The Masterful Mr. Montague

Chapter 10




Stokes had sent formal requests for the Halsteads and the Camberlys to assemble at the Lowndes Street house at two o’clock that afternoon.

As Penelope had said, “At that hour, they can’t fob you off by saying they have to attend a luncheon, or any other pressing social event.”

Stokes wondered if it was the lack of a viable excuse that saw all the Halstead brood trooping into the drawing room at the appointed time—or curiosity. Watching the arrivals from the rear of the front hall, he murmured to Barnaby, standing beside him, “That rivalry of theirs could work to our advantage.”

Barnaby’s lips lifted in a cynical smile. “You mean they’ve come to learn what you’ve uncovered about the others?” Watching Constance Halstead whisper to her daughter, Caroline, as they passed through the door, he nodded. “You may well be right.”

After a moment, Stokes said, “I wish I could believe that Montague’s searching might give us the answer, but I can’t imagine our villain being silly enough to put his cash anywhere it might be found. Especially not after this business with her ladyship’s accounts.”

“No. He won’t be that stupid.” Montague had told them that it would take several days for him to hear back about the current state of the Halsteads’ bank accounts. “I agree with Montague that it’s one of those things we need to check, on the grounds that we would be stupid not to, just in case, but from the start this villain was cagey enough to know he needed to conceal that money—even more now than before, he’s not going to allow it to be found and connected with him.”

Stokes snorted. “If I were him, I’d put it in a tin under the bed.”

“On top of the wardrobe,” Barnaby murmured back. “Maids eventually find things hidden under beds.”

Stokes’s teeth flashed in a grin.

But he was severely sober when, with Barnaby and Montague, he walked into the drawing room. Violet, Penelope, and Griselda had gone into the room before any of the family had arrived; if anyone had questioned Penelope and Griselda’s presence, Penelope had intended to adopt her most haughty manner and inform them that she and Griselda were there supporting Violet. As Stokes noted all three ensconced on a chaise beneath the windows opposite the fireplace, a position that afforded a clear view of the family members gathered in the chairs and on the twin sofas flanking the hearth, he assumed that any who had dared dispute their right to be there had been duly put in their place.

The three ladies were specifically charged with observing, both the individual reactions and the family interactions; Stokes didn’t anticipate them contributing to the proceedings and fervently hoped they wouldn’t. Explaining why their wives were posing questions in an interview would, he felt, tax even Barnaby’s ingenuity.

After surveying the family and confirming all were present, Stokes crossed to take a position before the fireplace, from where he had an excellent view of all in the room. Barnaby and Montague followed; Barnaby halted on Stokes’s right, with Montague beyond him. They, too, could see everyone’s faces, could watch and note every reaction.

Two constables unobtrusively came into the room and, after quietly shutting the door, took up stations to either side.

They’d decided to use the drawing room rather than the dining room for this confrontation purely because the setting gave Stokes, and Barnaby and Montague, the advantage of height. They were standing, while, of course, the Halstead men had claimed prime positions on the sofas and in the armchairs.

Stokes was determined to shake the family and see what fell out of their tree.

“Well, Inspector,” Wallace Camberly said, “what news?”

“I do hope you’re here to tell us that the police have our mother’s murderer behind bars.” Mortimer Halstead all but sniffed. “God knows Peel’s force has been endowed with sufficient resources.”

Cynthia Camberly, née Halstead, smiled somewhat unctuously at Stokes. “Don’t mind my brother, Inspector—he tends to be rather bureaucratically minded. But I take it you have news to impart?”

Stokes had shifted his gaze from Wallace to Mortimer; now he allowed it to rest on Cynthia for a moment too long to be comfortable—for his scrutiny to edge into insultingly superior—then, slowly, he surveyed the circle of faces. Only when his visual claiming was complete did he say, “I’ve summoned you here to inform you that Mr. Andrew Runcorn, of Runcorn and Son, whom Lady Halstead had requested to review her affairs, was murdered two nights ago.”

Barnaby concentrated on the younger men—on Walter Camberly and Hayden Halstead—leaving Montague to watch their fathers, Wallace and Mortimer. As far as Barnaby could see, both young men’s reactions fitted with their characters and ages—Walter, some years older, looked faintly shocked and a touch puzzled, while Hayden, although noting the information, continued to look quietly, rather sullenly, bored. Walter hadn’t expected to hear such news and didn’t know what to make of it, while Hayden really didn’t care—Runcorn’s death meant nothing to him.

Whoever had murdered Runcorn, Barnaby decided, it wasn’t either of them.

