need any help taking anyone up,” Mallard said, “we’ll be happy to assist.”
With nods and smiles all around, Barnaby and Stokes left Mallard to his day and headed out to the front desk. There, Stokes requested a list of the names and addresses of the four minor jewelers in the town. The young constable was happy to help and even sketched a crude map of the center of the town, showing the relevant locations.
Thus armed, Barnaby and Stokes walked out of the police station. They halted on the pavement and looked toward the market square, presently empty of stalls. “Now,” Barnaby said, “to find the ladies and combine our information with whatever they’ve learned.”
Barnaby and Stokes walked down Endless Street and reached the square to see Morgan striding their way.
The experienced constable had been escorting Penelope and Madeline on their quest. He grinned and halted and, when they joined him, saluted and said, “The ladies decided we needed to eat next, so they’re waiting in the ladies’ snug of the Haunch of Venison.” He waved across the empty square. “Miss Huntingdon said it was the best place for us all to have some lunch.”
Stokes smiled. “And who are we to argue?” He waved at Morgan. “Lead on.”
Morgan grinned, spun on his heel, and strode back the way he’d come.
The Haunch of Venison was situated opposite the market cross, which stood in the corner of the square where Silver and Minster Streets met. The inn was a very old half-timbered building, but obviously well kept, and judging by the crowd of patrons, it was the favored place for the gentry to dine in Salisbury. Even though it wasn’t market day, the rooms hosted a goodly throng and were buzzing with talk.
Morgan paused in the doorway to the snug set aside for female patrons and pointed to where Penelope and Madeline were seated at a table for four beside one of the front windows.
Stokes nodded, then glanced at the taproom opposite. “Get yourself something to eat and take some food out to Phelps and Connor.” They’d spotted the pair with the carriage, which was drawn up on the other side of the street.
Morgan saluted and happily took himself off, leaving Barnaby and Stokes to join the ladies.
With smiles of greeting, Barnaby and Stokes drew out the empty chairs.
Before Penelope could commence the inquisition plainly hovering on her tongue, as Stokes sat, he looked at Madeline. “Before I forget, the medical examiner sent word that Viola’s body has been released for burial.” He settled and gently asked, “Have you thought of what you want to do?”
Madeline’s expression blanked, then she lightly grimaced. “I’ll need to have a word with the local undertaker. I expect he’ll be the same man who handled my father’s burial.”
Penelope shared a quick glance with Barnaby, then said, “We’ll come with you if you like. Perhaps we should attend to that immediately after lunch and get it out of the way?”
“Thank you,” Madeline said. “I think that might be best.” She paused, then sighed. “I’ll also need to speak with the minister of St. Edmund’s. Viola would have wanted to be buried near our parents.”
His tone kind, Barnaby prompted, “You’ll also need to inform whichever solicitor administered your father’s will.”
Madeline nodded. “The firm is here in Salisbury. I’ll think about the service overnight, then return tomorrow and call at the church and make the necessary arrangements and notify the solicitor as well.”
The others nodded supportively.
The serving girl arrived to take their orders, and after the girl bustled off, Penelope informed Barnaby and Stokes, “Initially, Swithin wouldn’t hazard a guess as to who had made the necklace, but eventually, he unbent enough to give us the names of three jewelers who might be involved in less-than-reputable practices and whom he believed capable of such work.”
“Did he, indeed?” Stokes reached for his notebook. “What were the names?”
“Kimble, Conrad, and Jacobs,” Penelope supplied.
Stokes looked up from his notes. “Those are three of the five names Mallard gave us. Apparently, all five have workshops outside the town and trade through stalls in the market.”
“And,” Barnaby said, “market day is tomorrow.”
Penelope grimaced. “I forgot to ask what day the market ran, but”—she waved at the window and the view of the empty square—“obviously, it’s not today.”
“We’ll have to come back tomorrow,” Barnaby said, “and speak with those five.”
Madeline offered, “Swithin said Kimble and Conrad were relative newcomers to the town, but that Jacobs was…” She glanced at Penelope. “How did Swithin put it? A long-standing bane on their existence?”
Penelope nodded. “By ‘their,’ he meant the existence of him and the other well-respected jeweler in town, Carlsbrook.” She paused, then said, “I think we can put Swithin and Carlsbrook at the bottom of our list of suspects. Reputation is everything for jewelers, and Swithin and it seems likely Carlsbrook, too, would be well aware of that. I doubt either would risk their standing by having anything to do with fake stones.”
“Mallard said much the same,” Barnaby said. “However, there are four more minor jewelers here in town that, for completeness’s sake if nothing else, we should investigate, at least to the extent of being able to cross them off our list.”
“As the five who deal through the market have workshops out of town,” Stokes said, “there’s no sense in trying for them today.”
