And Then She Fell (Cynster 19 Cynster Sisters Duo #1) (24 page)

Straightening, James rounded the sofa.

Simon stepped back and closed the door, then waved at Barnaby. “Behold, the very man we need.”

“Glossup.” Barnaby shook the hand James offered, smiling self-deprecatingly. “Anyone would think he’d had to bend my arm, while in reality, nothing could have kept me away.” He smiled at Henrietta as she joined them; married to Penelope, who was sister to Portia and also to Luc, Henrietta and Simon’s older sister Amelia’s husband, Barnaby was a connection several times over, and was well known throughout the Cynster clan. “Henrietta.” Barnaby took her hand, gently squeezed her fingers. “It seems you’ve unexpectedly become the target for a murderer.” His expression sobering, he glanced at James before saying to Henrietta, “I hope you don’t mind, but given the seriousness of the situation, I sent word to my colleague from Scotland Yard, Inspector Basil Stokes.”

Barnaby looked at James. “Glossup here, as well as Simon, and indeed, Portia, can add their recommendations to mine—they worked with Stokes during the incident at Glossup Hall several years ago.” Refocusing on Henrietta, Barnaby continued, “Stokes is a sound man, and I fear we’ll need him and his people to help us with this.”

Henrietta summoned a smile, although it felt weak at the edges. “I’ve already heard much about Inspector Stokes from Penelope—she’s sung his praises more than once. I’ll be happy to make his acquaintance.”

Barnaby was, she realized, studying her face, as if to gauge how upset she was—or, perhaps, was likely to become; she straightened her spine and looked him in the eye—and he faintly smiled. “Excellent. In that case—”

The doorbell jangled. They looked at the parlor door.

“That’ll be Stokes,” Barnaby said.

Simon cast him a glance. “That was quick. He must have set out the moment he got your note.” Simon went to open the parlor door.

“If you had any idea how much of a confounding problem Lady Winston’s murder has become,” Barnaby said, “you would be more surprised if he hadn’t come at the run.”

Brows rising, Simon opened the door and stepped out. “Stokes! This way. Thank you, Hudson.” Simon paused, listening to a rumble from Hudson, glanced at Henrietta, then looked up the corridor. “No tea just yet—perhaps later.”

“Tell Hudson I’ll ring,” Henrietta said.

Simon relayed the message, then stepped back to allow a tall, dark-haired man, with slate gray eyes and a rather brooding expression—as if he was constantly observing all about him and didn’t expect to be favorably impressed—to enter the room.

Barnaby made the introductions. Stokes clearly remembered James and Simon; the quick flash of his smile lightened his face. Then Barnaby introduced Henrietta, and Stokes’s gray gaze fastened on her.

When she offered her hand, he shook it with an easy, understated elegance that belied his working-class station in life. “I understand, Miss Cynster,” Stokes said, his voice deep, his tone even but with an autocratic edge, “that on departing the Wentworths’ house in Hill Street nine evenings ago, you encountered a gentleman leaving the house next door.”

Henrietta nodded. “Although it would be more accurate to say he encountered me.” Turning, waving Stokes and the others to the armchairs, she walked to the sofa and sat.

James sat alongside her; Simon took the armchair to her right, Barnaby the armchair to the left of the sofa, leaving Stokes to take possession of the large armchair directly across the small table from Henrietta.

After drawing a notebook from his pocket, along with a pencil, Stokes sat, opened the notebook, balanced it on his knee, and looked up at Henrietta. “I would appreciate it, Miss Cynster, if you would tell me what happened—all that you can remember, every little detail no matter how small or apparently inconsequential—from the instant you stepped onto the Wentworths’ front porch.” Stokes met her gaze and smiled encouragingly. “Take your time, as much time as you like.”

Henrietta drew in a deep breath, fixed her gaze past Stokes’s left shoulder, and called up the scene in her mind. “It was cold—chilly—and there was fog, enough so I couldn’t see the end of the street. That made the light from the streetlamps seem dimmer than usual, so overall the light wasn’t strong.” She paused, but no one interrupted her, so she continued, “It was bitter, so I told Melinda—the Wentworths’ daughter—to go inside and shut the door. My coachman had halted the carriage—my parents’ carriage—on the other side of the street, and both my groom and the coachman were there, and—” She broke off, then said, “There was no one else nearby. I just realized—I’d already looked up and down the street by then, because that was why I felt so confident about being left alone to cross to the carriage.” She met Stokes’s eyes. “At that point, there was no one on the nearer pavement close enough to reach me—to intercept me—before I crossed the road.”

