The Masterful Mr. Montague (25 page)

After a moment, Mrs. Findlayson smiled. “But I’m rambling on, and as both Hugo and Agatha are now dead, there’s no point dwelling on the past.”

“But it’s right that you remember them, and comforting that your memories are so fond, at least of them.” Violet paused, then said, “I’m tangentially involved with the sorting out of Lady Halstead’s estate, and, as you might imagine, there’s been considerable argument between her children as to the disposition of the assets. I wonder”—Violet met Mrs. Findlayson’s eyes—“whether you could give me your opinion of them—the children? You must be one of the few who know all four well enough to comment on their characters, and it might help sort things out.”

Mrs. Findlayson’s expression, until then soft and gentle, hardened. She hesitated, clearly weighing the words that had come to her tongue, but then she looked at Violet and nodded. “Agatha’s dead—murdered—and for all I know it was by one of them. Truth be told, I wouldn’t put it past any of them. A more viperous brood would be hard to find—although I have to admit their stinging and biting was always directed at each other. All within the family, so to speak.”

She paused, then went on, “William, for all his troubles, is the best of the lot of them. Followed by Maurice, although I wouldn’t trust him with anything of value. Lacks morals in general, that one. But as for the elder two, Mortimer and Cynthia, if they weren’t Agatha and Hugo’s children, I wouldn’t give them the time of day—not unless they’ve improved significantly since last I saw them. Cynthia is a self-absorbed harpy, and Mortimer . . . well, my husband once described him as a colorless egotist with no ambition beyond himself.”

“They—Cynthia and Mortimer—seem very competitive with regard to each other,” Violet observed.

Mrs. Findlayson nodded. “That was always a feature of life at The Laurels—the battles between those two. Over the years, my husband and I had countless consultations with the various nannies and governesses, and even some of the more concerned tutors. Many were driven to seek advice.” Mrs. Findlayson frowned, patently sifting through her memories. Eventually, she said, “It was such a strange thing, to have children vying to be the most sanctimonious, the most priggish, the most conservative, the most religiously observant. It was almost impossible to upbraid them, you see? How can you punish a child for adhering to the rules too well? For taking those rules to extremes—and then further? And more, their actions, their behaviors, were never sincere—their apparent goodness was ever a product of ambition. For all their outward perfections, those two caused more gray hairs than Maurice, William, and all the other children in the village put together, all of whose transgressions were entirely normal and understandable. Everyone knew how to cope with the others, including the younger two Halsteads, even though they took matters to the other extreme, but the older two Halsteads were all but beyond our ken.”

When Mrs. Findlayson fell silent, Violet was tempted to prompt, but then the vicar’s wife stirred and said, “My husband once observed that what drove those two might initially have been a battle for parental approval—to be the best, better than the others in their parents’ eyes, and recognized as such, and thus winning their private war, but with their parents never there, it became a battle with no end. That affected Mortimer more than the others—he was the oldest, and naturally expected to be the acknowledged leader, but Cynthia, for one, never accorded him that status, and the other two followed her lead, at least in that.”

Mrs. Findlayson paused to sip from her cup, then, lowering it, concluded, “Mortimer lived here, at The Laurels, until he was in his early twenties, and by then he’d become the sort of man who is never satisfied with what he achieves but instead always wants to be more.” Mrs. Findlayson shrugged. “For all I know, Cynthia might be the same—that wouldn’t surprise me. As for the other two, I daresay they will have continued down the roads they’d started well along before they left here—and neither of those roads will serve them well.”

Another silence fell while Violet, Penelope, and Griselda digested that, aligning the information with all they had themselves observed, then Violet set down her cup and saucer. “Thank you.” She met Mrs. Findlayson’s eyes and smiled. “Your insights might, indeed, be of some help.”

“I’m glad to do whatever I can,” Mrs. Findlayson said, “especially if it will help catch Agatha’s murderer.”

“As to that”—Penelope shifted forward, drawing Mrs. Findlayson’s attention—“you wrote in your last letter to Lady Halstead that you and others in the village had observed unusual activity at The Laurels. Although there’s no reason to imagine it’s related to Lady Halstead’s murder, it did seem unexpected.”

