The Peculiar Case of Lord Finsbury's Diamonds: A Casebook of Barnaby Adair Short Novel (The Casebook of Barnaby Adair) Read Free Page B

swinging, they headed for the front steps.
     
    * * *
    I n the shadows cast by the curtains of the bow window in the drawing room of Finsbury Court, Frederick Culver stood beside Gwendolyn Finsbury. Both studied the men who had paused in the forecourt to look up at the house before striding toward the front door.
     “The first two don’t look like policemen.” Gwen slanted a glance at Frederick. “Do you think that’s who they are?”
     The men in question climbed the porch steps and moved out of Gwen and Frederick’s sight; Duffet, the local constable, followed. Turning his head, Frederick met Gwen’s gaze. “I don’t know, but we were told to expect an inspector from London—the dark-haired one might be he. He looks grim enough. The other…” Frederick frowned. “I don’t know about him—he doesn’t fit the bill.”
     The second man, the one with curly fair hair, had moved with a certain indolent grace that in Frederick’s experience usually signaled a member of the upper echelons of the ton. “Then again, appearances can be deceiving.”
      They certainly had been in Peter Mitchell’s case.
     Gwen didn’t need to hear the words to know what Frederick was thinking; the tightening of his mobile lips was indication enough. And, truth be told, she was still somewhat stunned at Mitchell’s transformation from charming gentleman to loutish libertine.
     Turning from the now empty forecourt, she let her gaze travel the room, taking in all those seated on the sofas or in armchairs, or, in the case of Algernon Rattle, posing before the fireplace. Algernon was present because he was courting Miss Harriet Pace, daughter of Gwen’s Aunt Agnes’s old friends, Mr. Herbert Pace and Mrs. Olivia Pace. A close friend of Gwen’s, Harriet presently sat beside her mother on the corner of the sofa closest to Algernon, with whom she was conducting a low-voiced conversation. Beside her, Mrs. Pace was chatting earnestly to Agnes, seated on the other end of the sofa, and Mrs. Lucy Shepherd, who, along with her daughter, Juliet, occupied a love-seat angled to that end of the sofa.
    Also a friend of Gwen’s, Juliet was pretending to listen to the older ladies, but Gwen would have wagered that Juliet was actually thinking—dreaming—of her fiancé, Mr. Jeremy Finch, who was a secretary in the Home Office and presently traveling with the Minister.
     The older gentlemen, Mr. Pace and Mr. Thomas Shepherd, were quietly chatting in two armchairs on the other side of the room.
     Everyone present had been invited by Agnes. The only exception had been Mr. Peter Mitchell, who had been invited by Gwen’s father; as Gwen understood it, her father had decided to invite Mitchell and had subsequently asked Agnes to organize a house party, and, as usual, had left all the rest to Agnes.
     That being so, Gwen had yet to comprehend the reason behind the frown her father had directed at Frederick when Frederick had arrived. Admittedly her father wouldn’t have expected to see Frederick, who had only that week returned from countless years in deepest Africa. However, given that Frederick was the only child of the Culvers, longtime neighbors now deceased, who had been very close friends with her father, her late mother, and Agnes, who, as a spinster, had lived at Finsbury Court all her life, Gwen was at a loss to account for the antipathy she’d detected in her father’s welcome. Aside from all else, Frederick was Agnes’s godson.
     It was Agnes who had run Finsbury Court ever since Gwen’s mother had died over a decade ago. Gwen was very close to her aunt, who had never attempted to step into her mother’s shoes with respect to Gwen herself, but, instead, had always been there, a rock-solid support.
     What truly mystified Gwen was that the only instance she could recall of her father involving himself in any social decision was his invitation to Peter Mitchell—and look how that had turned out!
     “Murder.” She whispered