Stokes asked, “Did you see any others further along the road?”

She thought back, bringing the memory to life in her mind. . . . “Yes. There were two gentlemen walking away toward North Audley Street, and in the other direction, much further away, there was a couple who had just come out of a house and were getting into a hackney.”

“Very good.” Stokes was busy making notes. “So what happened next?”

“With the chill in the air you may be sure I didn’t dally. I walked down the steps—I was holding my cloak around me, and I had my reticule in one hand. I was looking down, placing my feet. Then I reached the pavement and lifted my head—and that’s when he barreled into me.”

“You didn’t hear footsteps?” Barnaby asked.

She thought back, then, frowning, shook her head. “Not coming along. I heard maybe two quick steps, but by the time I’d even registered them, he’d already run into me.” Frowning more definitely, she looked at Barnaby. “That’s odd, isn’t it? If he’d come up the area steps, wouldn’t I have heard him?”

Barnaby glanced at Stokes. “Not those area steps. The staff had put down matting because the steps got too slippery in winter. The matting’s quite thick, more than enough to muffle the sound of footsteps.” Barnaby looked back at her. “That you didn’t hear him coming only makes it more likely that the gentleman who ran into you did, indeed, come up those steps.”

Head down as he jotted notes, Stokes was nodding. “If he came from anywhere else, you would have heard enough to have been aware of his approach before he collided with you. But even more telling, if he hadn’t come up very quickly from those particular area steps,
he
would have seen
you
in good time to avoid any collision.” Pencil poised, he looked up at her. “Did your groom or coachman see where the man came from?”

“I don’t know—I didn’t think to ask. I doubt Johns, the coachman, saw anything—he was looking at his horses—but Gibbs should have.”

“Leave them for now—I’ll speak with them later. Let’s go on with what you saw.” Stokes looked down at his notebook. “The gentleman’s just run into you—go on from there.”

She did, recounting as best she could exactly what she’d seen of the mystery man. Between them, Stokes and Barnaby questioned each of her observations.

“He wore gloves?”

“Yes, very nice gloves. Cordoba leather at a guess—Bond Street, definitely.”

“The silver head of his cane—describe that. Was it a flat top, engraved, or . . . ?”

She hesitated. “It was some sort of heraldic design.” She glanced at James, then Barnaby. “You know the sort of thing. An animal, most likely—I know Devil has an old cane of our grandfather Sebastian’s that has a silver stag’s head on the top.” She looked at Stokes. “The stag is the animal on the family crest.”

“I see,” Stokes said. “Did you see what animal it was?”

“No.” She thought, picturing the scene again in her mind, then grimaced. “The light was poor and . . .” She raised her right fist and pressed it to her upper left arm. “He had it clutched in his right hand, so it was at the corner of my vision and the head was tipped away. And when he released me and straightened . . .” She examined the moment carefully in her mind, then sighed. “His hand covered the cane’s head, of course, so I never did get a clear look at it.”

Stokes humphed. “That would have been too easy.” He read through his notes. “Let’s move on to his face. What did you see of it?”

“Very little.” She considered her mental image. “He had the hood of his cloak up—right up and over his head, so that the cowl shaded his face. The nearest streetlamp was to my left, a little way along the pavement and somewhat behind him, so the light fell obliquely across his jaw.” She refocused on Stokes. “Only the part of his face below his lower lip was lit enough for me to see. All the rest was just shadow. I couldn’t see his eyes at all, nor even his cheeks enough to tell you the shape of his face. And I didn’t see his hair—color or style—at all.”

“Was there any identifiable mark on the part of his face you did see? A scar or mole—anything like that?”

She shook her head. “Nothing at all. It was a perfectly ordinary face.” She grimaced. “Nothing I saw would allow me to pick him out from any group of tonnish men of similar height and build—and even his height and build were unremarkable.”

“What about his voice?” Barnaby asked. He met her gaze. “Close your eyes and replay what he said in your head. Listen to the cadence and rhythm of his speech. Was there any discernible accent—any hint at all?”

She did as he asked. The room remained silent for a minute, then she opened her eyes and grimly shook her head. “All he said was, ‘My apologies. I didn’t see you.’ He had no obvious accent, but those are too few words to say he doesn’t have one. All I could say was that his diction was definitely tonnish—I couldn’t see him even as a wealthy merchant. From his appearance I took him to be a gentleman, and his voice fitted perfectly.”