After an initial moment of faintly shocked surprise, Cynthia leaned forward. Fixing Stokes with a commanding eye, she asked, “Are you suggesting, Inspector, that Mr. Runcorn’s murder was in some way associated with his work on my mother’s affairs?”

Again, Stokes was deliberately slow in answering, but eventually, he said, “As your mother’s papers were scattered over Mr. Runcorn’s desk and had obviously been searched, it’s difficult to avoid that conclusion, ma’am.”

“Well!” Constance Halstead’s bosom swelled. “I really cannot see why anyone would have any interest in Mama-in-law’s affairs. It must have been purely coincidental that her papers were on Mr. Runcorn’s desk at that time.”

“Indeed.” Wallace Camberly’s tone was clipped. “As her ladyship had requested Mr. Runcorn to review her affairs, I cannot see that there’s any great significance in her papers being on his desk at the time of his murder.” His gaze flat, Camberly met Stokes’s eyes. “I believe you are making too much of a deductive leap, Inspector. Runcorn doubtless had many clients, and who are we to say who he might or might not have crossed through his work? His murder might have come about through his association with any of those others. As far as I can see, there’s no reason whatever to suggest that his unfortunate murder was in any way connected with his work for Lady Halstead.”

Unperturbed and imperturbable, Stokes regarded Camberly for a long moment, then raised his gaze and again swept the gathering. “You might also be interested to learn that, on the morning following Mr. Runcorn’s murder, a large sum of money was withdrawn from Lady Halstead’s bank account.”

That caused a far more acute reaction.

“Who by?” Mortimer demanded.

“The devil!” Maurice shot upright in the corner of the sofa in which he’d been sprawled. “Do you mean that we—Mama—have been robbed?”

Cynthia’s expression shifted from shock to calculation. “How much was taken?”

“And how?” Wallace Camberly’s question was more in the nature of a peremptory demand. “Great heavens—the banks are supposed to have procedures in place to prevent this sort of thing.”


“Indeed—and they do.” Mortimer huffed. “Just what is going on here, Inspector? Is the bank itself somehow involved?”

Comments, conjecture, and speculation came from all quarters; even Caroline was moved to exclaim over the lost funds.

Stokes decided they’d gone on long enough—that his observers had had time enough to observe. He shifted—a single, forceful, menacing movement that instinctively had everyone glancing at him—then waited until the babbling ceased and their attention was once again his. “The police have established that the bank acted properly. They fulfilled a request submitted in writing by Lady Halstead. The bank was unaware that her ladyship was deceased. As Runcorn had not yet been informed of Lady Halstead’s murder, then he, as her ladyship’s man-of-business, had not yet informed the bank of the change in his client’s situation. On close inspection, the letter presented to the bank was discovered to be a forgery, but a very good one. Whoever wrote it was extremely well acquainted with her ladyship’s hand.”

“Who presented the letter to the bank?” William asked.

Stokes regarded him for a moment before replying, “A veiled woman, thought to be a lady, although her station was purely an assumption.”

A puzzled silence fell. Constance Halstead was the first to turn her head and look across the room at Violet, sitting on the chaise flanked by Griselda and Penelope.

Constance’s daughter, Caroline, noticed, and she, too turned to look.

One by one, the others realized, and then all were staring at Violet, varying degrees of speculation verging on imminent accusation in their faces.

“Why wear a veil?” Cynthia mused.

Mortimer took her question at face value. “Obviously,” he retorted, “to conceal her identity.”

Cynthia’s lips curved sarcastically as she glanced pityingly at Mortimer. “Precisely. Which suggests she expected to be recognized.” Cynthia lifted her gaze to Stokes’s face. “Does that not suggest, Inspector, that the veiled woman was in some way connected with my mother?”

Constance Halstead turned from her pointed scrutiny of Violet to add, “Especially with the letter being such a close match to Mama-in-law’s hand.”

“That,” Stokes gravely conceded, “is one possible interpretation, but as the police have already discounted the members of her ladyship’s immediate household, I would be interested in hearing of which other females linked to Lady Halstead you think might warrant further investigation.”

Both Cynthia and Constance immediately pulled back. They exchanged glances but kept their lips shut.

Wallace Camberly shifted restlessly. “To return to more pertinent issues, Inspector, how much was stolen from the account?”

“I’m afraid,” Stokes smoothly replied, “that I am not yet at liberty to disclose that information.”

Barnaby had been observing Walter and Hayden throughout; Walter continued to look puzzled, while Hayden had resorted to studying his fingernails.

