Page 9 of Marriage and Murder (The Casebook of Barnaby Adair #10)
CHAPTER 8
F eeling increasingly easier in her mind and significantly more refreshed, Madeline walked steadily toward the trees. Born in the country yet now living in London, she relished the clear country air whenever she could get it. Her earlier resolution—her commitment to see justice for Viola—still rang in her mind and fueled her determination. As she paced along the old right-of-way, she revisited the investigation and the advances they’d made that day. All in all, matters were progressing as well as she could hope for, and she was truly grateful to God for sending three such experienced and competent investigators to prosecute Viola’s case.
That thought brought to mind Barnaby’s advice that she needed to notify the family solicitor. The Salisbury firm of Farnham and Sons had handled the family’s wills and also the purchase of Lavender Cottage. She underlined her mental note to remember to call at Mr. Farnham’s office tomorrow, after she’d met with the minister at St. Edmund’s Church.
Reviewing what she and the solicitor would need to discuss led to the question of what she was going to do after Viola’s funeral. Would she keep the cottage? She considered the possibility but couldn’t see much point in doing so. The cottage had been Viola’s dream, not hers. Her life—well-ordered, comfortable, and secure—awaited her in London…yet if she was brutally truthful, now, with the transitory nature of life so dramatically demonstrated, she had to wonder if that life in London, satisfying though it had been to this point, would continue to be enough for her.
In the long run, would that life fulfill her?
Perhaps it was time to think anew about what her life in the years ahead should be.
She continued pacing but a little slower as she pondered such conundrums.
She was approaching the line of trees that were the outliers of the strip of woodland that ran along the cottage’s rear boundary when movement ahead drew her eye, and she saw Monty walking along the edge of the wood toward her.
From the smile that lit his face when he realized she’d seen him, he was obviously intending to intercept her.
Madeline stifled a sigh. She truly wished that he wasn’t there—that she didn’t have to deal with him. Yesterday, while she and Henry had been in Shaftesbury, she’d accepted an invitation to dine with him at Glossup Hall. Although she was in mourning and there was always the question of propriety, Henry had pointed out that they would be surrounded by his staff and that a quiet dinner would give her an opportunity to tell him what they’d discovered that day.
Given how supportive he’d been, she’d decided she owed him the update and that her reputation would survive a quiet dinner.
Henry had said he would call at the cottage in his curricle at five-fifteen, and knowing him as she now did, she didn’t doubt that he would be on time. As Monty drew nearer, she couldn’t help but contrast Henry’s solid reliability, his constancy and steadfast nature, with the fecklessness and un reliability of the man before her.
Regardless, she could all but hear her father say that was no excuse to be rude and summarily dismiss Monty, so she found a polite smile, halted at the edge of the wood, and extended her hand.
With his customary grace, Monty grasped her fingers and bowed over them. As he straightened and she retrieved her hand, which he only reluctantly released, he said, “I saw you in the field and thought I should at least act as your escort through the wood. There is a murderer on the loose, after all.”
Madeline merely inclined her head and, with a wave, invited him to join her as she walked on, following the narrow path that led through the wood and into the cottage’s rear garden. They’d been later than she’d hoped leaving Salisbury, and while she would have liked to tidy her hair and brush off her gown before Henry called, she accepted that was now unlikely, not least because Monty would do his best to delay her with incidental conversation.
Sure enough, his next words were “Have you been out of the village today?”
She nodded. “I went to Salisbury to assist the investigators.”
“Oh? In what way?”
She was about to explain when Stokes’s request flashed into her mind. “Actually, the inspector in charge of the case wanted to know where you lived, and I realized I don’t know.” She glanced at Monty, but his expression was his usual charming yet unrevealing mask. “You haven’t mentioned it. So the inspector asked me to ask you the next time I met you.”
A frown appeared in Monty’s eyes, darkening his face. “Why does he need to know?”
“Well, they are investigating a murder, and you are a gentleman who lives in the area and, clearly, is in the vicinity of the cottage.” She waved ahead to where the walls of the cottage were now visible through the trees. “Mostly, it’s for the inspector’s records in case they end up searching the area thoroughly.” She paused and waited.
