The Masterful Mr. Montague (7 page)

A second passed, then Barnaby asked, “I take it that Lady Halstead’s will, such as it might be, will essentially bring her life-tenancy of Sir Hugo’s estate to a close and allow execution of the provisions already stipulated in Sir Hugo’s will?”

Violet glanced at Montague. “That is my understanding.”

Montague arched his brows. “I would be exceedingly surprised if that wasn’t the case. From all that I’ve seen and been given to understand, Lady Halstead had little real wealth of her own. As one might expect, the majority of the funds and all property belong to the estate, the disposal of which will be governed by her husband’s will.”

“So,” Barnaby concluded, “her will can’t hold any surprises, at least not with respect to the estate. Even if she’d changed her will, she can’t affect anything that matters.”

“I’d gathered,” Violet said, “that the estate is to be divided equally between the four children.”

Stokes grimaced. “So there’s unlikely to be any motive arising out of the will—at least, not directly. However, if the person responsible for these odd payments heard that the estate’s affairs were going to be reviewed, it’s possible—depending on just what those payments are—that they might have felt, for some reason, that it was better for Lady Halstead to die now, before any investigation could get properly underway.”

“I should point out,” Montague said, “that having studied these payments as far as I’ve thus far been able, my conclusion at this point is that they’re being made in order to conceal funds—and as we all know, the principal reason for concealing funds is that they derive from some illegal activity.”

Stokes was nodding. “So the villain, hearing that the payments are likely to be uncovered—” Breaking off, he looked at Violet. “Neither Lady Halstead nor you mentioned the payments to the family?”

When Violet shook her head, Stokes continued, “So there was no reason for the villain to realize that the existence of the payments had already been uncovered. With that in mind, learning that her ladyship was about to order a presumably extensive review of her affairs and those of the estate, the villain—wishing to conceal the evidence of his illegal activities—therefore had a strong motive to murder her ladyship.”

They all thought that through; no one disagreed.

“And,” Barnaby said, “if the villain is a member of the family—and we should remember that a murder of this sort usually is committed by a family member—that also explains something else that’s been bothering me.” He glanced around the table, meeting the others’ eyes. “How did the murderer get into the house? Is there any evidence of a break-in, of a door or window being forced?”

Violet blinked. “Not that I know of.” She glanced at Stokes, who was already getting to his feet.

“I’ll have my constable take a look around the house, have him check all the windows and doors. And while he’s doing that”—Stokes caught Violet’s gaze—“you can tell us all about the Halsteads.”

Chapter 4

A
t two o’clock that afternoon, along with Stokes and Adair, Montague took one of the four chairs arranged about the head of the dining table in the Lowndes Street house. Violet, who he had ushered into the room and seated in the chair alongside him, had described the family in detail, guided by questions from Adair, Stokes, and himself.

All three of them had instantly realized the difficulty they would face, the care they would have to exercise in interrogating and investigating a family that included a Member of Parliament and a high-ranking Home Office official, as well as both men’s wives. Such men were wont to stand on their dignity and consider themselves above such things as police interrogations, and their wives would almost certainly support them in such a stance.

Consequently, Stokes, Adair, and Montague, aided by Violet’s insights, had discussed their best approach and had settled on an exploratory, relatively gentle, first foray.

After learning the structure of the family and confirming that all had been present at the recent dinner, and provided by Violet with a list of names and directions, Stokes had dispatched messages to each family member, stating only that a tragedy had occurred at the Lowndes Street house and Scotland Yard requested their attendance at the house at two o’clock.

When Montague and Violet, followed by Stokes and Adair, had entered the dining room, all of those summoned had already been seated about the table. As Lady Halstead’s family took note of Violet’s appearance and their hushed whispers died, and they looked—puzzledly, expectantly, and with dawning suspicion—at Stokes, Adair, and himself, Montague found putting names to faces not at all difficult.

Stokes was no doubt discovering the same as he allowed his gaze to sweep the group.

If Montague’s assumptions were correct, Wallace Camberly sat to the left nearest the head of the table, with Mortimer Halstead opposite. Both men were middle-aged, but while Camberly bore his years with hawkish grace, Mortimer wore the faintly harried air and quick-to-frown mien favored by many upper-level civil servants who considered their work—and therefore themselves—of supreme importance. Camberly was dressed to project an image of conservative elegance eminently appropriate to a Member of Parliament, while Mortimer Halstead appeared fussily, rigidly correct, the cut of his dark coat lacking the flair that distinguished Camberly’s.

Next to each man sat his wife—Cynthia Camberly, née Halstead, alongside Wallace, and Constance Halstead beside Mortimer. Both women were handsome enough, the former more slender than the latter. Both were fashionably turned out, but neither radiated any warmth; their expressions appeared carefully controlled.

