The Masterful Mr. Montague (16 page)

There was something in her face, in the set of her chin, that warned him not to pretend he didn’t think the same.

Resigned, he sighed and inclined his head. “Stokes, Adair, and I believe so. Either you, or, failing that, her ladyship’s maid. However, I cannot sufficiently stress that none of us believe it, either of you or Tilly.”

She straightened, incrementally drawing back, drawing away.

Spurred by an instinct, an impulse he had no name for, he reached across to take both her hands, one in each of his; she surrendered them with no resistance. He caught her eyes. “Violet—if I may call you that?”

She held his gaze for a moment, then, almost as if it was against her better judgment, fractionally nodded.

He drew breath and rushed on. “You must believe that none of us—those of us investigating this case—believe you or Tilly are in any way involved in these crimes. To us, it makes no sense to suspect you, but we realize that the family will attempt to point the finger at anyone rather than at one of their own, so . . .” He paused to draw breath, and something in him calmed, grew more certain. “Stokes knows what he’s doing. He has standing, experience, and a great deal of discretion in what he consents to tell the family. A part of the reason he has not yet summoned them again, has not even as yet informed them of Runcorn’s murder, much less the situation with her ladyship’s account, is that he wishes to gather more facts and information before he does. The more knowledge we have of what occurred, the more obvious it will be that none of these crimes can be laid at your door.”

Holding her gaze, he went on, his voice lowering. “You must believe me when I say we are all working to catch the murderer, and parallel to that, to exonerate you.” It was suddenly very important that she did believe that. His eyes locked with hers, he murmured, “Trust me, Violet. Regardless of all else, I—we—will ensure that no harm comes to you.”

Violet looked into eyes that overflowed with sincerity. With such rock-solid certainty that she couldn’t deny what he asked of her—that she believe him. That she trust him.

She wasn’t sure how he had managed in so short a time to figure so highly in her regard, yet somehow, at some level she could not question yet didn’t understand, he had come to be her rock, the one person she could rely on.

“I do trust you.” The words fell from her lips in a tone that instantly brought warmth to her cheeks. She cleared her throat, strengthened her voice to quickly add, “And Inspector Stokes and Mr. Adair. I . . . do have faith that you’ll identify the murderer, or at least do your best—”

“We’ll find him.”

And there it was again—that unwavering certainty, the product, she sensed, of incorruptible devotion. From their earlier meetings, she’d recognized him as a cautious man who did not give his promises lightly, but when he did . . .

Looking into his eyes, meeting his certainty with the openness and directness she felt she owed him, she inclined her head. “Thank you.”

His fingers tightened about hers and he drew breath as if to speak, but then the wind howled outside, and he fell silent. After a moment of studying her face, he lightly squeezed her fingers, then released them. Rising, he gave her his hand to help her to her feet.

When she straightened, her head barely reached his chin. Again their gazes met; again she sensed he debated his next action. Then he took a small step back. “I really must go—I’ve interrupted your evening for long enough.”

She could have disabused him of any notion that she had tired of his company, but she suspected he lived some distance away, and from the sound of the wind the evening had turned vicious. “I’ll see you to the door.”

He followed her from the room and took his hat from her hand, but paused on the threshold. His gaze traveled her face before locking with hers for a last fleeting moment, then he inclined his head. “I will call again when we have news.”

Stepping outside, he placed his hat on his head, settled and buttoned his coat, then went down the steps.

Violet pushed the door almost shut, blocking the chill wind, but she remained peering out. Watching him stride away.

Only when he had passed into the square and out of her sight did she close the door. She stood staring at the panels for several moments, wondering, reliving in her mind the past minutes, the swirling eddies of emotion he, his presence, had evoked, the currents that both of them—she would swear—had been aware of, had been sensitive to. She’d never felt the like, that strange mutual awareness.

The wind shrieked and broke the spell.

Abruptly shaking herself, she reached up and threw the heavy bolt at the top of the door, then bent to slide the lower bolt into place as well. She doubted they would have any further callers; the night had turned dark and ominous outside.

