The Masterful Mr. Montague (14 page)

Gibbons took it.

Montague watched as Gibbons scanned the amounts, noted the dates.

“It’s not payments from an investment—not quite regular enough in the timing, and the amounts vary too much . . .” Gibbons glanced up. “These look like deposits from trade of some sort—from sales of something.”

Montague blinked. He’d never dealt with trade accounts, but before he had joined Montague and Son, Gibbons had.

The list of figures he’d recently written flashed through his mind; reaching across the desk, he waved his hand for the list. “Give me that.”

Gibbons handed it over. Setting the list before him, Montague picked up a pencil and went to work, jotting amounts and sums alongside each of the deposits.

Figures were his forte; all his mind had needed was the clue Gibbons had provided and he had the solution.

Gibbons leaned forward, angling his head to read the sums Montague was writing down the side of the list.

Reaching the end of the list and finishing the calculation to account for the last payment, Montague picked up the list, scanned it again, then handed it back to Gibbons. “What do you think?”

Gibbons looked through the deposits, his eye following the line of Montague’s calculations. Reaching the list’s end, Gibbons nodded decisively. “That’s it. Each deposit is the payment from sales of between five and nine items, with each item being worth two hundred and fifty pounds, minus an amount of between two and three percent.” Gibbons glanced at Montague. “Were the deposits made by courier?”

“We don’t yet know—someone is checking that now—but most courier services charge between two and three percent.”

Gibbons was staring at the list again. “I’m trying to imagine what items one might sell at two hundred and fifty pounds each, and have such a level of consistent sales. Five minimum, month to month, reliable and regular.”

Montague thought, too, then shook his head. “It might be lucrative, but it’s almost certainly not legal.”

Gibbons snorted and handed back the list. “If it were legal, I wouldn’t mind getting into that trade myself. Nor would a host of others.”

“Indeed.” Taking back the list, Montague glanced at it again. “But this, it seems, is something someone has already killed twice to hide.”

“In that case”—Gibbons pushed back his chair and rose—“count me out. Is there anything else?”

Montague smiled. “No. Thank you, Frederick—you’ve been a great help.”

Gibbons grinned and saluted, then went back to his desk.

Montague studied the list and the notations he’d made. His smile turned grim. It was but a small breakthrough, but he felt they’d made headway. At least he’d have something to share with Stokes and Adair when they arrived later in the day.

A
s Penelope’s carriage rocked around the corner into Dover Street, she was still shaking her head over the wealth of information she and Griselda had gathered thus far that afternoon. “I will never not notice a shopgirl again.” When Griselda laughed, Penelope insisted, “No—it’s true. Now that I know how much they remember of what one says and does, I’ll be forever minding my p’s and q’s.”

“I rather think the Halsteads are a special case,” Griselda said. “Difficult behavior is always remembered.”

She’d taken Penelope to visit a long row of shops in Kensington High Street, within easy walking distance of Lowndes Street, where Lady Halstead had lived; as it transpired, those were also the shops favored by Mrs. Wallace Camberly, who lived with her husband and son in Belgrave Square, and, even more importantly, by their household staff. While Penelope had played the lady, examining items with a view to purchase, Griselda, in the role of lady’s maid, had chatted with the shopgirls at each of the establishments.

“Yes, indeed, but behavior aside, the comments and information passed on by the Camberlys’ staff were . . . well, amazing.” Behind her spectacles, Penelope widened her eyes. “Amazingly detailed.”

“It helped that the shop assistants still remembered Mortimer and his family from before they moved out of the area.” Griselda glanced out of the window as the carriage slowed. “So what we heard wasn’t simply bad-mouthing on the part of the Camberlys’ staff but attitudes the shopgirls had had confirmed by the Halsteads’ staff directly.”

The carriage halted.

“Regardless”—Penelope sat up and eased toward the carriage door—“we’ve now got one quite definite view of the Halsteads and the Camberlys. Let’s see what the grandes dames can add.”

When the groom opened the door, Penelope let him hand her down to the pavement, waited until Griselda joined her, then spoke to the coachman. “We’ll walk home, Phelps.”

“Very good, ma’am.”

With a salute, Phelps set the coach rolling again; Albemarle Street was only a block away.

Turning, Penelope led the way up the front steps of the house of her aunt-by-marriage, Horatia Cynster.