Next to Cynthia sat her son, Walter. An idle gentleman, according to Violet twenty-seven years old, Walter Camberly kept his chin sunk in his overblown cravat and otherwise watched and observed the rest of his family in silence. Opposite Walter sat his cousin Hayden Halstead, Mortimer’s son, an unremarkable gentleman of twenty-three summers, and beside Hayden sat his equally unremarkable sister, Caroline, just twenty.

Completing the company about the table were Maurice Halstead, who lounged elegantly in the chair beyond his nephew Walter, and William Halstead, who had slumped in the chair at the end of the table with a black look and a faintly curling lip, not-so-subtly distancing himself from his siblings and their children.

As he settled on the chair, Montague found it difficult to imagine any of the three of the younger generation—Walter, Hayden, or Caroline—as their grandmother’s murderer; to his eyes, they lacked the requisite gumption. Their elders, however, were a different matter.

And as the constable who had carefully searched the house for signs of how and where the murderer had entered had reported no evidence of any door being forced or window latch being broken or tampered with, the suspicion that it was one of those seated about the table who had held a pillow over Lady Halstead’s face had gained considerable weight.

The last to take his seat, Stokes finally did, then baldly stated, “I am Inspector Stokes of Scotland Yard. I regret to inform you that Lady Halstead was found dead this morning.” Stokes paused to let the inevitable exclamations roll through the room.

It was instructive to watch the reactions; the initial expressions of shock, of surprise, were all but immediately superseded by expressions of calculation, of speculation and consideration of what Lady Halstead’s death might mean for each individual. Although he watched closely, Montague detected no suggestion of sorrow, even of simple sadness; Violet had warned them that the family were a self-centered lot, but even so, he hadn’t expected such a comprehensively detached response.

Across Stokes, Montague briefly met Adair’s blue eyes and saw the same realization—and the same instinctive disapprobation—reflected there. Then Barnaby looked back at the assembled company, and Montague did, too. If they were correct in their reasoning, then at least one person seated at the table had already known Lady Halstead was dead. Yet given the singular lack of finer feelings on display, search though he did, Montague couldn’t say one member of the family was less affected by the news than any other.

Wallace Camberly shifted restlessly. After sharing a glance with his wife, Camberly looked at Stokes and somewhat peevishly remarked, “While that is, indeed, a tragedy, Inspector, I fail to see what interest Scotland Yard might have in this matter.”

“As to that, sir, permit me to inform you”—with his head, Stokes indicated all those about the table—“and the rest of those gathered here that Lady Halstead did not die peacefully. She was murdered.”

Once again exclamations of shock and surprise rang out, but, as before, it was impossible to label one person’s response less convincing than the others. The reactions of all the family members lacked emotional depth; although all seemed genuinely surprised, even shocked, by the news, they displayed no strong emotional link to Lady Halstead. Instead, their thoughts turned immediately to themselves—leaving no simple way to distinguish a murderer who had acted out of self-interest from the rest of the group.

That somewhat shocking superficiality of emotional connection with her ladyship was borne out by the next exchange.

“How did she die?” Constance Halstead asked, her tone making it clear that the question was prompted by curiosity, plus, perhaps, a realization that someone should ask.

Her query, however, was drowned out by her husband’s clipped and rather pompous observation, “Be that as it may, Inspector, I am unclear as to who these other gentlemen are, and what their interest in what is plainly a private family tragedy might be.”

Stokes looked first at Mrs. Halstead. “Her ladyship was smothered. A pillow was placed over her face while she slept, and held there until she died. Although frail, she struggled, but to no avail.”

Montague saw nothing beyond expressions of detached distaste pass across the family’s faces at that news.

Shifting his gaze to Mortimer, Stokes smoothly continued, “And as for my colleagues, this”—he gestured to Adair on his right—“is the Honorable Mr. Barnaby Adair, consultant investigator to Scotland Yard.” Stokes indicated Montague on his left. “And this is Mr. Montague, of Montague and Son, whom Lady Halstead recently consulted. Mr. Montague holds a letter of authority from Lady Halstead giving him far-reaching powers with regard to her ladyship’s financial affairs. I have viewed that letter and found it to be genuine and comprehensive. Consequently, in this matter, Mr. Montague will be an observer, in effect nominated by Lady Halstead herself.”

That news caused puzzlement and minor consternation as the family decided how they should react. Noting the assessing glances thrown his way, Montague felt certain that had Stokes not confirmed his good standing, his presence would have been challenged.

William Halstead, slouching deeper in his chair, his hands in his pockets, his dark eyes, his entire expression, cynically dour, drawled, “It seems Mama was more farsighted than any of us knew.”

Violet had described William as the family’s pariah; his appearance suggested he relished the position. His dark suit had once been of good quality, but it was now irretrievably creased and showed patches shiny with wear; his jaw was shaven, but roughly, his eyes somewhat sunken, his lips appearing more likely to twist in a sneer than lift in a smile.

