The Confounding Case Of The Carisbrook Emeralds

  Lord Carisbrook consented to consider his wife for a second, then nodded—surprisingly decisively. “Indeed, I do. But marrying in some havey-cavey fashion is not the answer, my boy.” He met Franklin’s eyes. “I’m sure, if we put our heads together—and perhaps have a chat with the Iveses—we’ll be able to manage a solution much more acceptable to all involved.” His lips gently curving, his lordship added, “We’re not flush with funds, but neither are we paupers, my son.”

  Franklin’s expression was a sight to see; dawning hope had never been so clear.

  Prompted by her ladyship’s continuing mutterings about the unsuitability of curators’ daughters, Penelope raised her voice sufficiently to reach his lordship. “I have it on excellent authority, my lord, that Miss Ives is a well-mannered, pleasant, and altogether admirable young lady.”

  Lord Carisbrook smiled and inclined his head. “I would expect no less of the young lady Franklin has chosen.”

  From her position beyond Franklin, Julia—who until then had remained mute—asked, “Franklin—is your Miss Ives the young lady I met at the Tolwhistles’ garden party last week?”

  Turning to look at his sister, Franklin nodded. “Yes—that was her. You spent some time speaking with her.”

  Julia nodded, a smile breaking across her face. “I liked her—she was nice.”

  The siblings shared a smile.

  Penelope smiled herself. Franklin had more supporters than he’d supposed.

  Barnaby’s fingers brushed her shoulder, and she looked up at him. He met her gaze, then looked at Stokes and tipped his head toward the door.

  Penelope turned to see Stokes nod. She rose, interrupting the low-voiced conversation that had sparked between Franklin and Lord Carisbrook; both men hurriedly got to their feet.

  Ignoring Lady Carisbrook, Penelope held out her hand to his lordship. “Thank you for your time, my lord.” To Franklin, she directed an encouraging nod, but held back any words of congratulations; they hadn’t resolved the issue of Simpkins’s death, and until they did, Franklin remained a suspect.

  Lingering suspicion clearly preyed on Stokes’s mind, too. He nodded formally to his lordship. “At this point, my lord, we have no further questions for you or your family. Regarding the emeralds, all has been explained to my satisfaction. However, Simpkins’s death requires further investigation. In light of your son’s information, we would like to question your staff once again. Rest assured we’ll do our best to speedily determine how it was Simpkins came to fall.”

  “Thank you, Inspector. I am content to leave the matter in your—and Mr. and Mrs. Adair’s—clearly capable hands.”

  Barnaby had come around the sofa to stand with Penelope and Stokes. His lordship half bowed to them, then glanced to where Franklin and Julia were now quietly talking. “I must admit that, as I’m sure you can appreciate, I was initially concerned as to what your investigations might uncover. But now”—his lordship spared a harder glance for his wife, sitting isolated, her attention turned inward and a sour and petulant expression on her face—“it seems that your revelations have come not a moment too soon.”

  Lord Carisbrook turned back to them and smiled in his gentle, benevolent way. “Thank you for facilitating a catharsis that I hope will be a turning point for us.” By “us,” it was clear he meant Franklin, Julia, and him. As Penelope saw it, Lady Carisbrook’s place in their future was going to be very much up to her ladyship. Lord Carisbrook continued, “And as for finding out what happened to Simpkins, we owe her that much. By all means”—his lordship waved, encompassing his house—“Inspector, Mr. and Mrs. Adair, investigate as you see fit.”

  Stokes, Barnaby, and Penelope took his lordship at his word; leaving Wilkes in the front hall and dispatching Jarvis and Jeremy ahead of them, they made their way directly to the servants’ hall.

  In the corridor before they reached it, Stokes halted and turned to Barnaby and Penelope. He met their gazes, then said, “I still can’t see writing Simpkins’s death off as an accident.”

  Barnaby slid his hands into his pockets and, understanding Stokes’s direction, stepped into the role of devil’s advocate. “You said the police surgeon confirmed there was no bruising or other indication that she’d been pushed, and no evidence of any fight, either.”