When Monty seemed to be debating giving her an answer, she started to wonder why.
He glanced at her, his gaze sweeping her face. No doubt seeing her increasing puzzlement, he smiled rather wanly and offered, “I have a house outside Bowerchalke. Just a bolt hole, really. Now, I wanted to ask”—he paused for a second—“about your sister’s funeral. I would like to attend, if only to support you in that sad hour.”
Madeline knew a deflection when she heard one, but calmly replied, “It will, I hope, be held at St. Edmund’s in Salisbury. I need to meet with the minister to settle on a date and time.”
Somewhat to her relief, they’d reached the edge of the wood, and Monty halted. “I’ll leave you here.” He nodded ahead. “It appears you have guards aplenty.”
Madeline looked and saw William Price and Jim Swinson working in the cottage’s vegetable garden. She smiled and, over her shoulder, directed a polite nod Monty’s way. “Goodbye, then.”
She stepped out of the wood into the open edge of the garden. As she headed for the path that led to the kitchen door, William and Jim saw her and waved.
She waved back, feeling distinctly lighter. She returned her gaze to the house, and the clatter of wheels in the lane drew her attention past the corner of the cottage, and she saw Henry drive up in his curricle.
To her amazement, her heart leapt—for the first time in her life, she actually felt it do so, actually understood what the phrase meant.
Her smile widening, she increased her pace and deviated around the cottage to reach the front gate and the lane beyond.
Henry saw her coming, and his smile was one of welcome and expectant delight.
She couldn’t help but beam back.
She opened the gate and let it swing shut behind her as she walked to the curricle’s side.
Henry leaned across and gave her his hand to help her up to the seat beside him.
She settled, and he expertly turned the curricle and set the chestnut pacing back around the pond and on along High Street, out of the village toward Glossup Hall.
As the trees bordering the lane enclosed them in shadows, Henry rather hesitantly admitted, “Both my staff and I are looking forward to this dinner. I confess I haven’t entertained in…quite a while.”
Madeline glanced at his face and understood. “Since Kitty died at that house party?” During the previous day, he’d told her all about that terrible time.
He nodded. “Yes, and so you are in great charity with the staff. They’ve been starved of the chance to show off their paces for the past five years.”
She laughed, then smiling, said, “Well, I’m looking forward to sampling their efforts.” She waved ahead. “Drive on.”
He grinned, the expression easing the all-too-serious lines of his face, then he flicked the reins and sent the chestnut into a more rapid trot.
In the dark hours of the night, William Price was deep in dreams, stretched out on the pallet he’d laid at the top of the stairs in front of Madeline Huntingdon’s bedroom door, when someone large tripped over him.
William woke to curses. “What?” Groggy, he tried to get to his feet, but the thick blanket had tangled around his legs.
And not just his legs but someone else’s, too!
The intruder got free first and aimed a kick at William, which he had to roll to the side to avoid, only to have the intruder seize the moment, leap over William, and thunder down the stairs.
Flinging the blanket aside, jaw set, William launched himself into the chase.
The intruder raced through the cottage’s kitchen to the rear door, wrenched it open, and without a single glance back, fled through the kitchen garden.
William followed, but as he went out of the door, he heard Madeline’s footsteps hurrying down the stairs.
He was her guard. He was there to protect her, and that had to be his first priority.
And obviously, someone was, indeed, out to harm her, so William couldn’t risk leaving her alone, not for any reason.
What if he lost his quarry? What if his quarry hit him on the head, left him for dead, and came back for her?
On the garden path, William slowed, then halted, and breathing heavily, watched the unknown man—the intruder had definitely been a man—vanish into the dense shadows of the wood.
Madeline came rushing up. Clutching a thick wrap she’d wound around her nightgown-clad shoulders, she halted beside William. “What happened?” She followed his gaze. “Did someone break in?” She turned to study him, concern in her face. “Are you all right?”
William smiled wryly. “Just my pride bruised, is all.”