“Are you sure my presence won’t be . . . well, awkward?” Griselda murmured. “I’m not the sort usually found swanning about ladies’ drawing rooms.”

Halting on the narrow porch, Penelope threw Griselda a reassuring glance “Don’t worry. Horatia’s at-home is such a regular event it goes like clockwork. By this time, the only ones left will be the Cynster ladies and perhaps Lady Osbaldestone. All of them have met Stokes at one time or another, and all of them know he’s helped the family at numerous times. They know he helped Henrietta and James, and that was only recently.” Lips lifting mischievously, Penelope turned and plied the knocker. “Trust me, if anything, they’re going to be quite interested in meeting you.”

Griselda shut her lips on a tart retort as the door swung open, held by a rather stiff-looking butler, who, on lowering his gaze to Penelope, immediately unbent enough to smile. “Mrs. Adair—a pleasure to see you again.”

“Thank you, Grantley. Is her ladyship still receiving?”

“Not in general, but in your case I’m sure Lady Horatia will be delighted to have you join the ladies still here.”

Leading the way into the front hall, Penelope inquired, “So it’s the Cynster ladies, and who else?”

“Only Lady Osbaldestone, ma’am.”

Penelope allowed Grantley to take her pelisse, then waved at Griselda. “This is Mrs. Stokes, Inspector Stokes’s wife.”

“Indeed.” Grantley bowed. “Welcome, ma’am. May I take your coat?”

Griselda nodded. “Thank you.” She mimicked Penelope’s earlier stance, allowing the butler to help her out of her coat.

“The drawing room?” Penelope inquired.

“Indeed, ma’am.” Grantley crossed to a door. “Allow me.” Opening the door, he announced, “My lady—Mrs. Adair and Mrs. Stokes.”

Penelope, of course, swept over the threshold; quashing a sudden attack of nerves, Griselda raised her chin and followed.

Only to have the doubts she’d harbored over being welcomed into such an august and exclusive social circle instantly banished. Five ladies were seated on the sofa and the armchairs arranged before the fireplace; they smiled warmly at Penelope, but the instant their gazes moved on to Griselda, their eyes lit and expressions of expectant delight bloomed across their fine features.

All of the ladies were older matrons, and one—who, Griselda assumed, was the notorious Lady Osbaldestone—was bordering on ancient.

One dark-haired lady, presumably their hostess, Lady Horatia, rose to greet them. “Welcome, Penelope, dear!” She pressed Penelope’s fingers and they touched cheeks. Immediately she released Penelope, Lady Horatia’s bright eyes fixed on Griselda. “And this is Mrs. Stokes? Inspector Stokes’s lady?”

“Yes, indeed.” Penelope glanced at Griselda with a smile that clearly said,
I told you so.
“Griselda, I’d like you to meet . . .”

Griselda smiled, shyly touched fingers, and exchanged greetings with Lady Horatia, Lady Louise Cynster, Lady Celia Cynster, Helena, the Dowager Duchess of St. Ives, and, finally, with Therese, Lady Osbaldestone.

While Griselda was so engaged, Lady Horatia instructed Grantley to set chairs for her new guests. Once the introductions were over, and Penelope and Griselda were seated and supplied with cups of nice, strong tea and tiny, delicate tea cakes that Griselda quite approved of, Lady Osbaldestone rapped the tip of her cane on the floor—much as if calling a meeting to order. “So, my dears, how can we help you?” Her ladyship’s finely drawn brows arched over quite terrifyingly piercing black eyes. “I presume that is why you are here?”

Transparently unrattled, Penelope nodded. “We—by which I mean Barnaby and Stokes, assisted by myself and Griselda, and also, in this case, Mr. Montague, who you all also know—are trying to unravel a puzzling case which we believe has led to two murders. The first victim was Lady Halstead, who lived in Lowndes Street, and the other was her man-of-business. Griselda and I have spent the last hour learning what we can about the Halsteads and the Camberlys, Lady Halstead’s children and their families, from more general sources, and have now come to see if you can tell us more about both the Camberlys and the Halsteads from a social perspective.”

Four of the five faces looked blank. Lady Celia said, “Exactly who are these people, dear?”

Penelope grimaced but answered, “Mortimer Halstead and his wife Constance—Mortimer holds some reasonably senior position at the Home Office—and they have two children, Hayden and Caroline. The Camberlys are Mr. and Mrs. Wallace Camberly—he’s a Member of Parliament, and they live in Belgrave Square and have one child, a son, Walter.”