Glancing into the sitting room, she checked that the fire would safely burn down without further tending, then closed the door and walked down the narrow hall to the green baize door at the rear. Pushing through, she continued to the kitchen.

Since Lady Halstead’s death—had it truly only been two nights ago?—the kitchen had become the hub of their small household. She, Tilly, and Cook gathered in the warmth, surrounded by the familiar smells of baking and roasting meats and vegetables, the better to hold the chill that had invaded the rest of the house at bay.

Truth be told, had it been at all possible, Violet would rather have slept in the kitchen than in her bedroom on the first floor, three doors from the room in which Lady Halstead had been killed.

Cook heard her footsteps and looked up, her ruddy face flushed as she ladled thick stew into three bowls. “There you are. Thought I’d have to send Tilly to fetch you. Who was it?”

“Mr. Montague.” Violet slipped into a chair on one side of the table. Although she’d attended formal dinners at her ladyship’s side, on all other occasions, she’d taken her meals in the kitchen with Tilly and Cook; the years had forged a strong bond between the three of them, one that stood them in good stead now.

“That special man-of-business her ladyship consulted?” Tilly was seated opposite Violet; she handed around the bowls as Cook filled them.

Violet nodded. “Yes, him.”

“What did he want, then? You sat with him for over half an hour.” Cook set her pot back on the stove, then took her seat at the table’s head.

Violet took her first mouthful of the savory stew, waited until the others did the same, then swallowed and said, “He had news to impart.”

Briefly, she told them of Runcorn’s murder, and of the lady who had taken the money from Lady Halstead’s account. She dwelled rather more on the sighting of a man who might have been one of the Halsteads near both Runcorn’s office and the bank. As both Tilly and Cook were convinced that it was one of Lady Halstead’s own family who had murdered her, they were very ready to focus on that aspect; neither saw the unwelcome possibility that Violet had—of either herself or Tilly being accused by the family of being involved in the crimes—and she saw no reason to point it out and cause Tilly and Cook more distress than the news of Runcorn’s murder already had.

“Cor.” Tilly shivered. “What happenings, to be sure.” Across the table, she searched Violet’s face. “But we’re safe, aren’t we? I mean, there’s no reason to think this madman will come back here?”

Violet considered. “I can’t see why he would. If this was about the money, then he’s got what he wanted.” She frowned, then shook her head. “It’s all too complicated for me, but Mr. Montague and that Inspector Stokes and Mr. Adair are all working on catching the murderer.”

“Aye, well.” Cook scooped up another mouthful of stew. “I say we leave the a-hunting of the murderer to them. The three of us—we’ve got more pressing concerns.” Cook looked at Tilly, then Violet. “We’ve been paid until quarter-day, but we’ll have to find new posts, won’t we, come the funeral and the family closing up this house?”

A
fter a discussion with the police surgeon, during which he’d learned nothing of any significance that they hadn’t already known, Barnaby joined Stokes in his office.

Stokes looked up as Barnaby entered. “Anything?”

Barnaby shook his head. “It was as we’d thought—the villain clouted Runcorn with the bookend, then strangled him with the curtain cord, pulling him up and out of his chair as he did.”

Stokes grunted, then, sitting back, waved the note he’d been reading. “We’ve been summoned.”

“Oh?” Barnaby dropped into his accustomed chair angled before Stokes’s desk. “To where? For what? And by whom?”

“To Albemarle Street. To dinner. By your wife and mine.”

“Ah.” Barnaby nodded. “They want to pick our brains for every little fact we’ve managed to glean.”

“That,” Stokes conceded, consulting the note again, “but they also mention that they’ve had a wonderfully successful day learning more about the Halsteads and the Camberlys.”

Barnaby widened his eyes. “Have they, indeed?” He blinked. “I wonder how.” After a moment of pondering, he met Stokes’s eyes. “Perhaps we’d better go and find out.”

“My thoughts precisely.” Stokes got to his feet and reached for his greatcoat. “I’ve nothing further to attend to, so . . .” He waved Barnaby out, then followed him into the corridor and shut the door.

They could have walked down The Mall and through Green Park, but that would have taken more than half an hour. Reaching the pavement, they hailed a hackney and, ten minutes later, reached Barnaby’s front door.