  “True,” Penelope acknowledged. “But I, too, find it impossible to believe that a maid of Simpkins’s experience, who had spent all her life going up and down such stairs, would have marched to the top of that flight and then forgotten where she was and just stepped back.”

  Stokes nodded. “And it’s a narrow stairway, which makes it all the more surprising she didn’t grab at the railing to save herself—anyone would. If she had, she’d have twisted and fallen on her side, not straight down on her back. She didn’t stumble—she must have literally stepped straight back, as Penelope said.”

  “So let’s say she did that,” Penelope went on. “Exactly as our evidence says she did. She marched to the top of the flight—those stairs are steep as well as narrow, so until she reached the top, she would have been looking down, managing her skirts. She reached the top and paused or halted, raised her head, and looked—then she stepped straight back and fell.” Penelope met Barnaby’s eyes, then looked at Stokes. “So what caused her to step back? There had to be something.” Penelope widened her eyes. “Did someone leap out at her?”

  Stokes nodded decisively. “That’s it—that’s what’s bothering me. That’s what we need to learn.”

  Barnaby nodded, too. “Indeed.” He looked down the corridor and waved. “Let’s get to it.”

  Stokes led the way. They entered the servants’ hall to find all the staff seated around the long table, and Constable Morgan, as usual, jollying them all along. As before, the head of the table had been left for them. Stokes halted with Penelope on his right; Barnaby moved behind him to take up station on his left while Morgan went to stand opposite, at the table’s foot.

  Stokes looked around the table, allowing his gaze to touch each face, then stated, “We need to revisit the train of events that occurred in this house from the time Lady Carisbrook returned to it in the small hours of Sunday morning.” He paused, then went on. “We now know that Lady Carisbrook took off the emeralds, laid them in their case, shut the case, and left it to one side of her dressing table. Subsequent to that, she called Mr. Franklin Carisbrook into her room, and in leaving the room, he took the emeralds with him.” A soft gasp came from several throats; Stokes ignored it and rolled on, “Mr. Carisbrook had the emeralds with him when he left the house later on Sunday. Subsequently, when he returned to the house on Monday evening, he brought the emeralds back.”

  Stokes focused on Jarvis. “Mr. Carisbrook says you can vouch that he arrived just after seven o’clock on Monday evening.”

  His expression impassive, Jarvis nodded. “Indeed, sir. His lordship, her ladyship, and Miss Julia were already in the drawing room, awaiting dinner. Mr. Franklin went directly upstairs to change. He came down shortly afterward and joined the others in the drawing room.”

  Stokes nodded. “How long was he upstairs?”

  Jarvis frowned. “Perhaps ten minutes. Not much longer. Just enough time to change.”

  And to replace the emeralds in his mother’s room, but not time enough to have any meaningful run-in with Simpkins.

  To Penelope’s mind, Jarvis’s straightforward evidence supported what Franklin had told them of his movements regarding the emeralds. But as for Simpkins… Penelope glanced around the table. “We’re aware Lady Carisbrook and Miss Julia Carisbrook left to attend at least one event later on Monday evening and that Mr. Carisbrook and his lordship also went out. Did Mr. Carisbrook remain in the house for a time before he left?” Penelope widened her eyes. “Did his lordship, for that matter?”

  “No, ma’am,” Jarvis replied. “Both his lordship and Mr. Franklin left the house shortly after dinner, before her ladyship and Miss Julia. His lordship returned at about twelve o’clock, and
Mr. Franklin returned not long after.”

  “Was that before or after Lady Carisbrook and Miss Julia returned?” Barnaby asked.

  “Before, sir. Her ladyship and Miss Julia returned at about half past twelve.”

  Stokes looked down the table at Wills, Cobb, and Willie. Coachman, groom, and stable boy all nodded. Wills confirmed, “We had the horses rubbed down and the carriage stowed, and we were all in our beds before the clocks struck one. Monday tends to be an early night, and we don’t like to waste it.”

  Stokes nodded and consulted the notebook he’d retrieved from his pocket. After a moment, he looked up and swept his gaze over the table’s occupants. “You’ll be pleased to know that, in my opinion, the matter of the Carisbrook emeralds going missing has now been resolved, and it’s unlikely there will be any charges laid—essentially, the jewels were misplaced and have now been found. Mr. Carisbrook has shared his reasons for removing them from the house with us and his parents, and given your recent answers, I see nothing further to be pursued in that regard.”