Horatia, Celia, Louise, and Helena all exchanged looks. Lady Osbaldestone, meanwhile, was frowning in concentration, as if dredging the depths of her memories—memories that extended fathoms deep.

After glancing at Lady Osbaldestone, Helena met Penelope’s eyes. “Sadly, we can’t help—those people do not move in our circles. However, I suspect darling Caro would know at least something of them—she and Michael are still so very heavily involved in government circles.”

“And,” Celia said, “you might ask Heather, especially about the Camberlys. Now that Breckenridge—Brunswick, I should say—has acceded to the earldom and assumed his father’s seat in the Lords, he’s become much more heavily involved in politics.”

“Indeed.” Lady Osbaldestone nodded. “And now Michael Anstruther-Wetherby has his seat in the Commons, he would know something of Camberly, too.” Lady Osbaldstone’s black gaze settled on Penelope. “Of course,
I
used to move in both political as well as government circles, but that was long ago. I can’t tell you anything about Mortimer Halstead or the Camberlys, but I remember Sir Hugo Halstead quite well, and I’m sorry to hear of his wife’s death.”

Penelope looked her interest. “You knew them?”

“Not to say knew, but he was in the Foreign Office, so of course I met him. He was considered a very sound man.”

“Can you tell us more about him—about them?” Penelope asked.

Lady Osbaldestone faintly arched her brows. “He spent most of his active years in India—he was a large, quite jovial, agreeable gentleman who was one of those people others trusted on sight. You can imagine how helpful that was in dealing with the natives. He was seconded to the East India Company for many, many years, and also assisted the Office of the Governor-General. His wife—I’ve been trying to think of her name, and I think it was Agatha—was a quiet lady, but pleasant company and a good foil for him. She accompanied him on his postings and was by his side for most of his service. At the time of Sir Hugo’s retirement, they were considered an exemplary couple who had made a very real contribution to King and Country.” Lady Osbaldestone paused, frowning again. “The only comment I recall regarding the Halstead children was that they bred true for looks, but sadly not for character.”

The front doorbell pealed, then feminine voices echoed in the hall. A minute later, the door opened and a youthful-looking matron of middle years led in a bevy of others. “Our apologies, Mama-in-law—we were delayed leaving Osterly Park. I will leave it to you to guess by whom.”

Horatia laughed and accepted a kiss on her cheek, then signaled to Grantley to produce more chairs. “As it happens, my dears, you’ve arrived at precisely the right time. Penelope here, and Griselda—who is Inspector Stokes’s wife—have presented us with a social query that we are unable to answer but on which several of you might have some insight to offer.”

Griselda’s head whirled as introductions were made; as had happened with the older ladies, the younger matrons showed no awareness of any great distinction between her class and theirs, at least not in this setting.

Grantley and two footmen ferried in more chairs and two fresh teapots, and finally everyone was seated and supplied with tea and cakes. Horatia fixed the newcomers with a commanding eye. “Mortimer Halstead and his wife, Constance—he holds a senior position with the Home Office—plus son, Hayden, and daughter, Caroline. Also Mr. Wallace Camberly, MP, and his wife, and their son, Walter. Whatever you know of these people, do share.”

“Mrs. Camberly’s name is Cynthia, and she was a Halstead—she’s Mortimer’s sister,” Penelope explained. “And there’s also a Maurice Halstead, who someone here might have heard of, and also a William, the youngest brother.”

“Oh, I’ve heard of Maurice,” the lady who had led the others in, Patience Cynster, said. She frowned. “But heavens, that was long ago, when I was first out in society. I was warned he was one to avoid.”

Penelope nodded. “The description we have is of a rake, an ageing roué, definitely a gamester and general profligate, but he’s thought to be harmless enough and can be charming.”

“Yes, that’s right,” Louise put in. “I remember him in the sense of warning the twins away from him.” She frowned. “But as I recall, he tended to hover on the outskirts of society, as it were.”

Penelope nodded encouragingly. “That sounds right.”

Several of the younger matrons had met the Camberlys, albeit only in passing. “My impression, for what it’s worth,” Honoria, Duchess of St. Ives, seated to Griselda’s left, said, “is that they are both exceedingly ambitious. Camberly for himself, for his advancement, and his wife to assist him in securing that.”