Stokes nodded. He looked through his notes again. “Now tell me about these ‘accidents’ of yours.”

James took the lead in recounting the details of the three incidents.

While Stokes scribbled, Barnaby listened intently; when James came to the end of his recitation, eyes narrowed, gaze unseeing, Barnaby murmured, “So putting everything together, he’s a gentleman of the ton—that’s absolutely certain—and further, is currently moving among the upper echelons, the haut ton.”

“He has to be to have been on Lady Marchmain’s guest list,” Simon said. “I’d intended to see if I could extract that list from her ladyship. We know the villain’s name will be on it, and while we won’t be able to pick him out of the ruck, it’ll at least give us a place to start.”

“Or finish.” Stokes looked at Simon. “If nothing else, that will be corroborative evidence. Think you can persuade her ladyship to let you have it?”

Simon grinned grimly. “I can but try.”

“I’ll leave you to that, then, but if she won’t, I’ll ask officially, but I’d prefer to do it your way—discreetly—without having to explain my reasons for wanting it.”

James exchanged a look with Simon, then said, “It seems we’re all in agreement that it’s the gentleman who killed Lady Winston who is now attempting to kill Henrietta, presumably because he believes she saw enough to be able to identify him, thus putting a noose around his neck.” James studied Stokes, then glanced at Barnaby. “What I don’t understand is why there has been no hue and cry. None of us had heard that Lady Winston had been murdered, and it seems the whole affair has been hushed up.” He refocused on Stokes. “And now you don’t want to explain to Lady Marchmain why you want her guest list.” Again he glanced at Barnaby, then looked back at Stokes. “What’s going on?”

Stokes met James’s gaze, then looked at Henrietta, then glanced—faintly questioningly—at Barnaby.

Barnaby hesitated, then nodded. “We need to tell them all of it.” He met James’s and Henrietta’s gazes. “We can’t risk leaving you operating in the dark and not understanding what we’re up against with this villain.”

Stokes grimaced, but nodded. He cleared his throat. “Right then. What I’m going to say now . . . I won’t say it can’t go past this room, but be careful who you tell. We can’t afford panic in Mayfair—that’s why you haven’t heard about Lady Winston’s murder.”

Stokes paused as if gathering his facts, ordering his thoughts, then he said, “Lady Winston was murdered sometime that evening. She’d sent her staff off for the night—they were not to return until midnight. She’d been in the habit of doing this for the past several months—since late January, at least. The staff don’t know precisely why, but they concluded her ladyship was entertaining a gentleman, and their view was that it was he who had insisted on that level of secrecy. Her ladyship was a widow of long-standing, and had entertained lovers at her home before, but never before had she ordered her staff away. None of them have any idea who the gentleman was. They never saw or heard or found any hint or clue to his identity.

“So—that night, he killed her. He beat her near to death with his bare fists, then strangled her.” Stokes paused, then, his voice rougher, added, “Seemed like he’d enjoyed doing it, too.” He glanced at Simon and James. “If you know what I mean.”

Meeting Stokes’s eyes, understanding what he was trying to convey, James felt ill.

“So . . .” Stokes drew in a breath. “He killed her ladyship—and left via the area steps. He stepped onto the pavement and bumped into Miss Cynster, which must have been a shock.”

“Oh . . .”

Everyone looked at Henrietta, only to discover she’d paled. She was staring at Stokes.

James reached for her hand, held it.

“What is it?” Stokes asked.

She blinked, then softly said, “I just remembered. There was an instant—a pause. He ran into me, steadied me—then he looked at my face. I had my cloak on, but my hood wasn’t up, and the light came from over his shoulder. He must have seen my face quite clearly. He was holding me—one of his hands gripping each of my upper arms—and he . . . hesitated. I remember wondering what he was going to do—whether he’d recognized me and was someone I knew, or . . . and then Gibbs called out and the man released me, nodded, and quickly walked away.”

An instant of silence ensued, then Stokes cleared his throat. “You might want to give that groom of yours a tip. Whoever this blackguard is, he likes to hurt women, and you met him at a very . . . fraught moment.” Stokes sighed. “Which probably helps explain why he thinks you’ve seen too much.” He paused, then rather glumly said, “But there’s more. We questioned all the staff the next day, of course, and I’d swear all of them told us the truth, told us all and everything they knew.” Stokes glanced at Barnaby, tipped his head his way. “Adair was there.”