  Penelope took in the relief that flowed over all—every last one—of the faces around the table. The staff truly were devoted to Lord Carisbrook and his children.

  Stokes paused and looked around the table again, then still speaking in his official voice, went on, “However, the matter of Simpkins’s death is yet to be adequately explained.”

  Mrs. Jarvis frowned. “I thought she just fell.” Her frown deepened. “Was there more to it?”

  “That’s what we’d like to know,” Stokes said.

  Seeing confusion flit across several faces, Penelope clarified, “Simpkins did, indeed, die by falling down the stairs. What we want to know is why she fell.”

  Barnaby glanced at Stokes, who was leafing through his notebook, then said, “We need you all to cast your minds back to Monday night—the night on which Simpkins died.”

  “Previously,” Stokes said, having found his place, “you told us that Simpkins was the last one left in the servants’ hall when all the rest of you retired, and that, by that time, all the family were also in their rooms, presumably asleep.”

  Observing the staff closely, Penelope saw Jarvis and Mrs. Jarvis exchange a glance. More, other staff were also shooting uncertain—questioning?—glances their way.

  Standing at the other end of the table, Morgan had noticed as well. His gaze had sharpened, and he was searching the faces, too.

  Penelope surreptitiously nudged Stokes.

  He looked up just as Jarvis cleared his throat and, folding his hands on the table, said, “As to that, Inspector, Mr. and Mrs. Adair, we”—with a tip of his head, he indicated all of the staff—“have been sharing our thoughts, and in light of developments, there’s several observations that might be pertinent.”

  When Jarvis—and all the other staff—remained silent and still, many looking expectantly at the three investigators, Barnaby obliged and asked, “What observations are these?”

  Mrs. Jarvis puffed out a breath. “Well, for a start, as I said earlier, Simpkins was drinking cocoa.” The housekeeper met Penelope’s eyes.

  Thinking back, Penelope frowned. “You said she always…no. You said ‘as she often did.’”

  “Exactly.” Mrs. Jarvis nodded portentously. “That’s what I said, because Simpkins didn’t normally drink cocoa—she only did when she wanted to stay awake. She said it helped.”

  “So she wanted to stay awake for a reason?” Stokes looked around the faces.

  When all his question elicited was another round of exchanged glances, Penelope asked, “Was she waiting for someone?”

  Somewhat reluctantly, Jarvis acknowledged, “That’s what we think.”

  Inwardly cursing her spectacles, Penelope pushed them higher on her nose, then looked straitly at the staff. “Do any of you know for whom she was waiting?”

  Mrs. Jarvis started to turn toward her spouse, then thought better of it and looked at Penelope and Stokes. “We’ve always wondered if it was the gentleman she was waiting for—to let him in and then, later, to let him out again.”

  Penelope fought not to narrow her eyes. “The same gentleman Willie has seen leaving his horse in the stable?”

  Nods came from all around the table. Mrs. Jarvis primmed her lips, then lightly shrugged. “We can’t rightly say if it’s the same man or not because none of us have ever seen him, and not even Willie knows if he enters the house.”

  This time, it was Penelope, Stokes, and Barnaby who exchanged glances, wordlessly communicating, then Stokes looked down the table. His expression stern, tending grim, he commanded, “Tell me exactly what you think happens when this gentleman visits.”

  Jarvis stirred. “Well, we’re only guessing, but…” He looked at Wills.

  The coachman cleared his throat and said, “Like Willie told you, the gentleman stops in at the mews, comes into the stable, and leaves his horse in one of the empty stalls—me and Cobb, as well as Willie, always know when he’s been by.”

  Cobb nodded. “It’s always late, though, and it’s only Willie who’s in the stables when the man comes and goes.”

  “And he—the gentleman—was back Monday night,” Willie piped up. “Same as usual. He came on Saturday, like I told you, and he came on Monday night, too.”

  “If the gentleman comes inside,” Jarvis stated, rather more firmly, “it’s always after all of us have gone upstairs to our beds.”