“Yes, well.” Mrs. Findlayson arched her brows. “We were all quite surprised when the new people moved in.”

“When was that?” Penelope asked.

“Oh, it would be well over a year now . . . perhaps fifteen months?” Mrs. Findlayson narrowed her eyes. “Yes, that’s right. They’d been there for several months before Harvest Service. As no one from the house had yet attended at the church, my husband called a week before the service to formally invite them and urge them to join us, and, of course, by then everyone was wondering who was living there.”

“And who is?” Penelope’s eyes gleamed behind her glasses.

But Mrs. Findlayson shook her head. “The only people we’ve ever set eyes on are the odd manservant who answers the door and the pair who work in the kitchen. A man and a woman, but they’re rather surly and keep entirely to themselves. Not so much as a nod if one passes them in the lane. Indeed, we never see them out and about except when they head down to Romford in their cart to bring in supplies for one of their evening entertainments.”

“Entertainments?” Penelope’s eyes widened.

“Indeed.” Mrs. Findlayson nodded. “That was what prompted me to write to Agatha, because, really, these odd events have been going on for long enough. Every month, or thereabouts, carriages—all black and with curtains drawn—come rolling up and turn in at The Laurels. Eight or more carriages, every month, but they always arrive very late, usually after ten o’clock at night.” Mrs. Findlayson primmed her lips, then opened them and confided, “Even the lads who’ve climbed the nearby trees to look over the walls say they’ve not been able to see anything of the goings-on inside the house, because even though the whole ground floor looks to be well lit on those evenings, the curtains are all drawn tight.”

“How long do the carriages stay?” Griselda asked.

“Only two hours or so—we usually hear them roll past again about twelve or just after.”

Penelope frowned, then asked, “And when the carriages leave, all their curtains are drawn?”

Mrs. Findlayson nodded. “Every single time, every carriage. So, you see, we have no idea who is living in that house and holding these odd events, and we also have no idea who is attending, much less what’s going on in the house on those evenings.”

Violet leaned forward. “You said these events happen monthly? On a specific date?”

“No, not exactly. It’s roughly every month, but we never know the exact date—not until we see the two staff head out in their cart for Romford.”

“When was the last entertainment at The Laurels?” Penelope asked. “Or, more pertinently, when do you anticipate the next event will be?”

“I can’t remember the date of the last, but the next event will be tonight.” Mrs. Findlayson met Penelope’s eyes. “My gardener saw the pair from the house head off to Romford this morning.”

T
hey’d thanked Mrs. Findlayson, promised her that they would convey all she’d told them to those dealing with the Halsteads’ affairs, then hurried back to Penelope’s carriage, where they’d piled in as Penelope had directed Phelps to drive back to The Laurels.

Now the three of them stood just outside the overgrown front gate and, using the dense ivy as a screen, peered through the leaves at the house.

“Curtains are still open on the second floor,” Penelope said, “but all the ground-floor rooms have curtains fully drawn.”

Violet glanced at the trees in what appeared to be a dense wood growing along the side wall of the garden. “Even from high in those trees, no one could see into the first-floor rooms.”

“Hmm, no.” Penelope humphed. “No sense sending Conner into the wood to see what he can spy.” After considering the house for a moment more, she said, “So what do we do? We’re here, the house is here. If Mrs. Findlayson’s information is correct, if we go to the door and knock, we’ll either meet this odd manservant or . . . there’ll be no one at home.”

Griselda snorted. “And if there’s no one at home, you’ll want to look around, and possibly find your way inside—”

“Which might give us some clue as to what these peculiar entertainments are all about.” Penelope nodded. “Exactly.”

Violet drew back to stare at her.

Feeling her gaze, Penelope turned her head and met it.

Violet read the determination in her new employer’s face . . . then she blinked, and nodded. “What an excellent idea.”

Penelope grinned. “I knew you’d fit in with our little band.”

Griselda was still studying the house. “There’s no movement visible at all, either upstairs or down.” She glanced at Penelope and Violet. “I can’t see any point in going back to London without at least knocking on the door and seeing what more we can learn.” She focused on Penelope. “So how are we going to do this?”