They’d decided to withhold the information that a gentleman fitting a description that matched five of the family had been seen at Runcorn’s office and outside the bank at the critical times, judging that if they revealed that card, the family would band together, put up their shields, and become even more defensive and unhelpful.

They were unhelpful enough as it was.

Stokes had been consulting his notebook. Now he raised his gaze and, his voice hardening, said, “I have also to inform you that, this morning, Tilly Westcott, her ladyship’s maid, was discovered murdered in her bed upstairs.”

That jolted even Hayden into attentiveness; while his face revealed no sympathy, much less sorrow, his expression displayed a certain startled, prurient interest.

Walter’s eyes had grown round, but he remained silent, allowing his parents, aunt, and uncles to put voice to the family’s response.

Which could be summed up by an unvoiced What has that to do with us? Their expressions remained largely blank, some a touch bewildered, as if waiting for Stokes to explain the connection, to elucidate why they should be concerned with the maid’s death.

Stokes obliged. “Miss Westcott was murdered in precisely the same manner as Lady Halstead.” He paused, then went on, “We—the police—therefore believe that Miss Westcott was most likely murdered by the same villain, and most likely because she knew something that, at some point, would have identified Lady Halstead’s killer.”

Barnaby was rapidly losing interest in Walter Halstead and Hayden Camberly. All he was observing in either man was either bewilderment or curiosity. Neither showed any sign of knowing anything, of having any awareness at all, of any of the three murders.

Wallace Camberly was frowning. “In that case, Inspector, is it not reasonable to suppose that this maid, having over the years no doubt learned much from her ladyship concerning her wealth, was an accomplice to her ladyship’s murder, and indirectly to that of her ladyship’s man-of-business, and then, in disguise, assisted in the theft of the funds from the bank, only to subsequently be murdered by her partner in crime?”

“Indeed, Inspector.” Mortimer Halstead unbent enough to stiffly incline his head to his brother-in-law. “Such a scenario admirably accounts for the facts.” Mortimer raised his gaze to Stokes’s face and arched an arrogant brow. “It’s certainly more believable than any suggestion that any member of this family had anything to do with any criminal act.”

Stokes held onto his temper and, his expression unreadable, blandly asked, “One aspect remains to be adequately explained, even by that scenario. Namely, how the murderer gained access to this house on two separate occasions via a key to the side door.” Stokes swept the family with a sharply questioning gaze. “As we’ve come to that point, allow me to ask: Who among you has keys to this house?”

A ripple, not so much of unease as of annoyance, spread around the gathering.

Camberly glanced sharply at his wife. “As far as I am aware, we don’t have one.”

Cynthia’s lips compressed, as if the question had prodded a sore spot, but she nodded. “We don’t.” As if compelled, she looked up at Stokes and snippily added, “And as far as I know, no other among this family does, either.”

Mortimer, too, appeared irritated. “My mother, Inspector, was . . . independently minded. Even after my father died and she elected to remain here alone, she did not, as far as I am aware, distribute keys to this house.” Mortimer again looked at Violet. “I daresay Miss Matcham can confirm that.”

Across the width of the room, Violet met Stokes’s eyes and reluctantly nodded. “I’m not aware that Lady Halstead gave any of her family a key to this house—she told me she didn’t see the need.”

“Precisely!” Cynthia nodded and looked at Stokes. “So you see, Inspector, there’s no question of any family member being involved.”

“For once I must agree with my sister, Inspector.” Mortimer’s expression suggested that doing so was akin to sucking a lemon. “Which brings me to ask what the police are doing to catch this murderous thief.”

Refusing to respond to the undisguised jab carried in the tone of Mortimer’s demand, Stokes smoothly replied, “The investigation is proceeding on several fronts. The family will be informed in due course of the outcome, but at this stage, our immediate next step is to establish the alibis of all those who are, by virtue of their association with the victim, potential suspects. Anyone who might, directly or indirectly, gain from her ladyship’s death is, in the eyes of the law, a potential suspect. Consequently, while I assume it will be a mere formality, I must ask each of you for an accounting of where you were on the three evenings on which the murders took place.”


The gathering erupted in protest, the ladies feigning shock and incipient outrage, the three Halstead brothers blustering and disputing the necessity.

Neither Walter Camberly nor Hayden Halstead added their voices to the clamor, but Barnaby noted that both looked uneasy. However, their wariness was focused on their respective mothers, which, Barnaby suspected, suggested guilt not over the murders but over something else. Something possibly entirely understandable and not at all villainous.