She made a scoffing sound. “I can’t see why it should be. You stopped him getting to me, after all.”
William shrugged and answered her first question. “He—whoever he is—tried to sneak up to your room and tripped over me.” He slanted her a boyish grin. “Lucky I didn’t listen to you and sleep in the box room downstairs.”
Soberly, Madeline nodded. “Indeed. Thank you for being so stubborn in the execution of your duties.”
Their breaths were fogging in the cold air. She took William’s arm and turned him toward the cottage. “Come inside, and I’ll make you some hot cocoa. I don’t want to be responsible for you catching your death.”
They returned to the cottage and the kitchen. Madeline prodded the fire in the stove until it was blazing, then put on some milk to warm. Although she hadn’t done such mundane chores for some time, she hadn’t forgotten how.
With the milk heating, she turned to William, who at her insistence, was seated at the little table. “How did he get in?”
William pondered that, then shook his head. “I didn’t hear anything—no window breaking or being forced.” His puzzled frown deepened. “And we both checked the doors and windows, too, before we went up.”
He pushed to his feet and padded to the kitchen door. Madeline joined him, bringing one of the lamps she’d lit. In the light the lamp cast, they studied the lock on the door.
After a thorough inspection, William stated, “There’s no sign of it being tampered with.”
“No,” Madeline agreed. “And yet, it was unlocked.”
William nodded. “Even though we both checked that it was locked before we went upstairs.” He met her gaze. “How?”
Grimly, Madeline replied, “He had a key.” She sighed. “Viola must have given her secret admirer, H, a key.”
William grimaced and hesitantly offered, “Or did Billy Gilroy borrow his mother’s key?”
Madeline pulled a face, then hurried to lift the milk from the stove. She busied herself making hot cocoa for them both, then glanced at William, who had returned to the chair by the table. “What did you see of the intruder?”
He grimaced. “It was so dark, I could barely make anything out. And once he’d leapt over me and started down the stairs, he never looked back—never gave me any chance to see his face.”
Madeline set down both mugs of cocoa and slid into another chair. “What about outside? It was dark, but there was some moonlight.”
William sipped and nodded. “He—he was definitely a male—was tallish, leanish build, and, I would say, dark-haired.”
Madeline sighed. “So it could be Billy or, to my mind more likely, Viola’s secret admirer, H.”
William sipped again, then added, “If Jim Swinson had managed to get a key, it could have been him, although I don’t think it was.”
“Or,” Madeline said, cradling her mug between her hands, “it could have been someone else entirely.”
Early the next morning, Madeline and William got themselves ready to go to the inn in Tollard Royal and report the excitement of the night to Stokes and the Adairs.
Madeline hadn’t slept well after the intrusion and was grateful that Henry had offered to take her and William in his curricle to join the others at the inn.
Madeline made porridge, and she and William sat at the table, drizzled honey over their bowls, and ate.
After several silent minutes, Madeline said, “The more I think about the incident last night, the more it seems it was as the inspector feared—that H, whoever he is, believes that Viola had, or might have, revealed something about him in her letters. Something that I might use to identify him.”
William nodded. “It does seem that way. I can’t imagine why Billy Gilroy or Jim Swinson or anyone else would want to try to creep up on you.”
Madeline tipped her head his way. “True. It always seems to come back to Viola’s secret admirer.” She paused, then added, “I do wish she’d told me his name.”
They were tidying the kitchen when the rattle of wheels in the lane heralded Henry’s arrival.
The relief Madeline felt on seeing his face was, she told herself, out of all proportion to the situation, yet she couldn’t pretend she didn’t feel safer, more secure, with Henry there, by her side.
Of course, he took one look at her face and instantly asked, “What’s wrong?” He glanced at William’s uncharacteristically solemn expression. “Has something happened?”
She and William exchanged a glance, then, between them, proceeded to describe the nighttime incident.
Predictably, Henry was shocked. “Good Lord! He actually came inside?”