Barnaby used his latchkey and led the way into his front hall. Mostyn, summoned by some mysterious alchemy, arrived to take their coats. “The ladies and the children are in the garden parlor, sir.”

“Thank you, Mostyn.” Barnaby led Stokes down the short corridor to the comfortable parlor that ran along one side of the rear half of the house.

Other than the library on the opposite side of the town house, the garden parlor was the room Penelope was most likely to be found in, especially when she had Oliver or others with her. One long side of the room and the wall at the far end were principally composed of windows and French doors; during the day, the room was awash with light. On chilly evenings, as now, the windows and glassed doors were covered by long curtains, and a large fire burned in the fireplace that occupied the center of the long inner wall. Well-padded damask-covered sofas and chairs were arranged around the room, and numerous lamps added their warm glow to the golden light thrown by the fire. Penelope’s garden parlor was a perennially cozy and welcoming space.

The sight that met Barnaby’s and Stokes’s eyes as they walked in was one designed to warm the cockles of any man’s heart. Both Penelope and Griselda were sitting on the floor in the space between the twin sofas, their skirts billowing about them. Both were laughing, their gazes, their entire attentions, fixed on the two infants who were rolling on a thick fur rug spread over the Aubusson carpet a safe distance from the grate and its screen.

Hearing their footsteps, both ladies looked up; seeing their husbands, they smiled.

Barnaby and Stokes halted, both drinking in the sight, then, as one, they smiled back and went forward to join their families.

To kiss their wives’ proffered cheeks, then sink onto the floor and join in the game of interacting with and entertaining their children.

For the next twenty minutes, no mention was made of murder, money, or anything to do with the investigation.

But eventually the children grew sleepy. Getting to her feet, Penelope paused to look down at their small assembly with a certain satisfaction, then went to the bellpull and tugged.

The nursemaids—Oliver’s Hettie and Megan’s Gloria—had been waiting for the summons. Both arrived and carted their charges off to settle them in the nursery. Mostyn, who had also come in, gathered up the rug and the children’s toys and followed, pausing only to say, “Dinner is waiting, ma’am. We can serve immediately if you wish.”

“Thank you, Mostyn,” Penelope said. “We’ll go in.”

Wrapped in the lingering warmth the children brought to them, the couples ambled toward the dining room, still sharing anecdotes of the children’s days, of their latest fascinating exploits.

Only after they’d settled about the dining table and Mostyn had served the first course did the talk turn to matters criminal.

At their ladies’ urging, Stokes, aided by Barnaby, reported on theirs and Montague’s discoveries over that afternoon. Neither made any attempt to hold back; given Penelope had been present when they’d stumbled upon Runcorn’s murder, any notion of keeping their ladies distanced from proceedings was, both accepted, futile.

As Barnaby and Stokes had come to expect, Penelope and Griselda had questions, some especially insightful and acute.

It was Penelope who focused on the grounds on which both the teller and the street-sweeper had labeled the woman who had removed the money from the bank a lady. After several minutes of discussion, they agreed that the judgment had been based on dress, deportment, and speech, all of which, as Griselda pointed out, could easily be assumed.

Subsequently, Penelope summarized, “So on the basis of the sightings near Runcorn’s office, and the associated searching of the Halstead papers, we believe Runcorn’s murderer to be one of the males of the Halstead bloodline. We’re assuming he killed Runcorn and arranged for some female, who was to pass as a lady, to present a forged letter to the bank the following morning and thus remove all the funds from Lady Halstead’s account.” Dark eyes bright, she looked around the table. As heads nodded, she asked, “Is it possible that someone else killed Runcorn, and the Halstead male simply searched the papers left on Runcorn’s desk?”

Stokes considered for only a moment before shaking his head. “Unlikely given the timing of the sightings of our Halstead male outside the office. He entered soon after Pringle had left. If his sole purpose for visiting Runcorn was to search the papers—or have Runcorn provide information from them—then he would have seen Runcorn alive and left while Runcorn was still alive, and the papers on Runcorn’s desk wouldn’t have been in such a mess.”