Wallace Camberly, too, did not bother verbally protesting; he sat in the corner of one sofa, his lips compressed, his expression that of a man whose temper was being sorely tried. He radiated irritation and severe annoyance, but, unlike the others, he gave the impression he fully understood that, in this instance, there was nothing to be gained from resistance.

Unruffled, stoic, Stokes waited out the protests, but Camberly reached the end of his patience first.

“Inspector—I’m a very busy man.” Camberly straightened and met Stokes’s gaze. “As I can see you are bound and determined to take our alibis, might I ask that you take mine first? There’s a debate in Parliament later this afternoon that I wish to attend.”

As all the other comments faded, Stokes inclined his head, but before he could say anything, Mortimer declared, “I, too, am expected elsewhere.” He caught Stokes’s eye. “I must return to my desk and my duties. The wheels of government will not pause for something as minor as domestic murder.”

Barnaby suspected that Stokes, like he, might argue that last, but . . .

Stokes, no doubt quite pleased but hiding it, inclined his head to Mortimer, then glanced at Camberly. “Perhaps, Mr. Camberly, you would step this way?” Stokes waved to a round table with two chairs that sat in an alcove at the end of the long room. “And after I have your statement, I can deal with Mr. Halstead.”

“Indeed.” Camberly rose, straightened his jacket, settled his sleeves, then followed Stokes to the end of the room.

Mortimer Halstead watched them go.

His wife and his sister drew deep breaths, then started to argue over which of them was most urgently expected elsewhere such that they, and not the other, should follow Mortimer in giving Stokes their alibis.

Barnaby battled a grin. He glanced at Montague. Under cover of the din, Barnaby murmured, “Any insights?”

Montague shook his head. “Both Camberly and Mortimer Halstead are too accustomed to guarding their expressions. They were too often blank, or held rigidly to blandness—I couldn’t identify any specific reaction to any of the revelations, or rather, none that would denote guilt.”

Barnaby grimaced lightly. “Let’s hope the ladies had more luck.”

Across the room, Penelope turned to Violet. “Did any of them behave in a manner you hadn’t expected?”

Violet considered, then shook her head. “I was mildly surprised that Caroline actually spoke, but what she said wasn’t out of character. She, Hayden, and Walter usually attend this house under sufferance because their parents insist they must. They rarely contribute to any discussion and, I often think, are usually absorbed with thoughts of other things. Today . . . I would say all three were attending, concentrating on what was said, but . . .” She grimaced. “I sensed their interest stemmed more from curiosity—that sort of horrified fascination violent death tends to evoke.”

Her gaze moving over the gathering before the fireplace, Griselda nodded. “Indeed—that’s precisely how I read it, too.” Glancing across Violet, she met Penelope’s gaze. “I didn’t detect any suspicious reaction, did you?”

Penelope wrinkled her nose and looked back at Lady Halstead’s assembled family. “No.” After a moment, she added, “That said, having now seen and observed them all, and thus finally comprehending just how overwhelming their self-interest and self-absorption truly are, I’m even more convinced that someone here, someone presently in this room, is indeed the murderer”—she looked back at Violet and Griselda—“for the simple reason that I cannot imagine any other person having a sufficiently good motive for killing first Lady Halstead, then Runcorn, then Tilly the maid, and going one step further and attempting to murder Violet, too.” Penelope looked back at the Halsteads and Camberlys. “So it’s someone here, but which one?”

“Perhaps their alibis will give us some clue.” Griselda studied her husband, presently seated at the round table writing in his notebook as Mortimer Halstead, with a patently dismissive air, recited his whereabouts on the nights in question. Wallace Camberly had completed his turn and, with a brief nod to his wife, had departed, leaving through the door one of the constables had opened for him; Griselda knew there were two more constables in the front hall, waiting to ensure the family members quit the house directly and weren’t tempted to stray into the sitting room or upstairs.

Mortimer Halstead rose from the table; after surveying the room, his expression cold and closed, he headed for the door. His wife, Constance, replaced him at the table, having stolen a march on Cynthia, who had been delayed by her son, Walter; the pair stood together, heads bent close, by the fireplace. Observing the quality of their exchange, Griselda murmured, “I’d wager Cynthia is coaching Walter on what he should say.”

Penelope considered the sight, then snorted. “As if Stokes and his men won’t check.”

Constance rose from the table. Noticing, Cynthia whisked in to take her place, waving Caroline, who had intended to follow Constance, back. Although she scowled, Caroline gave way to her aunt and stepped back to wait her turn.