“And up the stairs.” William beckoned Henry to the kitchen door and showed him the undamaged lock. “We’re sure he came in this way, because we’re certain we locked the door before we went to bed, and it was open—unlocked—when he left.”
“He had to have had a key,” Madeline said, “which reduces the suspect list to Billy Gilroy and our mysterious H, and there seems no reason that Billy would seek to harm me.”
Slowly, his gaze on her, Henry nodded. “I agree it’s not Billy. As matters stand, he has no reason whatsoever to attack you, and living in the village, he has to know that William has been staying here, standing guard.”
The sincere concern in his eyes warmed Madeline from the inside out.
Then, his expression firming, he met her gaze. “As soon as you’re both ready, I suggest we depart for the inn. Stokes and the Adairs need to hear about this sooner rather than later.”
With that, they all concurred, and a bare ten minutes later, Henry helped Madeline up to his curricle’s seat and checked that William was safely perched on the rear board, then Henry picked up the reins and set his chestnut trotting rapidly for Tollard Royal.
When Madeline, Henry, and William reached the King John Inn, they went straight to the door to the private parlor, knocked perfunctorily, and entered to find Penelope, Barnaby, and Stokes sipping tea and coffee, with the remains of their breakfasts already cleared away.
Penelope took one look at the newcomers’ faces and immediately asked, “What’s happened?”
Beside and opposite her, Barnaby and Stokes had also come alert, lowering their coffee cups to better study the visitors.
Henry steered Madeline to a chair and held it for her, then sat in the chair alongside.
Constable Price took up his customary stance by the door.
Madeline glanced at Henry, then looked at Penelope. “Last night, an intruder came into the cottage. He crept up the stairs, but luckily, William”—she threw a grateful glance at the young constable—“had insisted on sleeping on a pallet in the corridor outside my room, and in the dark, the intruder tripped over him.”
Stokes transferred his gaze to Price. “I take it he got away?”
“Yes, sir.” The young man looked a trifle crestfallen. “I got tangled in the blankets, and by the time I’d got free, he’d leapt over me and down the stairs, and he raced out of the back door.”
“William very bravely gave chase,” Madeline put in, “but gave up the pursuit to stay with me, for which I was exceedingly grateful.”
Stokes nodded to Madeline and looked at Price. “Good decision, Constable. Your brief was to protect Miss Huntingdon, and you made the right choice.”
Price looked a lot happier.
“Now,” Stokes said, “did you get a look at this intruder? Any hint as to his identity?”
“Not really, sir,” Price replied. “The moon was out, but nowhere near full, so the light was weak. All I could see was that he was tallish, leanish, and had dark hair, which fits most of our suspects.”
When Penelope arched her brows at Madeline, she responded, “I didn’t see the man at all. I only heard the ruckus.”
“Obviously,” Barnaby said, “he must have moved quickly and confidently, so not an older man.”
“Not Arthur Penrose, certainly,” Penelope concurred. “But the description could fit Billy, Jim, and most likely of all, H .”
Henry said, “We can’t imagine why, as matters stand, either Jim or Billy would have attempted such a thing. Living in the village, both would know Price is staying at the cottage.”
“Excellent point,” Stokes acknowledged.
Penelope capped that with “And that brings us back, once again, to H .”
“There’s also the fact the intruder must have had a key,” Henry said. “We all checked, and the lock hasn’t been tampered with, and Madeline and William both confirmed that the rear door was locked before they retired.”
Madeline nodded. “Sadly, I can imagine that Viola might have given her secret admirer a key to the cottage. She did tend to believe in her own invincibility, and having lived a rather sheltered life, she didn’t always perceive dangers that, to others, are obvious.”
Penelope grimaced. “Such as handing her bracelet over to a man she’d only known for a few weeks.”
“Exactly,” Madeline concurred.
“However”—Penelope tipped her head in thought—“we shouldn’t lose sight of the point that if it was H who broke into the cottage, presumably to attack Madeline, then whatever Viola had learned about him is critically important to him.”
“And,” Barnaby added, “that makes him dangerous. Potentially very dangerous.”