Their drinks arrived, ferried out by a smiling serving girl, and another girl brought out their meals.
They settled to eat and drink in comfortable silence, which Penelope eventually broke with questions for Madeline about Salisbury and the surrounding countryside.
Only after they’d pushed aside their empty plates did they return to the task at hand.
“We could split up,” Penelope suggested. “That would be quicker.”
Stokes and Barnaby had been studying the list the young constable had provided.
“Possibly,” Barnaby conceded, sitting back. “But if we do strike any glimmer of a lead, we’ll need Stokes there to exercise his authority, and any delay might give the workshop in question time to hide any evidence.”
Stokes nodded. “An excellent point.” He looked at Penelope and Madeline. “And we’ll also need both of you to use your sharp eyes and your knowledge of jewelry to ask the right questions.” He shook his head. “Splitting up won’t work.”
Reluctantly, Penelope conceded their points. “All right. So we stay together and visit the four shops.” She paused, eyeing Stokes, then ventured, “Actually, Stokes, it might be best if you remain in the carriage, out of sight, while the three of us go in and learn what we can. You do seem to set off alarms even before you speak.”
Stokes grimaced but couldn’t deny that. After his long years in the force, a certain aura hung about him like a cloak and all too often was readily detected by wrongdoers. “Well, we can try that and see how it goes. If you get any sense of something shady going on and need my authoritative presence, you can send Madeline out to fetch me.”
Everyone was agreeable.
Penelope looked at Barnaby. “Where are these minor jewelers located?”
Stokes produced the map the constable had sketched, and with Madeline’s knowledge of Salisbury’s streets, they traced the quickest route that would take them first to the undertakers, then to all four shops.
With that done, they rose. Barnaby paid the bill while Stokes fetched Morgan, and they left the Haunch of Venison, crossed the street, and climbed into the carriage.
They settled, and Barnaby consulted the map, then called to Phelps, “Gibsons’ Undertakers on Canal Street, Phelps. Canal Street should be just ahead on the left.”
A second later, Phelps set the horses in motion, and they rattled off along the street.
After Madeline, supported by Barnaby and Penelope, called at the undertakers and made the necessary arrangements, they returned to the carriage and continued along Canal Street to the first of the jewelers on their list. When the carriage halted outside a smallish shop on the north side of the street, Penelope faced the others and said, “I’ve been thinking. Perhaps if Barnaby, Madeline, and I enter as a group, and Madeline and I ask the jeweler about the necklace design—without letting him get a close look at the stones—and if, as we suspect he will, he doesn’t claim the piece as his, Madeline and I can look further at his wares, and under cover of that, Barnaby can quietly ask the owner about substituting paste replicas. Just a very general leading query. From the owner’s reaction, we’ll at least get some idea of whether he’s willing to entertain doing such work.”
Barnaby, Madeline, and Stokes shared glances, then all agreed there was nothing to be lost by attempting such a charade.
Subsequently, Penelope pushed open the door to Findlayson’s Jewelry Shop with Madeline at her heels with, as a last touch, Madeline wearing the necklace.
With Barnaby bringing up the rear, the ladies made for the nearest glass-topped counter and pored over the pieces displayed beneath the glass. The salesman came up on the other side of the counter. Smiling, he said, “Good afternoon. I’m Mr. Findlayson, owner of this shop. Are you looking for anything specific, mesdames?”
Penelope and Madeline exchanged a glance, then Penelope leaned forward and confided, “Actually, we’re interested in finding pieces of a similar design to this necklace.” She indicated the links draped about Madeline’s throat. Madeline stepped back a pace as if to better show off the piece, ensuring the stones were sufficiently far away from the jeweler that he was unlikely to detect that they were fake. Penelope went on, “The necklace belongs to a friend of ours. It was a gift, so she doesn’t know who made it. We’ve borrowed it for the day, hoping to locate the jeweler who created it.” She opened her eyes wide. “Was it you or one of your workers?”
When Findlayson looked torn, Madeline added, “We’re interested in commissioning several pieces.”
Findlayson faintly grimaced. “I’m afraid that’s not my work, but”—with a sweep of his hand, he indicated the other display cases in the shop—“if you care to look through my wares, it’s possible something might catch your eye.”
Penelope and Madeline looked duly disappointed, but consented to look over the man’s offerings, which, indeed, were very different in design and, to some extent, even in execution. The work on the necklace was quite fine, while Findlayson’s pieces were heavier.
Barnaby had been trailing the ladies, doing his best to look suitably bored. When, eventually, the pair stopped and appeared to be debating the merits of a cuff, Barnaby halted a little way away and endeavored to catch Findlayson’s eye.