Penelope thought for only a moment, then turned back to where the carriage stood a little way along the lane. “We do it in style. It’s the only sensible way.”

They climbed back into the carriage, and, following Penelope’s directions, Phelps drove up to the gate. Conner jumped down and pushed the gates wide, then swung up behind as Phelps sent the fashionable carriage sweeping through and up and around the drive, eventually slowing his team to halt the carriage before the two steps leading up to the porch before the front door.

Penelope waited for both Conner and James, the footman, who, in keeping with her promise to Barnaby, she’d had join their company for the day, to descend to the gravel. Conner went to the horses’ heads while James, at his most regal, paused, then opened the door, let down the steps, and, terribly formally, handed her down.

Head tilted high, Penelope descended, hoping very much that someone was watching to appreciate their performance.

Violet followed to stand just behind her, then Griselda joined them, taking up position beside Violet.

Penelope nodded to James, and, in formation, they ascended the steps, James in the lead.

Halting before the door, Penelope raised her head, and nodded to James.

James pulled the chain dangling to one side of the front door. Deep inside the house, they heard a bell clang.

Seconds ticked past.

His hand still on the chain, James arched a brow at Penelope. She was about to nod when she caught the tramp of feet on carpet. With her eyes, she signaled James to take up his correct position to her right. He did, to the sound of bolts being drawn.

Several—and from the sound of them, rather heavy—bolts.

The door swung soundlessly inward, and a man—thin, only a few inches taller than Penelope, who definitely didn’t qualify as tall—looked out at them, the expression on his distinctly weasel-like features declaring he was supremely bored. “Whatever you’ve come to suggest, we’re not interested.”

His accent suggested he’d spent much of his youth in the London slums, but although there were telltale broken veins decorating his face and nose, he did not appear to be inebriated at that moment. Regardless, he would never qualify as a butler, nor even a respectable manservant.

Penelope looked down her nose at him, something her breeding allowed her to accomplish despite her lack of inches. “I beg your pardon?”

Her tone, that of a daughter of the nobility addressing an abject serf, made the man blink, and rethink his approach. “Ah . . . what would you be wanting, miss—” His gaze took in Violet, Griselda, James, and the men and the carriage behind them, and he amended, “ma’am?”

Penelope waited with quite awful patience until he brought his gaze back to her face. “I wish to speak with your master. Please conduct us to the drawing room and inform him we are here.”

The man frowned. “And you would be?”

Penelope’s brows rose. “A lady from London—that is all you need to know.”

She went to sweep forward, but the man, eyes widening, leapt to swing the front door half closed.

Penelope halted, then drew in a breath, clearly outraged.

Before she could wither him, the man hurriedly said, “My master—he’s very particular-like. Doesn’t let just anyone inside. Worth my job, it’d be, to let you in.” His eyes flicked to James and the other men. He swallowed. “If you’ll give me your name, I could see if he’ll make an exception for you.”

Penelope narrowed her eyes. “Who is this man you call your master? If he’s the man I think he is . . . well, clearly he can’t be, for he would never hire such an ill-informed manservant. So, sirrah, his name if you please. If he is who he should be, I will give you my name to take to him.”

Violet had to admit that was a masterstroke, but, sadly, it didn’t get them anywhere.

Edging the door even further closed, the man shook his head. “Only people the master knows come here. You don’t even know who he is.”

“I know who the owners of this house are,” Penelope declared. “And I seriously doubt they’re your supposed master. Does this man even exist?”

“He exists, all right, and there’s nothing havey-cavey about us being here. We rent the place, all right and proper.”

“No, you don’t,” Penelope stated. “I’m acquainted with the Halsteads, the owners of this house, and they know nothing about your tenancy.”

That piece of information rocked the man; he pulled back for an instant, then, jaw clenching, growled, “You don’t know what you’re talking about, but I can tell you this—you’re trespassing! And I don’t have to answer to trespassers!”

With that, he slammed the door shut.

Immediately, they heard the bolts rammed home.