Stokes was nodding as he tucked away his notebook. “Given we have no idea who H is, we also have no real sense of how far he might go to silence—as he thinks—Madeline.”
Madeline snorted. “Which is truly ridiculous given I know nothing.”
“Even so,” Henry gravely said.
“We need to learn who H is,” Penelope stated with renewed determination.
“And take him into custody before he has a chance to act again,” Stokes said.
In magisterial tones, Henry stated, “That he’s acted in this way dramatically increases the need to apprehend him.”
Everyone nodded in fervent agreement.
Barnaby eased his chair back from the table. “The night’s events add impetus to our plans for today.”
Penelope nodded. “Canvassing the jewelers at the market remains our surest route to identifying H, indirect though it might be.”
“After last night,” Henry pressed, “we need to act with all speed.”
“And thank goodness,” Madeline said, “today is market day.”
“We need to take H into custody as soon as we possibly can.” Stokes rose and made for the door. “Let me summon the troops, and we can make a more detailed plan.” He opened the door and left, before closing the door behind him.
Studying Henry and Madeline, Barnaby remarked, “The one reassuring aspect of the incident last night is that it proves H is still in the area. For whatever reason, he hasn’t decamped.”
“And,” Penelope said, “that’s yet another reason for us to do our utmost to find him today.”
Stokes returned, leading O’Donnell, Morgan, Phelps, and Connor. As Stokes shut the door behind Connor, he explained, “In a case like this, the more heads the better, and it will help if all of us know the details of our plan and our goal.”
Barnaby nodded and waited while the newcomers joined Price in taking up stances against the wall on either side of the door, then for their benefit, Barnaby briefly explained about the bracelet and necklace and the substitution of paste for the bracelet’s original set of aquamarines, all presumably at the behest of the mysterious H , who was their prime suspect in Viola Huntingdon’s murder. “By locating the jeweler who did the work, we hope to learn H’s identity. The town’s five potentially shady jewelers are expected to be at their stalls in the market today. Mallard named them as Hatchard, Jacobs, Kimble, Millbank, and Conrad. All five have stalls in the market’s central row.”
Penelope added, “According to Swithin, one of the town’s premier jewelers, the three more likely to be our target—meaning the jeweler who executed the commission for H and made the necklace and switched the bracelet’s aquamarines for paste—are Conrad, Kimble, and Jacobs.”
Morgan raised a hand and, when everyone looked his way and Stokes arched a brow, asked, “How do you propose to approach each jeweler?”
O’Donnell added, “Being in uniform, Morgan and I will need to play least in sight.” The sergeant’s shrewd gaze came to rest on Stokes. “And begging your pardon, sir, but you should as well. We’re all too identifiable as police.”
Stokes grimaced, then looked at Penelope and Madeline. “Perhaps you two and Barnaby should play the same charade you used with the four minor jewelers yesterday.”
Penelope described to the others how she and Madeline had pretended to be looking for a piece similar to the necklace in design—thus checking whether the jeweler’s work was of the right ilk—with Barnaby following and surreptitiously inquiring about replacing stones with paste.
While Penelope spoke, Madeline drew the necklace and bracelet from her reticule and laid both pieces out on the table so all could see them.
Morgan and O’Donnell stepped forward to examine the jewelry. After a moment, Morgan shook his head and looked at Stokes. “I don’t think that charade will work, sir. Dodgy jewelers are always on their guard and wary and careful over who they deal with.”
O’Donnell nodded. “They wouldn’t stay in business long if they weren’t.”
Morgan transferred his gaze to Penelope. “That’s why I think that, after clapping eyes on you, ma’am, and Miss Huntingdon, no market jeweler who dabbles in illicit commissions is going to believe a gentleman like Mr. Adair is going to attempt to give you or Miss Huntingdon a piece with paste instead of stones.”
Penelope stared at Morgan, then grimaced and conceded, “In that, I fear you might well be right.”
“I was thinking,” Morgan went on, glancing back at the trio still hugging the wall, “that Connor would be much more believable if he asked about aquamarines. Not paste.” Morgan looked at Stokes and Barnaby. “The real ones. The jeweler who switched the stones out mostly likely still has them, waiting for the right customer to sell them on.”
