And Then She Fell(72)

“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?”