The Peculiar Case of Lord Finsbury's Diamonds: A Casebook of Barnaby Adair Short Novel (The Casebook of Barnaby Adair) by Stephanie Laurens Read Free Book Online

about the diamonds, there was no beating about any bush.
     “I can’t say as I took to Mr. Mitchell.” Riggs gave the word rigidity new meaning; he sat poker straight, fists on his thighs, and stared straight ahead rather than meeting their eyes.
     It was the pose of a proper servant, but Stokes found it irritating. “Why was that?”
     Riggs was silent for nearly a minute before replying, “I suspected that he was one of those gentlemen who should not be trusted around ladies, sir. And I was right. I couldn’t say I disapproved of Mr. Culver and Miss Agnes throwing the man out on his ear.”
     “Where were you during the afternoon yesterday—over the time Mitchell must have walked up the path?”
     “I was in the butler’s pantry polishing the silver.”
     Stokes glanced at Barnaby, who shook his head. They dismissed Riggs and called in the footman, and in turn the groom, the general-hand-cum-garden boy, and the grizzled gardener. As with Riggs, Stokes put their questions, leaving Barnaby to watch and assess. As it happened, none of the other male staff had any opinion whatever about Mitchell. However, like Riggs, all of them had been alone during the critical hours.
     The cook, who they interviewed next, explained, “That’s the one time in the day when we’ve all got a bit of free time to spend as we wish. Lunch is all cleared away, and afternoon tea will either be waiting to be served or already served—it’s only Kitty, the parlormaid, who has to tend to that. All the rest of us are free until five, when we start getting things ready for dinner.”
     The maids who followed—Rhonda, the upstairs maid, Fitts, Miss Agnes’s dresser, Polly, Miss Gwen’s lady’s maid, Ginger, the maid-of-all-work, and Betsy, the scullery maid—were quickly dealt with; none knew anything about Mitchell.
     But the appearance of the last maid on their list, Kitty, the parlormaid, who until then had been busy serving afternoon tea, jolted Barnaby and Stokes to attention. It wasn’t the fact that Kitty—“Kitty Maitland, sir”—was uncommonly pretty, with rioting blonde curls tucked under her prim cap and a shapely, far-from-girlish figure, nor that her voice was husky and low that riveted their focus. Kitty had been crying.
     Barnaby would have taken an oath on it, although she’d clearly made an effort to hide the evidence. More, she was pale and wan, and appeared drained and close to exhaustion.
     But Kitty steadfastly denied any knowledge of Mitchell, or of anything else to do with the case.
     Reasoning that the source of her upset might be something—or someone—entirely irrelevant to their investigation, Barnaby signaled to Stokes to let her go.
     The instant the door closed behind her, Stokes arched a brow his way.
     Barnaby offered, “There’s no reason to assume that it’s Mitchell’s death that’s so overset her, but her state highlights just how unaffected everyone else has been by this murder.”
     Stokes nodded. “A gruesome enough murder, too. But you’re right—no one has shown the slightest sympathy toward Mitchell, which suggests that, despite his oft-mentioned charm, he didn’t truly connect with anyone here at all.”
     Barnaby sighed. “We’ve interviewed nearly everyone and got nary a hint of any convincing motive.” He consulted the list. “We only have the housekeeper, a Mrs. Bateman, to go, and if she’s the murderer, I’ll eat my hat.”
     “You don’t wear a hat,” Stokes replied. “But, regardless, let’s have Mrs. Bateman in.”
     Mrs. Bateman had seen Mitchell about the house, but hadn’t so much as spoken to the man, so had nothing to offer in that regard. When Barnaby questioned her about the source of Kitty’s distress, Mrs. Bateman shook her head in motherly dismissal. “They all do it—they decide they’ve fallen in love with some gentleman and assume that he’ll fall in love with them, and then they get cast down when he doesn’t reciprocate.