Looking distinctly eager, Connor came forward to look at the jewelry.
Penelope studied him critically. Her groom-cum-guard was dressed in entirely ordinary clothes, neat and plainly good quality. More, he’d proved over the years that he could speak well, in a gentlemanly fashion, if required.
Connor looked up and said, “Even better—and perhaps more believable—I could say my master is looking for a good set of aquamarines.” He nodded at the bracelet. “I could describe the general size of the stones and see if the jeweler bites.”
O’Donnell added, “If this dodgy jeweler replaced the stones only a month or so ago, then the odds are that he still has them, but is starting to feel keen to offload them. They must represent a certain amount of cash to him, and he’ll want to make the trade.”
A short and lively discussion ensued, the upshot being that all agreed going after the real aquamarines might well be their best means of identifying which jeweler was the one involved.
Penelope stated, “Aquamarines are not a popular choice these days, so I agree it’s very likely the jeweler who made the substitution still has the real stones.”
“And,” Stokes said, “if a jeweler does produce a set of real aquamarines, we can step in and check the stones against the bracelet. If the stones fit, he’ll be our man.”
Everyone was enthusiastic about the ploy.
“If I might suggest,” Barnaby said, “it would smooth our way if Penelope and Madeline, attended by me and Henry, go past the stalls first. The ladies can cast their eyes over each jeweler’s wares”—he looked at Penelope and Madeline—“as if you’re considering buying, and so determine whether any of the jewelers has the right style and skill to have fabricated the necklace. From all we’ve heard, it’s quite fine and rather distinctive work.”
Penelope pounced on the idea. “That’s an excellent notion. That way, Connor won’t need to approach all five jewelers in his search for real aquamarines.”
Stokes looked at Connor. “Can you tell real stones from paste?”
Connor blinked, clearly surprised to have been asked, then replied, “I’ve been working for the Adairs for four years. I know how real jewels sparkle and gleam. Paste doesn’t do that.”
Barnaby chuckled. “Regardless, once Connor gets offered real stones—and they will be real if the jeweler scents a good deal—then we can close in and confirm before we ask the jeweler in question how he came by the stones.”
“That should be interesting,” Stokes observed, clearly looking forward to the moment. He looked around the gathering. “Right, then. Any further questions, or are we ready to depart for Salisbury market?”
The answer didn’t need to be articulated, as all those seated rose, and determination showed in every face.
In short order, they quit the parlor, left the inn, and piled into and onto the coach and also into Henry’s curricle, and with renewed purpose and resurgent hope, set off for Salisbury.
Penelope surveyed Salisbury’s marketplace. They’d clearly arrived at the time when attendance at the weekly market was at its height, which would suit their purpose excellently well.
On Barnaby’s arm, with Madeline and Henry beside them, Penelope kept her eyes peeled as they made their way through the bustling throng of marketgoers toward the central aisle. Inconspicuous in his everyman’s attire, Connor trailed a few yards behind, while Stokes, O’Donnell, Morgan, and Constable Price were farther away, loitering by a lamppost on the edge of the square as if idly watching events from a distance in case any pickpockets or the like attempted to ply their trade.
On reaching the mouth of the central aisle, the couples paused and surveyed the brightly hued stalls lining the way on both sides. “Let’s walk all the way down once,” Barnaby said, “more or less in the middle, as if merely looking around. We can take note of the jewelers’ stalls and get some idea of each jeweler’s work without attracting their attention.”
Penelope nodded. “At the other end, we can turn back and approach the ones we think most likely.”
Henry and Madeline agreed, and together, the four of them moved into the crowded walkway. Salisbury was a prosperous town, and there were plenty of gentry and well-to-do citizens ambling about the stalls, providing camouflage of sorts. The noise that blanketed the area was considerable, made up of myriad conversations, most conducted at volume, combined with the raucous cries of vendors hawking their wares.
