The Masterful Mr. Montague (15 page)

“And through that, securing her own advancement in the social ranks.” The lady who spoke was the Caro who had been referred to earlier. She nodded at Penelope. “I’ve met the Camberlys several times, and there’s no doubt that Camberly is pushy, but I would also say he’s careful and intelligent enough not to overreach. He’s building a solid reputation but is greedy for every little crumb of kudos and status he can legitimately garner to bolster his name. I expect he thinks to push for an undersecretary’s post after the next election.”

“What are they like as people?” Penelope asked.

Caro wrinkled her nose, took a sip of her tea, then, lowering the cup, said, “Not the sort of people you wish to claim as friends. Camberly is ruthless. Behind his easy smile and polished-to-a-gloss manners, he is utterly fixed on his goal, and one senses he would have no qualms over doing whatever he must to achieve it. His wife is equally ruthless, but in addition there’s an element of pettiness and spite there . . .” Caro paused, then concluded, “I can’t quite put my finger on what it actually is, but it’s very much a case of her viewing everything through the prism of what it might mean for her. I’ve come across the son only once, and, as often happens with overbearing parents, he’s something of a cypher and fades into the background.”

Penelope looked hopeful. “And the Halsteads?”

Caro pulled a face. “I’ve only met them once, and that in passing at a major function, but I have heard whispers about them from others—the sort of gossipy comments that are always floating about within government departments. I can’t vouch for their veracity, but if it will help, and I suspect you have other sources to check what mine have related, then . . .” Caro drew breath and went on, “I’ve heard that Mortimer, and Constance, too, are also ambitious, but with less reason, and far less likelihood of it coming to anything. Mortimer Halstead is known as something of a mediocre man—a pedant who is not intelligent enough to respond to new or unexpected situations. He’s considered sound in the general sense, but everyone, except presumably he and his wife, believe that he’s reached his level of competence and did so long ago, and is unlikely to move further up the Home Office tree.”

Shifting her gaze to Lady Osbaldestone, Caro said, “I have heard some wonder why he didn’t follow in his father’s footsteps into the Foreign Office, where the name would have counted for more, but it seems that Mortimer has absolutely no wish to ever leave these shores.”

“Actually,” Penelope said, setting her teacup on her saucer, “from the descriptions Barnaby and Stokes, and also Barnaby’s father, have given us of the Halsteads and the Camberlys, which mesh with everything you’ve said, I hypothesized that for all four Halstead children, their characters and dispositions might be the result of overblown competitiveness between Mortimer and Cynthia, who are older and close in age, stemming perhaps from their childhood, and the consequent effects that might have had on Maurice, forcing him to take the position of black sheep to gain attention, which in turn made William—the youngest brother—step outside society altogether.”

Lady Osbaldestone viewed Penelope with something approaching pride. “How very astute of you, my dear—for I’ve just remembered the only criticism I ever heard leveled at the Halsteads, mère and père, and that was, in fact, that their offspring had been allowed by the Halsteads to develop as a group in a quite unhealthy way. The specific criticism was that the potential of the Halsteads, the fruit of their union as it were, had been allowed to disintegrate, to decay and come to nothing, through lack of attention, indeed, put even more bluntly, through parental neglect.

“You see”—Lady Osbaldestone fixed her black gaze on Penelope’s face—“while the Halsteads spent their productive years abroad, they left their children in England, in the care of nannies, governesses, and tutors at their country house, often for years at a time. For Sir Hugo, of course, had ambition, too, and his was all for his work, and Agatha supported him in that.”

Arching her brows, Lady Osbaldestone glanced at the other ladies. “It should hardly surprise anyone that, under such circumstances, with no parental hand to guide them and what is most likely an inherited ambitious streak, then, as Penelope suggested, rather than bonding together, the two older children vied for attention, for dominance, forcing the younger two to find other ways to make their mark, to stake their claim.”

Many heads nodded in agreement. “That sounds very right,” Caro said. “That would account for exactly the impressions I’ve received from both Cynthia Camberly and Mortimer Halstead.” Caro narrowed her eyes. “I’ve never met them together—as far as I know, I’ve never seen them in the same room—but I sensed in both of them that there was some deep drive to their desire to get ahead, that it was a
need
more than a wish.”

Again there was a round of murmured agreement.

Penelope glanced at Griselda and arched her brows. “I’m so glad we came.”

Griselda smiled, nodded, and finished her tea.

Soon after, Penelope rose, and she and Griselda took their leave.

Gaining the pavement, Penelope linked her arm in Griselda’s and they set off strolling slowly along the street; turning right into Grafton Street, and then right into Albemarle Street was the fastest route to Penelope’s house.

The afternoon was cool, soft gray clouds slowly drifting across the autumn sky, the sun already hidden by the buildings to the west. A light breeze threaded between the houses, flirting with the ribbons of Penelope’s bonnet and teasing strands of Griselda’s black hair free from her restrained topknot.