Viewed against the strictly conservative façade the rest of the family clearly took pains to project, William stood out. Stood alone.

The heads of all the rest of his family had swung William’s way, but after an instant of observing him, all returned to looking at each other, then, almost as one, they looked at Stokes, Adair, and Montague. Experienced at assessing clients’ reactions, Montague understood that the consensus was that the family had more pressing matters to contend with than his presence.

Cynthia, Lady Halstead’s second child and only daughter, fixed her gaze on Stokes and rather chillingly inquired, “Are you
certain
, Inspector, that my mother was murdered? Could she not merely have died by some”—Cynthia waved—“misadventure?”

“She was old and frail, after all,” Constance Halstead put in. “Are you certain she didn’t simply stop breathing?”

As expected, the family would much rather her ladyship’s death wasn’t declared a murder.

“Both Lady Halstead’s doctor, who was summoned to attend, and the police surgeon concur.” Stokes paused, then definitively stated, “There is no doubt whatever that her ladyship was murdered.”

Cynthia’s pinching lips testified to her irritation, but she said nothing more.

Constance grimaced and sat back.

“That being the case, Inspector, what progress has been made in apprehending the villain?” The question came from Maurice Halstead, according to Violet and all appearances the black-sheep-cum-rake-cum-roué of the family.

Maurice’s question, unsurprisingly, focused the attention of the rest of the family. They all looked to Stokes with varying degrees of haughty demand.

Stokes’s expression remained stoically uninformative. “Our investigations have only just begun. I called you here as a formal courtesy, to ensure you learned of the murder firsthand. We will be pursuing several avenues, and will speak with you all in due course.” Stokes had decided to postpone asking for alibis, explaining that he would rather each family member had a chance to concoct one, as a fabricated alibi, which the police usually found relatively easy to break, was a surer indication of guilt than the absence of an alibi.

“But you must have some idea,” Maurice pressed. “You said you had ‘avenues’ to follow.” His gaze shifted to rest heavily—meaningfully—on Violet. “It seems somewhat far-fetched to imagine some blackguard just happened to choose this house to break into and kill an old lady, apparently for no reason.”

Stokes showed his teeth. “Indeed. But equally, at present, we have no reason to suspect any particular person—nor to discount anyone, either.” He sent a raking gaze around the table. “My immediate question for everyone here is whether you know of or in any way suspect anyone of bearing ill will toward Lady Halstead. For any reason whatever.”

Silence ensued, then the Halsteads and Camberlys looked at each other; brows rose, but no one spoke.

Stokes nodded. “Very well. I will take that as a negative—that none of you know of any reason to suspect anyone of Lady Halstead’s murder.”

A fussy, civil-service frown had appeared on Mortimer’s face as he, too, now stared at Violet. “As you are investigating everyone, am I to take it that that includes females—for instance the three females who live in this house, all of whom could easily have entered my mother’s room, and any of whom might have had some reason, a reason known only to them, to wish my mother dead? My mother was weak and frail. It wouldn’t have taken much strength to overcome her.”

Stokes had warned Violet that such an accusation might well be made, and he had assured her that he, Adair, and Montague considered it without foundation. Despite the warning, she still felt the instinctive urge to violently rebut the notion, to defend not just herself but Tilly and Cook, too, against the scurrilous slur, but remembering Stokes’s caution against doing so, she literally bit her tongue and remained mute.

She did, however, hold Mortimer’s gaze unflinchingly, returning his suspicion with silent defiance.

Mortimer looked away first, glancing questioningly at Stokes.

Who had watched the exchange with unrelenting patience. “I am discounting no one. That includes everyone about this table, and anyone else who has had contact with her ladyship.” His expression mild, Stokes glanced to his left. “That even includes Mr. Montague, although considering his position in the City and his significant reputation, I cannot imagine I will have any difficulty confirming his alibi.”

Gravely sober, Montague inclined his head.

Turning back to the gathering, Stokes swept the faces with his steely gaze, then, his expression and tone growing harder, said, “Unless we gain some early indication of the murderer’s identity, you may expect to be interviewed at some point within the next few days. It would be helpful if you made a note of where you were throughout last night, and who, if anyone, can confirm your presence there.”

Easing back his chair, Stokes stood. “That will be all for now.” He inclined his head to Mortimer Halstead, then to Wallace Camberly. “We will, of course, inform the family once we have the murderer in custody.”

Barnaby, Montague, and Violet also rose.

Cynthia Halstead looked at Stokes. “One moment, Inspector. When may we view the body and make arrangements for the funeral?”

“Her ladyship’s body is presently at the morgue. I believe it will be released for burial the day after tomorrow, but you may send your undertaker there. He will know how to inquire.”

Cynthia’s face blanked. “That’s thoroughly inconvenient.”

Unmoved, Stokes responded, “That’s the way things are done.”