The Masterful Mr. Montague (33 page)

Stokes groaned. “My head’s spinning with this family and their alibis and the potential for conspiracy.” Heaving a sigh, he rose and looked at Barnaby. “Which, I suppose, means you and I better get back to sorting said alibis out.”

With a matching sigh, Barnaby uncrossed his long legs and got to his feet. He looked at Montague, then at Stokes. “One way or another, we will get there—and given that he won’t run, we’ll catch him.”

“Amen.” Stokes saluted Montague, then headed for the door.

With a nod and a smile for Montague, Barnaby followed.

Montague watched them go, then uttered his own sigh and, pulling forward the papers he’d pushed aside, got back to business.

There was nothing more he could do, not until he heard back from Manchester. Hopefully this time the registrar would come through.

T
he couriered message arrived at four o’clock that afternoon.

Slocum, on receiving it, almost ran in his hurry to ferry it to Montague.

Setting aside the ledger he’d been checking, Montague took the packet, picked up his letter knife, inserted the tip, and slit the envelope open.

Withdrawing a single sheet, he unfolded it and scanned its contents. Then he blew out a breath and sat back, his gaze fixed on the name inscribed on the page.

“Well?”

Glancing up, Montague saw Gibbons—it was he who had spoken—standing behind Slocum, who was hovering by Montague’s desk. Foster looked over Gibbons’s shoulder, expectation in his face, while the rest of Montague and Son’s small staff were gathered about the doorway to the inner office, waiting to hear the news.

Montague’s lips twitched; he looked back at the letter. “The registrar of the Grand Junction Railway Company formally verifies that the share certificate in question, that previously was the property of Agatha, Lady Halstead, is now registered to . . . the Earl of Corby.”

Gibbons blinked. “Good God.”

“Indeed.” Montague nodded, in complete accord with that sentiment. “Furthermore, the registrar states that the earl, or, rather, his man-of-business, registered the shares eleven months ago. Therefore, as far as the registry is concerned, the shares passed directly from Lady Halstead to the Earl of Corby, with no other owner being registered in between.”

Montague set the letter on his blotter. He stared at it for several seconds, then said, “Slocum—”

“I believe the Earl of Corby’s man-of-business is Mr. Millhouse, sir. His offices are just around the corner in Throgmorton Street.”

“Excellent.” Montague glanced toward the door. “Reginald?”

“Yessir!” The young office boy all but bounded into the room.

Hiding a smile, Montague beckoned him forward. “Mr. Slater can deliver my letter to Mr. Millhouse, but before I write that, I need to send a message to Inspector Stokes at Scotland Yard.”

Already scribbling, at the sudden silence, Montague glanced up—to discover Reginald standing stock-still before the desk, his eyes on stalks and his mouth agape.

Foster, grinning, dropped a hand on Reginald’s shoulder. “No need to catch flies, Reggie. Do you know the way to the Yard?”

Reginald blinked, then his expression tended toward panic.

“Don’t worry,” Gibbons said. “It’s at the start of Whitehall. Mr. Slocum will give you directions.”

Reginald perked up, then Montague handed him the folded note. “No need to wait for a reply. Once you’ve seen that into the hands of the sergeant on the front desk at Scotland Yard, you can hie away home.”

“Thank you, sir.” Reginald took hold of the note as if it was solid gold. “I won’t let you down.”

Montague smiled. “I’m sure you won’t. But hurry now—it needs to be there as soon as possible.”

Reginald spun away and ran. Pausing only to drag on his coat and get directions from Slocum, he rushed out of the office.

“Ah, the exuberance of youth.” With a nod, still smiling, Gibbons ambled out, followed by Foster. Slater and Pringle had already returned to their desks.

Slocum looked in. “Just checked my book, sir—it is Mr. Millhouse, at number six, Throgmorton Street.”

“Thank you, Slocum.” Montague set a fresh sheet on his blotter. “Tell Slater this might take a few minutes.”

“Aye, sir.”