“Hmm,” Penelope murmured as they slowly paced. “I truly want—even need—to involve myself in investigations again, to give myself that additional purpose, but, at the same time, I have absolutely no intention of neglecting Oliver and any other children we might be blessed with.”

Griselda wasn’t surprised to hear her friend’s thoughts echo her own, yet her lips twisted in a wry smile as she admitted, “I was thinking the same, but, more, that it isn’t just a matter of us taking time away from them to do our investigating but also that, when it comes to the situations those investigations lead us into, it’s incumbent on us, our responsibility, as it were, to ensure we, ourselves, are never at risk.” She glanced at Penelope and met her dark eyes. “Our children can’t afford to lose us.”

Penelope nodded, one of her curt, definite, forceful nods. “No, indeed. I agree, and that’s the challenge—well, one aspect of the challenge—of us finding our way back into investigating and defining our roles with regard to the future. That’s something we need to work on.”

“And not just us,” Griselda murmured.

Penelope laughed, then, sobering, tilted her head. “In fact, if we extrapolate from what Lady Osbaldestone said—and what has happened with the Halsteads should, indeed, stand as a salutary lesson—then it’s not just us, you and me, who need to ensure that investigating doesn’t pull us away from our darlings for too long. The time we need to devote to our children may be greater than what Barnaby and Stokes need to give them, but they do need to give them some part of their time.”

“Some part of their life,” Griselda said.

“Exactly.” Penelope fell silent until they turned into Albemarle Street. Setting eyes on the door of her home, she said, “That’s the responsibility one must accept in bringing a child into the world—that we, both parents, need to give that child a defined, and real, and uncontestable place in our lives.”

Griselda echoed, “A defined, real, and uncontestable piece of our lives.”

Chapter 8

S
o,” Stokes said, slouching in one of the chairs facing Montague’s desk, “no one saw any woman who might have been our mysterious lady in the vicinity of Runcorn’s office. I’m inclined to think that she may have been brought in, even hired, purely to withdraw the money from the bank.” Stokes glanced at Barnaby, seated to his right. “Did you learn any more in Threadneedle Street?”

“As it happened,” Barnaby said, “luck favored me, and in more ways than one. First, I can report that the payments in question were deposited using a courier service. The tellers who received them are experienced enough to recognize the signs, and have remembered because they thought it odd that couriers were making deposits into Lady Halstead’s account.”

Stokes grunted. “That increases the odds that this is something illegal and, what’s more, being carried out by someone with a criminal connection.”

Montague nodded. “That also fits with something I’ve discovered, but before we get to that”—he looked at Barnaby—“what else did you find?”

Barnaby grinned. “A young and observant street-sweeper, who remembers seeing our veiled lady come along the street from the bank to where a coach was waiting, drawn up by the curb. The door opened and the boy saw a gentleman inside the coach help the lady in.”

“And could our observant tyke describe the gentleman?” Stokes asked.

“He saw enough to tell me that the gentleman in question didn’t have a beard but sideburns, that his face was roundish, and he had brown hair. He couldn’t tell me how tall he was, and wasn’t sure about age.”

Stokes looked grim. “It seems that every clue we uncover points to our villain being one of the Halsteads.”

“True.” Barnaby grimaced. “But that leaves us with five—Mortimer, Maurice, William, Walter, and Hayden—and thus far all five fit our bill.”

“And,” Stokes said, “we shouldn’t at this point discount the possibility that two or more are in this together.” He frowned. “If that proves so, it’s going to make our job a lot more difficult.”

“Hmm.” Barnaby frowned, too. “If one did the first murder, and another the second . . .”

Stokes shook his head. “I don’t even want to think about it.”

After a moment, Barnaby looked at Montague. “You said you’ve discovered something?”

Montague, who had been following Stokes’s and Barnaby’s somewhat dismal line of thought, shook himself back to the present. Then smiled. “Yes, indeed.” He lifted the list of payments with his annotations from his blotter. “We can thank my senior assistant, Gibbons, for the vital insight, but once he suggested that the payments looked like income from the sales of something, it was easy enough to work out.” Reaching over the desk, Montague handed the sheet to Stokes, who held it so he and Barnaby both could view it.

After giving them a moment to scan his sums, Montague explained, “If one assumes that our villain is selling items each of which nets him two hundred and fifty pounds, and that he sells between five and nine such items every month, and that he then pays one of the courier services their customary two to three percent for the delivery into Lady Halstead’s account”—leaning back, he concluded with some satisfaction—“then it’s possible to account for each and all of those payments.”

Barnaby glanced at him, then looked back at the list. “Fourteen different payments, and they all fit that pattern.”