Constance Halstead paused to study the room. Her gaze came to rest on Violet, protectively flanked by Penelope and Griselda, and, head rising, much in the manner of a frigate under full sail, Constance swept across the room, bearing down on the chaise. Halting before it, she looked down at Violet. Ignoring Penelope and Griselda to either side, her expression that of a matron dealing with a household chore, Constance stated, “Miss Matcham, I believe you are better placed than any of the family to undertake the responsibility of dealing with this unfortunate occurrence of Miss Westcott’s death. Indeed, I suspect it falls within the scope of your duties to her ladyship to do so.”

Looking into Mrs. Halstead’s face, taking in her somewhat petulant tone, Violet bit her tongue at that “unfortunate occurrence”; after a moment’s consideration, she stiffly inclined her head. “As you say, Mrs. Halstead, on her ladyship’s behalf I will contact Miss Westcott’s family.” She certainly wouldn’t want to leave the matter of making sure Tilly’s body and effects were properly dealt with to any of the Halstead brood. Glancing at Stokes, she saw him still busy writing as Cynthia rose from her seat at the table and Caroline swiftly took her place. Looking back at Constance, Violet amended, “Or at least, I will liaise with the police as to what should be done in that regard.”

Constance’s expression turned peevish. “I’m sure I don’t know why the police are making themselves so busy over this latest murder—it’s hardly of any great import.”

Before Violet, Penelope, or Griselda could voice any of the retorts that leapt to their tongues, Cynthia Camberly halted beside her sister-in-law in a swish of stylishly subdued skirts. All three ladies of the family—Constance, Caroline, and Cynthia—had made some attempt to dress appropriately for mourning, but, of course, their orders for new mourning gowns were still with their dressmakers.


Unsmiling, her expression arrogantly superior, Cynthia looked down her nose at Violet. “As I’m sure you will understand, Miss Matcham, the family will wish to close up this house as soon as possible. Given her ladyship is gone, all reason for your continued employment has vanished, as, indeed, is true for the rest of the staff. Although her ladyship’s funeral will be held at St. Peter’s, we’ve agreed that it would be most convenient to host the wake here. After that, however, we would prefer to see the house closed.”

“Indeed.” Constance Halstead nodded. “So if you could inform Cook that you and she will need to make other arrangements commencing from tomorrow evening?”

“To ensure an appropriate standard, I will send my butler, two footmen, and a kitchen maid to assist with serving at the wake and with the subsequent clearing of the kitchen,” Cynthia added. “However, both you and Cook should consider your employment terminated as of the end of that day.”

Keeping all reaction from her face, Violet studied the two harridans before her. She’d lived in the house, and had given exemplary service, for the past eight years, and Cook had done the same for even longer.

Violet felt Penelope’s fingers tighten about her own in both support and warning; on her other side, Griselda shifted a fraction closer, without words signaling her support as well. Holding onto her composure with an iron grip, Violet stiffly inclined her head. As if from a distance, she heard herself say, “I will convey your instructions to Cook.”

“Excellent.” With a nod of dismissal, Cynthia turned, as did Constance, as Caroline joined them.

Constance and Caroline gathered their shawls and headed for the door.

Cynthia remained standing for several moments, through narrowed eyes watching her brother Maurice take his turn at the table with Stokes. Then she audibly sniffed, turned on her heel, and, head rising high, followed her sister-in-law from the room.

Griselda, Penelope, and Violet watched her go.

After a moment, Penelope observed, “I cannot recall ever meeting such dislikeable people.”

Griselda smothered a cynical laugh. She looked at those still in the room. “I have to admit it’s rare to meet such a universally unattractive group—there’s not one my heart warms to.”

“Are they always like that?” Penelope glanced at Violet. “Always so unlikeable?”

She thought back over the years, then nodded. “Yes. I’ve known them all for eight years, and they’ve always been as they are—coldly self-serving.”

So self-serving she was going to have to find a new roof over her head . . . just the thought of trying to sleep upstairs, of being in this house when night again fell, sent a shiver down her spine.

Violet looked up and found Montague watching her; even across the room, she sensed his concern.

Once the ladies had departed, it didn’t take long for the remaining men to give Stokes their alibis; as the last, Hayden, took himself off, Stokes rose and walked up the room.

Barnaby and Montague, who had hung back by the fireplace, observing the men, stirred and came forward to join the group as Stokes halted before the chaise Violet, Penelope, and Griselda still graced.

“Anything?” Barnaby asked, nodding at the notebook Stokes was perusing.