With Barnaby, Penelope wended this way and that, moving slowly down the aisle. Henry and Madeline kept pace, but the couples were often separated by other marketgoers moving in the opposite direction.
The first jeweler’s stall they came to bore a sign along the front of the table identifying it as belonging to Kimble Jewelers. Penelope and, a few minutes later, Madeline cast their eyes over Kimble’s offerings. After both moved on, their gazes met, and as one, they shook their heads. Kimble’s designs were much heavier, sturdy, and mannish. He wasn’t their target.
They continued down the aisle, and by the time they reached the far end and turned to look back along the twin lines of stalls, Penelope felt confident in stating, “For my money, Jacobs is our best bet.”
Madeline agreed. “His work was the finest, the most like the necklace.”
Henry humphed. “Even I could see that he might have made it.”
“And”—Barnaby looked at Penelope—“correct me if I err, but Jacobs was one of the three jewelers Swithin named as potentially shady.”
Penelope nodded. “He was the one Swithin labeled a longtime bane on his and Carlsbrook’s existence.”
Connor had ambled up and was standing close enough to hear. “Was that the middle stall, the one with the middle-aged man with curly dark hair?”
“That’s the one.” Penelope determinedly looped her arm more firmly in Barnaby’s and glanced at Madeline and Henry. “Shall we?”
Together, the couples moved into the still-considerable throng. Once again, Connor followed a few paces behind. They didn’t hurry, still ambling as if they had no specific destination in mind, but once they reached Jacobs’s stall, Penelope stepped out of the flow of traffic and fronted the counter-like table, and Madeline joined her.
With easy smiles for the stallholder—a pale average-sized man with large, light-brown eyes and a thick mop of black curls crammed beneath a plaid cap—they examined his wares, exclaiming over the delicacy of the work. The jeweler responded to their praise with a certain amount of charm, and Penelope confirmed that he made pieces on commission.
With apparent reluctance, the ladies moved on, rejoining Barnaby and Henry. The couples continued strolling, but stopped two stalls farther along and, reasonably screened by the passersby, turned to witness what came next.
Doing an excellent job of projecting the image of a put-upon servant taxed with a boring task, Connor walked up to Jacobs’s stall and explained to the man—who they all assumed was Jacobs himself—about Connor’s master’s need of good-quality aquamarines. Straining their ears, they heard Connor improvise, “They’re for a pretty little gift for his ladylove.”
Barnaby made a mental note to pay Connor a bonus. That was exactly the sort of information a shady jeweler would find reassuring.
Even from a distance, the four observers could clearly see Jacobs debating whether or not to take their bait.
Then Jacobs smiled at Connor, said something that made Connor come to attention, and reached beneath the table. Jacobs looked down, drew out a key from his waistcoat pocket, and unlocked what appeared to be a metal lockbox. After opening the box, he rummaged inside, then drew out a small velvet pouch.
Barnaby looked toward where Stokes and the others were—albeit unobtrusively—watching them like hawks. After checking that Jacobs’s attention was elsewhere, Barnaby raised his hand and signaled to Stokes and his men. Once he was sure they were on their way, Barnaby returned his gaze to the action at Jacobs’s stall.
Penelope had kept her eyes fixed on Jacobs, and Barnaby followed her gaze to the black-velvet-covered tray Jacobs set on the table. Then he opened the pouch, tipped and shook it, and a handful of good-sized pale-blue stones slid out onto the tray.
Conner leant forward and studied the stones, using one finger to move them on the tray.
Edging forward with Penelope, Barnaby heard Jacobs explain, “These only recently came into my possession. On commission, they are, so they won’t be going for a song, but when it comes to aquamarines, these are exceptionally fine specimens. I doubt your master will find better, not loose as these are.”
Having completed his examination, Conner smiled and, straightening, nodded, apparently to Jacobs, but in reality, that was their agreed signal indicating that Connor believed the stones were real and also of the right size to be the ones taken from the bracelet.
With a swift glance, Barnaby confirmed Stokes and his men were almost upon them, then with Penelope all but tugging him on, he strode forward, swiftly closing the distance to Jacobs’s stall.