Stokes grunted. “I’m no expert with numbers, but even I would say that’s conclusive.” Looking at Montague, he waved the list. “Can I keep this?”

Montague nodded. “I’ve already made another copy.”

Folding the paper, Stokes shifted to stow it in his coat pocket. “So at this point, we have a gentleman who appears to be one of the Halsteads, or Walter Camberly, who is selling, or causing to be sold, items valued at two hundred and fifty pounds each, and he sells five to nine such items a month on a regular basis. Given that he’s sought to conceal his activities by using Lady Halstead’s account to hide his cash, and also accepting that there aren’t that many legal items one can sell for two hundred and fifty pounds at such a steady rate, then it’s reasonable, I would say, for us to assume that whatever trade this gentleman is dabbling in is illegal.”

“And that, presumably,” Barnaby said, “is why he’s sought to conceal the money. Which raises the interesting question of which of the Halstead males has most to lose from his illegal activities becoming known?”

Stokes considered, then said, “Correct me if I err, but for my money the answer to that question is Mortimer Halstead, tied neck and neck with Wallace Camberly—and given there’s the possibility his son may be acting in conspiracy with Camberly, I believe we have to include him, too, even if he’s not the actual murderer.”

Barnaby nodded. “And after the two older men, I would list Hayden Halstead and Walter Camberly. Within their circles, both are sons of prominent men—if their involvement in some illicit scheme became known, it would cause a scandal.”

Montague frowned. “What about Maurice Halstead, and the youngest brother, William?” When Barnaby glanced his way, Montague lifted one shoulder. “My impression of the pair is that neither would care all that much, not from the point of view of concealment. Were either of them the villain, they would be more worried about being caught and stopped by the authorities than about hiding their identity and avoiding scandal.”

Barnaby thought, then slowly nodded. “I would have to agree. I can’t see any reason why either Maurice or William would bother with using their mother’s account, much less using couriers to do so. In fact, I can see at least two to three percent of earnings that would influence them not to do any such thing.”

Stokes pulled a face. “It’s tempting to speculate that William, at least, and likely Maurice, too, are more likely than any of the others to know how to contact the courier services, but you’re right—they appear to have no pressing motive for doing so.”

For several minutes, the three of them silently mulled over all they’d learned, then Stokes rose, and Barnaby followed. “I should get back to the Yard,” Stokes said. He arched a brow at Barnaby.

“I want to have a word with the police surgeon, just to confirm there’s no more he can tell us. I’ll come up and see you if there is.” Barnaby and Stokes both looked at Montague.

He noticed and, frowning, met their eyes. “There’s one more thing I ought to do, just to be complete. The money taken from her ladyship’s account has to go somewhere.” He glanced at the clock on his desk. “Although I doubt I’ll get any answer until tomorrow, I will make discreet inquiries as to whether any of the Halsteads, or the Camberlys, made any large deposit into any of the accounts they have access to.” He met Stokes’s eyes and faintly smiled. “I would prefer that you didn’t ask me how, but I can also arrange to be notified should such a deposit be made over the next week.”

Stokes inclined his head. “As that would be useful to know, I’ll refrain from asking you about your methods.”

“Of course,” Barnaby said, “it’s unlikely there’ll be any trace of it, not after he used her ladyship’s account presumably to ensure the money never appeared in his, but”—saluting Montague, he turned for the door—“you’re right. We do need to check, because when dealing with villains, you never do know when they’ll slip up—”

“And then we’ll have them.” Stokes tipped a raised finger to Montague in farewell and followed Barnaby from the office.

Rising, Montague went to stand in the doorway to the outer office. Once Stokes and Barnaby had left, and Slocum, who had shown them to the door, shut it and headed back to his desk, Montague called, “Slocum? I have some letters to dictate.”

A
fter shutting up the office, Montague had intended to go upstairs, to his home, but the cool of a surprisingly pleasant evening drew him outside. The lamps were just being lit, but there was still enough light to comfortably stroll and enjoy the blanket of quiet that descended over the City now the bustling hordes who worked within it had streamed home to their dinners.

It was harder to use the pleasantness of the evening to excuse his hailing of a hackney and his consequent journey across town to Lowndes Street.

He understood Stokes’s wish not to inform Violet of Runcorn’s murder and the involvement of a lady who some might imagine to be Violet herself in the removal of funds from Lady Halstead’s bank account. He even agreed with Stokes to some extent, but over the past hours, Penelope’s and Griselda’s words had tirelessly replayed in the back of his brain. Now . . . despite not wishing to further distress Violet, the notion of keeping her uninformed of what had occurred smacked too much of leaving her unnecessarily defenseless.

Some very determined part of him he didn’t entirely recognize couldn’t abide that.

The hackney pulled up outside the Halstead house. After paying off the driver, Montague opened the gate, walked up the path, and climbed the steps to the pillared front porch. Removing his hat, he knocked on the door.