Seeing that the ladies were absorbed, Findlayson responded to Barnaby’s unvoiced summons and backtracked until he stood opposite Barnaby. “Can I help you, sir?”
“I’ve heard,” Barnaby murmured with a glance in Penelope’s direction, “that the latest paste imitations are really very good, easily passing for the real thing. I wondered whether you or anyone you might know sometimes fabricated pieces with paste instead of stones to bring the overall cost down.”
Findlayson straightened, his expression turning first to one of horror and then to personal affront. “Really, sir,” he spluttered, “I…I don’t know what to say. I would never consent to doing such a thing—never! And I’m shocked you would think I would even consider it.”
The growing ire in the jeweler’s gaze had Barnaby quickly backing down. “Just an innocent inquiry.” Barnaby held his hands wide. “I had no intention of casting aspersions—not at all.”
Penelope and Madeline—who had, of course, been listening avidly—pretended to have just noticed the discussion. Penelope came bustling across. “What’s that?”
“Nothing, nothing, my dear.” Hurriedly, Barnaby turned her toward the door. “But I think it’s time we left.”
“Indeed!” Poker-straight and glaring from behind the counter, Findlayson added, “And I would take it kindly, sir, if you did not return!”
Barnaby bundled Penelope and Madeline from the shop and followed on their heels. The three piled back into the carriage, with Barnaby pausing on the pavement only long enough to tell Phelps, “Go! On to the next one.”
After clambering into the carriage and closing the door, Barnaby collapsed on the seat beside Penelope, who was grinning widely.
“That was interesting,” she observed, merriment dancing in her eyes.
Madeline, too, was smiling. “Poor Findlayson. Instead of a sale, he ended up being insulted.”
Barnaby humphed and looked at Stokes, who was regarding him questioningly. “Suffice it to say,” Barnaby informed him, “that Findlayson is not our crooked jeweler.”
Of course, Stokes demanded the full story, and Penelope and Madeline readily provided it, while Barnaby pretended to be greatly put out.
By the time Stokes stopped laughing, they’d reached Melrose Jewelers on Rollestone Street, and it was time for them to enact their charade again.
They did so with similar results and traveled on to Gisborne Jewelers on Bedwin Street and finally to the Crowe Jewelry Emporium on Castle Street.
At each establishment, their increasingly polished performance elicited the same shocked and scandalized response.
After they’d clambered back into the carriage and informed Stokes he could cross Crowe off the list as well, Barnaby sat back and remarked, “I suspect I’ve wrecked my reputation as a gentleman among Salisbury’s minor jewelers.”
Smiling, Penelope patted his knee consolingly. “Never mind. It’s all been in a very good cause. Having eliminated those four as possibilities, as well as Swithin and Carlsbrook, we can now confidently focus on our five jewelers at the market. One of them will most likely prove to be the jeweler we seek.”
Stokes had spent his minutes waiting in the carriage reviewing the facts they presently knew. As the carriage rolled out of Salisbury and took the road to Coombe Bisset with Tollard Royal some way beyond, he suggested, “Let’s use the time to the inn to go over the case.”
When the others looked willing, he went on, “From all we’ve gathered to this point, the only person with a known motive for ransacking the cottage was Viola’s secret admirer, H. Everything we’ve learned points to him calling on her on Thursday afternoon. By the evidence of the clock, she was killed at three-thirty-three or thereabouts. Virtually everyone in the village with the remotest reason to wish Viola harm has an alibi for that time. H is the only one unaccounted for. We therefore assume he’s Viola’s killer—for exactly what reason, we can’t know, but possibly because she threatened to expose him in some way— and after strangling her, H searched for the items of jewelry that effectively linked him to her, but because Viola had hidden the pieces in the churchyard, H didn’t find them.”
Penelope was nodding. “Presumably, he gave up and fled the scene and, most likely, was gone when Henry called at the cottage at about four-thirty.”
Stokes nodded. “So H is our man, and thanks to Viola, we have one clear avenue through which to pursue him.”
Her expression now starkly grim, Madeline said, “We need to use the clue she left us to hunt H down.”
Barnaby shifted, rearranging his long legs. “I agree that the most direct route to identifying H is to find the jeweler he commissioned to make the necklace and, presumably, substitute paste for the aquamarines in the bracelet.”
“It’s not as if,” Penelope added, “we’re following a lead that’s years old. We know the jeweler received the commission less than two months ago. He can’t have forgotten such a special order or who asked for the work in such a short time.”
“Indeed.” Stokes sat back. “So I take it we’re in accord that, tomorrow, we’ll return to Salisbury as early as we can and investigate our five prime candidates for the role of dodgy jeweler.”
The others smiled and agreed, and thereafter, as they bowled on into the countryside, a comfortable silence descended.