Henry and Madeline moved with them, and in less than a minute, with Connor stepping to the side and keeping his gaze trained on Jacobs, Barnaby, Penelope, Madeline, and Henry fronted the stall, forming a wall between Jacobs and all other marketgoers.
Jacobs startled, and alarm entered his eyes. He stared as Penelope swooped in and took possession of the tray with the jewels. With Madeline, who had the bracelet in her hand, Penelope compared the sizes of the genuine aquamarines Jacobs had spread on the tray with the fake stones that had been put into the bracelet.
On catching sight of the bracelet, Jacobs stiffened, then started to slowly rise.
Penelope looked up and confidently stated, “These are the stones that were originally in the bracelet.”
Jacobs sprang to his feet. In panic, he turned to flee through the stall behind his and into the next row, only to come face-to-face with Morgan, backed by Price. The constables had anticipated Jacobs’s reaction and had circled around to block his escape.
Stokes arrived, clapped Barnaby on the shoulder, and moved past and around Jacobs’s table to confront the jeweler. “Jacobs, you’re under arrest for the substitution and consequent theft of these aquamarines.”
Watching Madeline carefully put the aquamarines back into the pouch and drop the bracelet in as well, Jacobs sighed. “I should have known better than to have any dealings with that charlatan.”
“Oh?” Stokes said. “And which charlatan is that?”
Jacobs looked at him and frowned. “And who might you be?”
Stokes smiled wolfishly. “Inspector Stokes of Scotland Yard.”
Puzzled, Jacobs frowned harder. “Since when does Scotland Yard concern itself with lowly substituted stones?” He glanced at the others gathered about, then returned his gaze to Stokes. After a second of swift thinking, Jacobs asked, “Might it possibly be to my advantage to tell you everything I know about how I got those stones?”
Stokes studied him, then inclined his head. “Possibly. But I suggest we repair to Endless Street and surroundings more conducive to this conversation.”
Barnaby glanced around and saw that, unsurprisingly, they were attracting a good deal of attention.
Jacobs saw the same. Lips setting, he bent and pulled out his lockbox. “Just let me lock my goods away, and we can go.”
They all waited while Jacobs secured his wares, then hoisted the box in his arms. Flanked by Morgan and Price, Jacobs followed Stokes and O’Donnell out of the market, with Barnaby, Penelope, Madeline, Henry, and Connor trailing close behind.
They emerged from the market square and crossed Blue Boar Row, then turned up Endless Street.
A little way along, they came upon their carriage with Phelps waiting patiently on the box. Barnaby paused and turned to Connor, who’d been following at their heels. Barnaby smiled. “That was excellent work back there.”
Penelope and Madeline added their praises, and Connor brightened at their compliments. They left Connor to resume his normal duties beside Phelps—and no doubt, to regale the coachman with the latest exciting happenings—and continued along the street.
As they drew level with the police station, Madeline suddenly halted and, from the pocket of her jacket, drew out a small watch and checked the time. “Damn,” she muttered.
Barnaby and Penelope had paused and waited, as had Henry. When they all looked inquiringly her way, Madeline explained, “That took longer than I’d expected. I need to see the minister at St. Edmund’s Church to discuss Viola’s funeral, and while he’ll be at the church for the next hour or so, after that, he’ll be out on his visits.” She looked to where Stokes and his men were ushering Jacobs through the door and sighed. “As much as I want to learn who H is, I can’t put off seeing the minister.”
Penelope closed her hand over one of Madeline’s. “Go and see the minister. Whatever Jacobs tells us, if at all possible, we’ll wait for you before taking our next step.”
“I’ll go with you,” Henry said. “Best not to go about alone.”
“Indeed.” Barnaby nodded approvingly. “We’ll almost certainly still be here when you finish with the minister. Join us then.”
With some relief, Madeline nodded and took the arm Henry offered, and the couples parted, with Madeline and Henry continuing along Endless Street toward Bedwin Street and the church, while Barnaby and Penelope turned and followed Stokes and his men into the police station.