And steadfastly refused to think of precisely what he was doing, and why.

Footsteps approached, then Violet—when had he stopped thinking of her as Miss Matcham?—opened the door. The instant she saw him her expression lightened. “Mr. Montague. Good evening.” Stepping back, she waved him in. “Do come inside, sir. I take it you have news?”

Stepping over the threshold, he replied, “Of a sort.” Now he was there, he had to think of all that he’d determinedly not thought of during the journey. “Ah . . . I hope I’m not interrupting your meal.”

She smiled and reached for his hat. “No—Lady Halstead preferred to dine late, and we’ve . . .” Her voice faded and she blinked.

He handed her his hat. She took it and turned away to hang it on the hat-tree.

When she turned back, her face was solemn, but composed. She waved him to the sitting room. “Please, come in, and let’s sit comfortably.”

He inclined his head and stepped back to allow her to lead the way. She did and he followed her into the sitting room, the same room that Lady Halstead had received him in. In contrast to the more formal drawing room, it felt pervasively lived in; a small fire sent busy fingers of flame leaping up from the grate, chasing away the chill that had closed in with the fading of the light.

“So”—Violet sank into one of the chairs before the hearth—“what news, sir? Does Inspector Stokes have any suspicions as to who the murderer is?”

Sitting on the sofa facing the fire, Montague took in the angle of her chin, saw the tension in the fingers she clasped in her lap. “As to that . . .” He hesitated, then said, “I regret I must inform you that when I called at Mr. Runcorn’s office this morning in company with Mr. Adair, we discovered poor Runcorn murdered.”

One hand rose to her throat. Her face blanched; her eyes seemed to grow huge. After an instant in which she seemed to cease breathing altogether, she hauled in a swift breath and blindly—instinctively—reached out with one hand, as if seeking support. “My God—was it because of this business? Because of Lady Halstead’s affairs?”

Montague didn’t think but simply reached across and closed his hand about her fingers. They were icy; shifting forward on the sofa, his eyes on her face, he chafed her hand between both of his. When her horrified gaze focused on his face, he inclined his head gravely. “Sadly, it appears that way. Lady Halstead’s papers were scattered over his desk—his clerk had left him working through the Halstead file, and we believe the documents had been searched.”

Her face, her fine features, registered a depth of sadness he hadn’t expected to see; he hadn’t thought she’d known Runcorn that well.

“That poor young man. He was so . . .
eager
and keen to make a go of his firm—you could see that just by looking at his face. Oh!” She looked down, her other hand rising to her lips, the fingers of the hand he still clasped clutching lightly. “I’m sorry. Pray forgive me . . .” She briefly waved.

“There’s nothing to forgive.” His voice had lowered, softened, affected by her reaction, and more, drawn by it to acknowledge a sense of loss he hadn’t yet allowed himself the time to feel.

Raising her head, blinking rapidly, she murmured, “It’s bad enough to lose someone like Lady Halstead to a murderer, but when the victim is young, innocent, and had so much potential, so much to live for, the loss is even more tragic.” She met his eyes; her lips twisted wryly. “I only met him three times, and briefly at that, but he seemed so earnest and . . .
true,
if you know what I mean.”

As if only then realizing they were holding hands, she gently drew back her fingers; reluctantly he allowed them to slip free of his grasp. “I’m sorry,” she said. “You must think me quite witless, being so affected by the death of someone I barely knew.”

“No. Not at all. I think you quite”—
lovely, wonderful, glorious
—“admirably sympathetic.” After a moment he added, gravely and sincerely, “Runcorn was a loss the world did not need.”

Her gaze had drifted to the flames, but at that she met his eyes directly. “Exactly. You do understand.”

He inclined his head.

She studied him for a moment, then prompted, “Is there anything more you can tell me? Are there any suspects in Runcorn’s murder?”

Montague hesitated, then mentally decided:
Stokes be damned
. “There was a man—a gentleman . . .” He told her about the Halstead-like male seen near Runcorn’s office before and after the murder, then went on to relate all they’d done, all they’d discovered through the day. He told her of his discovery of the likely meaning of the odd payments into Lady Halstead’s account; when he tried to heap praise on Gibbons, she seemed determined, while acknowledging Gibbons’s input, to focus on his own contribution . . . enough to have him wonder if this was what it felt like to be seduced.

By her words and the thoughts behind them, by the admiration he saw shining in her fine eyes.

He was careful not to give any real details about the veiled woman who had conspired with the murderer to remove the suspect funds and more from Lady Halstead’s account. But when he reached the end of his tale, Violet grew pensive, then proved that she was not at all lacking in intelligence. Meeting his eyes, she stated, “The family will try to say that it was me, that I was the woman who withdrew the money from Lady Halstead’s account. And by that reasoning, I am also guilty of her murder, or was at least an accomplice.”