Stokes cast him a jaundiced look. “I asked for alibis for all three murders as well as the morning when the money was taken from the bank. With regard to the evenings, the ladies, unsurprisingly, have alibis of a social nature—messy, but they can be checked. However, as we’ve all agreed no female killed Runcorn or Tilly, and it was a male who met the woman from the bank, then our ladies are largely irrelevant.” Stokes flipped over a leaf of his notebook. “The gentlemen’s alibis are rather less specific, and much less easy to verify. For instance, all of them claim to have been either in bed, or walking in the park, or generally about on the morning when the money was taken from the bank. Their evening alibis are this club or that, this hell or that, this party or that. It’s highly unlikely we’ll be able to easily verify any of those.” Stokes looked down the page and snorted. “William Halstead’s alibis, while overtly the weakest, are probably going to be the easiest to confirm—he says he was drinking in a tavern by the docks on all three nights.”

Barnaby nodded. “If it’s his regular drinking hole, the barman and bargirls will know him and, most likely, be able to tell us if he was there.”

Grimly, Stokes nodded. “Exactly.” He glanced at the three ladies, then at Montague and Barnaby. “So other than predictably unhelpful alibis, what else did we learn from this exercise?”

Sliding his hands into his trouser pockets, Barnaby volunteered, “I doubt either Walter Camberly or Hayden Halstead is the murderer. Neither can yet control their expressions all that well—not like their elders—and neither reacted to the news of the deaths with any reaction that might suggest guilt.”

Penelope and Griselda exchanged glances. “The ladies,” Penelope reported, “also showed no consciousness or any awareness that would suggest they knew anything about the crimes.”

“Unfortunately,” Montague said, “the older males were impossible to read.” Montague met Stokes’s eyes. “In all my years of meeting with and assessing the reactions of clients, I have rarely met such . . . controlled fa?ades.”

Stokes nodded. “Indeed. William Halstead appeared to be the easiest to read—he appeared unconcerned and detached throughout—but was that a mask, or was that reality? Given the artfully crafted faces Mortimer, Camberly, and Maurice all showed, I can’t have any confidence I read any of them aright.”

Montague sighed. “So in terms of flushing out the murderer, this exercise fell somewhat short of our mark.”

The others all rather glumly nodded.

Violet glanced at their faces, then rose. “I believe we can all do with some tea. Just let me have a word with Cook first—I have to tell her the family are letting us go and wish to close up this house tomorrow evening.”

Stokes arched his brows.

Montague looked concerned.

Leaving them all to follow, Violet headed for the kitchen.

Aye, well,” Cook said when Violet informed her that they would have to quit the house. “That’s no more nor less than what I’d expected from that lot, but, truth be told, wild horses couldn’t keep me under this roof a single night more.” Seeing the others coming into the kitchen, Cook turned to the stove, to the kettle she’d set boiling on the hob. She spoke over her shoulder as she filled the big teapot. “I’m off to me sister’s this afternoon. I’ll be back tomorrow morning to prepare the meats for the wake, but I’m already packed, and no amount of persuading will make me stay.”

Setting aside the kettle, Cook cradled the teapot in her large hands; swishing it, she turned and met Violet’s eyes. “You’d do well to do the same, Violet, m’dear—don’t you stay here another night. Even more’n me, you have reason to go somewhere safe—some place no murderer will come skulking to your door.”

Violet grimaced. Would that she had such a place . . . but just the thought of spending the night in the house alone was enough to stiffen her resolve. “Yes. You’re right. Perhaps I’ll find a small hotel nearby.”

Montague had held a chair at the table for Penelope, and did the same for Griselda; Barnaby and Stokes were chatting in the doorway, still swapping opinions on the Halsteads. Drawing out a chair for Violet, Montague inclined his head to Cook, then met Violet’s eyes as she moved to take the seat. “I agree with Cook. You must not remain here.” If it had been at all acceptable, he would have offered her room at his apartment; regardless, he wouldn’t be able to sleep if she attempted to remain at the Lowndes Street house. He eased the chair in as she sat. “If you need any assistance finding somewhere suitable to stay, I will be happy to escort you to any establishment you wish to consider.”


“As to that.” In the chair on the other side of Violet, Penelope shifted to face her. “I have a proposition to make.”

Violet widened her eyes, inviting Penelope to share.