Idly, Barnaby stared out at the passing landscape, at the hedges and trees lining the road, with the gentle hills rolling across the distant horizon. Within the group, there was a palpable air of being on the hunt and that despite the negatives of the day, they were progressing step by steady step. He judged that they all felt a great deal more confident that they would soon learn H’s identity, and then, with any luck, they would have their murderer.
Dusk was closing in when Phelps finally turned the horses in to the yard of the King John Inn.
Penelope stirred and, through the gathering dimness, looked at Madeline. “It’ll be dark soon. You must allow Phelps to drive you back to the cottage.”
Madeline might have demurred, but both Barnaby and Stokes added their voices to Penelope’s, and Madeline subsided into the comfort of the carriage with good grace.
Barnaby followed Stokes down the carriage steps, then handed Penelope to the ground.
With Stokes, they turned to watch as Connor shut the carriage door, then climbed back up to sit beside Phelps.
Phelps nodded to them, then jiggled the reins and steered the horses into a turn, then drove back out of the inn yard and turned the carriage toward Ashmore.
“Well,” Stokes said, stretching his arms over his head, “I don’t know about you, but I’m looking forward to another excellent dinner and an undisturbed night in a comfortable bed.”
Penelope laughed. “No babies to rouse you in the dead of night?”
Lowering his arms, Stokes nodded. “Exactly.”
Barnaby laughed and, trading stories of their experiences with their various offspring, they headed into the inn.
Leaning back against the leather seat, Madeline swayed gently as the well-sprung carriage bowled along. Without the others to provide distraction, her mind inevitably turned to her task for that evening, namely drawing together the elements of the burial service her older sister would have wanted for herself.
Unsurprisingly, she and Viola had never discussed the matter, so the best Madeline could do was to recall the points Viola had insisted on in the service they’d arranged for their father five years ago.
Her mind slid into the past, to the sense of loss she’d experienced then, and the echo of the same emotion—different degree, perhaps, yet with the same harrowing, hollowing quality—that swirled within her now.
Viola had been sufficiently older that, logically, it had always been likely that Madeline would, at some point in her life, have to organize Viola’s funeral.
But not yet!
As she thought of the reality facing her, Madeline still felt buffeted by the unexpectedness and the associated shock.
With a mental effort, she forced her mind into the slightly detached state necessary to consider which hymns and prayers Viola would have wanted. Given their years spent so closely entwined with the church, Madeline knew the possibilities by heart and could also cite the scriptures her sister would have preferred to have read.
She decided on the content, then juggled the order before committing the whole to memory. She would discuss her proposed service with the minister tomorrow in what would be the last assistance she would ever render her sister.
That, and seeing justice done and Viola’s murderer caught.
Those words resonated in Madeline’s mind as the carriage slowed to turn south, then a short way on, turned west, onto the last stretch of lane toward Ashmore.
With nothing else to occupy her thoughts, Madeline found the silence weighing on her increasingly heavily, increasingly oppressively.
On impulse, she rose and tapped on the panel in the carriage’s ceiling.
It promptly opened, and Connor asked, “Yes, miss?”
“Please pull up just ahead.” She dropped back to the seat and looked through the window. “At that stile coming up on the left.”
The carriage slowed, then rocked to a halt.
Before Madeline could open the door, Connor dropped down and opened it for her. “Is there a problem, miss?” he asked.
She summoned a smile. “No, no. I just need some air.” She took the hand he offered and climbed down to the lane. She glanced up at the driver, who was looking down with some concern, and smiled reassuringly. “Nice as this carriage is, I feel I’ve spent too many hours today cooped up inside it.”
As both men relaxed, she tipped her head southward, over the fields. “The path beyond the stile leads to the woods at the rear of Lavender Cottage. It’s not far at all to walk from here, and as I said, I need the fresh air.”
Madeline had agreed to put up with a guard until the murderer was caught, but she couldn’t imagine that embarking on a short, spontaneous walk over open fields to the rear garden of the cottage would expose her to any great danger, and William Price would be waiting at the cottage.
Luckily for her, neither Phelps nor Connor had been present when the matter of guarding her had been discussed, and both responded to her words with smiles of understanding.
“Right you are, then, miss,” Phelps said. “If you’re sure you’re happy to walk the last little way?”
She nodded decisively. “I am sure, yes. Thank you for bringing me this far.”
“Our pleasure, miss.” Connor saluted her, then said, “Here, let me give you a hand over the stile.”
She readily accepted his help, then stood on the other side of the stile and waved the carriage away.
Then she drew in a deep, deep breath, filling her lungs with the sweet scent of scythed hay, and felt the peace that until then had eluded her throughout that day wrap around her.
With a gentle smile, she set off along the path toward the line of trees that screened the rear of Lavender Cottage.