It took him a full half hour before he was satisfied with the wording of his request to Mr. Millhouse. Millhouse was a few years younger than Montague, and while Montague was considered by most to be the preeminent man-of-business in London, there was a certain degree of professional courtesy and rivalry involved; striking the right note with his first communication on this matter with Millhouse was important. Especially as Montague fully expected the first communication would, inevitably, be followed by several others; getting all the answers he wanted couldn’t be done with a single note.

If he baldly listed all the questions he—and Scotland Yard—needed answers to, Millhouse would balk, and his noble client would be even less inclined to be helpful.

Reining in his own, very real, impatience wasn’t easy, but he’d been in business—had been dealing with business and the men involved—for too long not to play by the rules, unwritten though most of those were. Indeed, he’d built his considerable reputation on his precise understanding of those rules.

So his letter to Mr. Millhouse of Throgmorton Street was a masterpiece of understated respect and carried within it a subtle invitation to Millhouse to join with Montague in unraveling a minor mystery as to the transference of the Grand Junction Railway Company share certificate in question.

Rereading the missive, imagining Millhouse reading it and his reactions, Montague let his lips ease into a smile. “Done.” Carefully blotting his penmanship, he folded the letter, inscribed the direction on the front, then sealed it. “Slater!”

Slater had clearly been waiting for the summons. He already had his coat on when he looked in through the doorway. “Ready?”

Montague held out the letter. “Try and catch him before he leaves for the day, then go on home yourself. He won’t reply tonight.”

Slater nodded, took the letter, and departed.

Montague glanced at the clock and saw that it was nearly six o’clock. He listened, and realized that most of the others had already left.

As if to confirm, Slocum put his head through the doorway. “I’m off now, sir.”

“Very good, Slocum.” Montague stood. “I believe I’ll go up myself.”

He followed Slocum from the office. After locking the door, he turned and climbed the stairs to his apartment, very conscious of a wish to—like the rest of his staff—find that intangible thing called “home” waiting for him there.

But Violet was in Albemarle Street, and although he wanted, very much, to share this latest discovery with her, to sit by her side, relax in the glow of what he’d accomplished that day and look forward to the challenges of the morrow, it was already six o’clock. By the time he reached Albemarle Street, it would be too close to dinnertime, and, besides, although he would be happy to share this latest development with the others, he didn’t want to share Violet’s company with them.

That wasn’t what he craved.

Reaching the door to his apartment, he went in and instantly smelled the scents of roasting beef and baking. From the kitchen, Mrs. Trewick’s usual greeting floated out. “Dinner’s ready and waiting, sir! If you’ll take your seat at the table, Trewick will bring it out.”

Montague walked into the sitting room and halted. He looked around the room—the empty room devoid of all companionship—and vowed to himself that it wouldn’t remain so for long.

He’d waited long enough, and at last he’d found Violet.

As soon as they identified who the murderer was, and saw Lady Halstead, Runcorn, and Tilly avenged, he would ask Violet to be his.

He needed her here; he’d had enough of living alone.

T
he reply from Millhouse arrived at eleven o’clock the next morning. Reading the careful phrases, Montague couldn’t help a cynical smile; he would take an oath Millhouse had labored over his reply for even longer than he himself had worked on the phrasing of his request.

Slocum was hovering; Gibbons and Foster were leaning in the doorway.

Montague glanced their way, then said, “After various preliminaries, Millhouse writes that he understands that the share certificate in question was acquired by the earl when it was tendered in lieu in settlement of a debt of honor.”

Hands sliding into his pockets, Gibbons let out a low whistle. “Some debt!”

“Indeed.” Montague scanned the subsequent lines a second time and inwardly sighed. “And, as one might expect, Millhouse doesn’t know and therefore cannot answer as to the identity of the gentleman who surrendered the share certificate.”

“Well,” Foster said, “other than that it was a gentleman the Earl of Corby deigned to gamble with.”

Eyes narrowing, Montague looked at Slocum. If he was remembering aright . . .

Slocum nodded. “The earl’s a big gambler, sir—known to care little about who he gambles with, as long as they can pay.”

Montague grimaced. “That was my understanding, too. So the fact that this gentleman owed the earl many thousands of pounds doesn’t actually tell us all that much about said gentleman.”