  “Well, except for me and Peggy.” Mrs. Smollet, the cook, dipped her head at the scullery maid. “We share the room down here”—with one large, puffy hand, she waved toward the rear of the house—“but as we’ve both got early starts, being first up of a morning, we’re always first to our beds every night with the door shut tight.”

  “So,” Penelope confirmed, “if anyone came into the kitchen or this hall late at night, neither of you would hear?”

  “S’right.” Folding her massive arms across her bosom, Mrs. Smollet nodded.

  Stokes was busily scribbling, so Barnaby prompted, “What you’re telling us is that late on Monday night—or rather, in the early hours of Tuesday morning—Simpkins was the only member of the staff awake, and she was sitting here drinking her cocoa.” With his gaze, he swept the faces. “Why do you imagine it was the gentleman she was waiting for?”

  Mrs. Jarvis blinked. “Well, because the nights Simpkins sat down here sipping cocoa were always the same nights Willie said the gentleman left his horse in the stable.”

  Barnaby arched his brows. “I see.”

  “And”—Penelope directed her words to Jarvis—“you think Simpkins needed to be here, awake, to let the gentleman in.”

  “I always lock and bolt all the doors before going upstairs, including the rear door.” Jarvis paused, then added, “Simpkins never asked me to leave the rear door unlocked, but she was a tight-lipped sort.”

  “And,” Mrs. Jarvis said, “she would’ve had to stay up anyway to lock and bolt the door after the gentleman left again, or we’d have known something was going on.”

  Stokes looked up from his notebook. “The rear door was always locked and bolted in the morning—as it was supposed to be?”

  “Aye.” It was Mrs. Smollet who replied. “Me or Peggy, we’re the first to open the rear door of a morning, and it would be locked and bolted proper every day, so ’suming the gentleman did come inside, like we’re all thinking, then seems it would have been Simpkins who let him out and locked and bolted the door after him.”

  Everyone had followed that reasoning, and most were nodding, including Penelope, Stokes, and Barnaby.

  Then Mrs. Smollet frowned slightly and added, “Well, except for yesterday morning, of course.” She looked at Stokes and Penelope. “The rear door was closed but unlocked and unbolted when I reached it Tuesday morning. First time ever since I’ve been cook here.”

  Stokes stared at Mrs. Smollet. “Because Simpkins had opened it, but died before she could relock and rebolt it.”

  Silence reigned for a hea
rtbeat, then Barnaby said, “That means the gentleman was inside the house when Simpkins died.”

  “He couldn’t lock and bolt the door when he left.” Penelope stared down the table, unseeing, while along with everyone else, she examined their deductions and found them to be…incontestable.

  She blinked, then refocused on Willie. “Willie, was there anything different about when the gentleman returned to the stable on Monday night? Was he in a rush? Did he seem to be in a panic?”

  Willie frowned, clearly thinking back, then replied, “I can’t say as he was, ma’am—he seemed much the same as usual to me. And his horse stayed calm and didn’t fret, and they usually will if their rider’s in a stew.” Willie blinked his wide blue eyes and said, “Only thing that was a bit different this Monday night is that I don’t think he stayed long. He’s usually gone for a few hours, near as I can make out, but on Monday, it didn’t seem long at all before he was back. I’d fallen asleep in between, so I can’t be sure, but from the way the moonlight was falling when he arrived and then when he came back and left…it wasn’t much different.”

  Stokes looked at Willie and nodded. “That’s very helpful.” He finished jotting down Willie’s observations, even while the implications swirled in his brain.

  They were all thinking the same thing—that Lady Carisbrook had a lover who called frequently at the house, a gentleman who insisted on the utmost secrecy, and Simpkins was there whenever he called to let him in and out of the house. But on Monday night, for whatever reason, the gentleman had been involved—either directly or at a distance—with whatever had caused Simpkins to fall down the back stairs and die.

  Stokes looked at his notes, then inwardly sighed; he knew better than to leap to conclusions.

  He scanned the faces around the table; everyone was now watching him expectantly. “To confirm—other than Willie, none of you here have ever set eyes on our mystery gentleman, and even the glimpses Willie’s had are insufficient to identify the man.”