Penelope smiled and accepted the cup of tea Cook handed her. “Thank you.” Setting down the cup and saucer, Penelope looked again at Violet. “I should first confess that, aside from occasionally involving myself in investigations, and, of course, seeing to my young son—Oliver is only eight months old—I am also something of a scholar. I specialize in ancient languages, and I correspond with other experts up and down the country. At the request of certain academic institutions, I occasionally take on translations of ancient texts. However, I’ve discovered that since the arrival of Oliver, my correspondence has sadly fallen by the wayside, to the point that I really do need the services of an amanuensis to keep track of things.” Penelope paused to sip her tea, then grimaced. “Believe me, this is not a fabricated need—both Barnaby and Griselda, let alone Mostyn, our majordomo, can verify that.”

Capturing Violet’s gaze, Penelope held it almost hopefully. “As I understand it, you are the daughter of a reverend and better trained in letters than is customary, and as part of your duties you acted as Lady Halstead’s secretary. So . . . I wondered if you would be willing to move to Albemarle Street and take up the position of my secretary?”

When Violet didn’t immediately respond, Penelope’s gaze grew beseeching. “At least on a trial basis? I won’t hold you to it if you find the work too onerous.”

Violet had to smile. After a moment more of studying Penelope’s eyes, and seeing nothing beyond sincerity in the chocolate-brown depths, she set down her teacup, hesitated, then asked, “You’re truly not inventing this position because I so obviously desperately need one?”

Penelope placed her right palm over her heart. “I swear I really do need your help.”

Across the table, Griselda leaned forward and caught Violet’s eye. “She really does need help. Her desk has literally disappeared under a pile of letters and papers and open books.”

“Besides”—Penelope’s gaze went past Violet to Montague, currently conducting a quiet conversation with Cook—“I think you’ll discover that your case is not anywhere near as desperate as you might suppose.” Meeting Violet’s eyes, Penelope smiled. “You have friends. We would help you regardless, but, as it happens, I really do need a secretary, and I suspect you’ll be perfect for the post.”

Griselda held up a hand. “I’ll second that. Aside from anything else, you’ve already demonstrated that you will question Penelope when the situation calls for it, and, trust me, too few of her acquaintance will do that.”

Penelope pulled a face at Griselda, but both women were smiling.

The chance to join with them, to be a part of a friendship that so effortlessly spanned the social strata, to have other ladies who understood her concerns and could sympathize . . . Violet blinked. When Penelope and Griselda both turned hopeful faces her way, she nodded and met Penelope’s eyes. “Very well. I’ll come to Albemarle Street and be your secretary.”

“Excellent.” Penelope drained her cup. “In that case, let’s go upstairs and help you pack.”

Violet paused to have a word with Cook, confirming that they would meet at the church the next day. Heading for the door, Violet was conscious of Montague’s gaze following her; he had been delighted by her decision to accept Penelope’s post, an emotion fueled rather transparently by relief. Relief that she would be safe.

While their husbands had joined Montague at the table to absentmindedly drink tea and chew over the investigation, Penelope and Griselda had waited for Violet by the kitchen door; climbing the stairs with the pair at her heels, Violet realized it had been a very long time since anyone had been concerned, personally concerned, over her safety. Since her father . . . despite her friendships with Lady Ogilvie and Lady Halstead, neither had been that close—in that way, to that degree.

Reaching the first floor and the door to her room, she led the way in. Her boxes and her small suitcase were stowed under her bed; it was the work of a minute to drag them out and wipe off the dust. Then Penelope and Griselda threw themselves into helping her gather all her belongings and pack them into the boxes and case.

Fifteen minutes saw it done. Violet paused, staring at the small pile of luggage assembled on her bed, her winter coat and bonnet waiting alongside. The sense of emptiness that now pervaded the house impinged, sank in. She glanced at Penelope and Griselda. “Tilly’s things are in her room in the attic. She had even less than I. If you’re not in a rush to be off, it might be better to pack her things now and take them with us so . . .”

“So you never have to set foot upstairs in this house again?” Penelope’s glasses gleamed as she nodded. “An excellent idea.”

“And yes,” Griselda said, “we have time. We’ll help.”

Having the pair with her made climbing the attic stairs to the tiny bedroom tucked under the eaves somewhat easier. The door to Tilly’s room had been left propped open. Violet entered, then stood transfixed by the sight of the narrow cot, which remained exactly as it had been when the constables had carried Tilly’s body away, with the sheets dreadfully rumpled by Tilly’s last desperate battle, the pillow still holding the impression of her head. The reality of Tilly’s death rolled over Violet; a leaden weight settled on her shoulders, a chilly vise closed about her heart.

Tilly had been a good woman, a friendly face, a close colleague. A friend, albeit without the same sort of empathy Violet could already sense with Penelope and Griselda. Life was like that; some people were instantly within one’s inner circle, while others were frequent and near, yet remained friends at a certain remove.