Slocum made a rude sound. “Other than that he was stupid enough to sit down with Corby and a pack of cards—the earl’s reputation for winning isn’t exactly a secret.”

“True.” Montague considered, then grimaced. “That still gets us no further. Any of the Halsteads, or Camberly, for that matter, might, for some reason, have been moved to engage with Corby.”

“What now?” Gibbons asked.

“Now . . .” Montague stared unseeing at his blotter for several moments, then, chin firming, he reached for a fresh sheet of paper. “Now I see just how persuasive I can be with regard to a competitor like Millhouse.”

M
ontague’s second letter to Millhouse took more than an hour to craft. He didn’t expect a reply that day, as it seemed fairly clear that Millhouse, if he deigned to pursue the matter at Montague’s behest, would need to consult with the earl.

Montague was therefore surprised when Slocum hurried—definitely rushed—into his office, waving—definitely waving—an envelope.

“A reply from Mr. Millhouse, sir.” Slocum laid the envelope on the desk as Montague reached for his letter-knife.

The rest of his staff congregated about the doorway; everyone had become infected with the scent of the chase.

Retrieving the short missive from the envelope, Montague scanned it. “Halstead.”

Cheers erupted from around the door.

Without looking up, Montague said, “Don’t get too carried away just yet. All Millhouse has written is a Mr. Halstead—he doesn’t know, or at least hasn’t said, which one.”

But from the tone of the letter, Montague could tell that he’d succeeded in engaging Millhouse’s curiosity with his previous missives and their tantalizing hints of a major Scotland Yard investigation.

Laying aside the letter, Montague glanced at Slocum. “Get Reginald—I want him to run a message back to Millhouse immediately.”

The gathering about the door scattered.

Montague’s next note was succinct and clearly intimated that he considered Millhouse a peer of equal standing—one equally interested in bringing miscreants who dabbled in their world of finance to justice. Especially miscreants who had any dealings with their major clients.

Quickly blotting the note, he was folding it as Slocum returned with Reginald in tow.

Montague grinned at the lad, who grinned back. He handed over the letter. “You know where to go?”

“Yessir—Mr. Slocum told me.”

“Right then, off you go. And this time inquire if there will be a reply, and if there is, wait and bring it back.” Millhouse would appreciate not having to use his own runner.

Montague watched Slocum usher Reginald out, seeing the boy down the stairs before shutting the door and returning to his desk.

For a moment, Montague dwelled in the moment, appreciating all that was right and good within it. The satisfaction of knowing their small group of investigators were on the right track—that it was one of the Halstead men behind the theft of the share certificate, and therefore most likely behind the murders. He savored the welling swell of familiar excitement—of being on the hunt, of scenting his financial prey. Yet in all the investigations he’d previously engaged in, he’d been involved at one remove, acting at the behest of one of his clients. This time, he was personally as well as professionally involved, and that heightened the emotions, setting a keen edge to the drive to find answers and see justice done.

To see justice triumph.

More immediately, he felt the engagement and support of his staff; their actions, their interest, made it very clear that they understood that commitment to justice, that they shared it and would stand behind him in seeing the job done.

Their understanding and support warmed him.

They sometimes made him smile, yet he knew how lucky he was in having such an intelligent and devoted group at his back.

He took a moment to appreciate them, and the blessings of his day, of his life, then he reopened the file he’d been assessing and settled to steadily work his way through it.

Twenty minutes later, Reginald burst through the office door. He waved a letter, then, with a flourish, presented it to Slocum.

Who checked the direction, then rose and brought the missive to Montague.

The rest of the staff craned their necks to watch and listen.

Montague read the note, then called out for their benefit, “Millhouse will have to ask the earl directly, which, as he notes, will take a certain amount of finesse, but he—Millhouse—hopes to have an answer for me by sometime tomorrow. He can’t say when, but he doubts it will be before noon at the earliest.”

With a nod, Montague set the letter down and smiled at Reginald, then at Slocum. “It’s the best we could hope for—there’s really no way for Millhouse, or, indeed, anyone else, to extract that information other than from the earl—and Millhouse will get the answer easier, and sooner, than anyone else.”