One still felt their loss.

Without a word, Penelope and Griselda moved past Violet and started to strip the bed.

That broke the spell. Turning to the old washstand, Violet bent and pulled Tilly’s old, battered case from beneath it. Opening the case on the floor beside the dresser next to the washstand, Violet started transferring the contents of the dresser drawers.

She was emptying the middle drawer when footsteps, heavy and masculine, sounded on the stairs.

“Miss Matcham? Violet?”

Montague. “We’re in Tilly’s room,” she called.

He appeared in the doorway and took in the scene. Violet rose and went to him.

Without hesitation, he reached out and took her hands, one in each of his. His thumbs moved over the backs of her hands, stroking, comforting; ignoring Penelope and Griselda entirely, he studied her eyes. Then he pressed her hands gently. “We’ll find who did this—who killed Tilly, and Runcorn, and Lady Halstead. We”—with a tip of his head he included Penelope and Griselda, and by inference Stokes and Barnaby—“all of us, will not rest until he’s caught. Until Tilly, and Runcorn, and Lady Halstead are avenged.”

He held her hands for a moment more, then—to her intense surprise—he raised one and touched his lips to the backs of her fingers. Heat tingled where his lips brushed. Lowering her hand, he smiled faintly. “Have faith, my dear—we will find him.”

With that, he stepped back; his hands reluctantly released hers and she had to fight not to curl her fingers and hold onto him. His eyes held hers. “I must go, but I’ll see you tomorrow.”


Looking beyond her, he dipped his head to Penelope and Griselda. “Ladies.” Again, he met Violet’s eyes. “I’ll see you at the funeral.”

She nodded. With a last, lingering look, he turned and left.

For several moments, she stood listening to his footsteps retreat, then she drew in a deep breath, turned, and went back to packing poor Tilly’s belongings. Alongside her, Penelope and Griselda finished folding the covers and straightening the mattress and pillows, then, without waiting to be asked, they came to help her close Tilly’s case.

Our endeavors are evolving in ways I, for one, hadn’t expected.” Penelope, as usual, led the way into the elegant bedroom she and Barnaby somewhat unconventionally shared.

The evening was over and night had settled over Mayfair. Ambling in in Penelope’s wake, Barnaby paused to shut the door, watching as Penelope, after setting her reticule on her dressing table, glided to one set of long windows. Beyond the glass, the night sky was a muddle of dark grays, a chill fog rolling in off the Thames. Reaching up, Penelope drew the heavy curtains closed, sealing them in with the comfortable and familiar.

With the warmth of shared lives.

Earlier, in the late afternoon, when they’d returned to Albemarle Street with Violet, Penelope had bustled about settling her new secretary into the household. Barnaby had checked through and dealt with his correspondence, spoken with Mostyn, then retreated to the nursery to share his thoughts on recent events with Oliver. Eventually, Penelope had joined them; she’d been enthused, engaged, and more energized than she’d been since Oliver’s birth.

Leaving Violet to her own devices—something she’d assured them suited her perfectly—Penelope, Oliver, and Barnaby had spent the evening at a family gathering at Calverton House with the entire Ashford family, children and all, gathered about the long table, with Minerva, Dowager Viscountess Calverton, seated in the center and, gracious and delighted, presiding over all.

Everyone present had done all they could to please the ageing matriarch; Minerva had devoted her entire life to her brood, and in turn they were, one and all, devoted to her.

To Barnaby’s mind, the illustration of the Halsteads’ shortcomings could not have been more marked.

On returning from Mount Street, he and Penelope had settled a deeply sleeping Oliver into his crib, then had stood hand in hand looking down at their son for several of those precious minutes Barnaby was coming to treasure. Then, in silent accord, they’d turned away and come downstairs to their room.

With the curtains drawn over the second pair of windows, Penelope whirled, a delighted grin on her face. “But the excellent news is that we are, indeed, progressing.”

Shrugging out of his coat, Barnaby demurred. “I wouldn’t go so far as that—we’ve still no clue as to which of the Halstead men is the murderer.”

Pausing to set the necklace and earrings she’d removed on her dressing table, Penelope threw him a pitying look. “I didn’t mean progress with the investigation, but in how to manage investigating, how to balance it along with everything else.”

“Ah.” Barnaby nodded. “Your inspired idea of hiring Violet as your secretary.”

“Precisely. You have to admit it was a masterstroke—multiple birds killed with one stone.”

He smiled to himself, then confessed, “If you hadn’t suggested it, I would have. Mostyn has even complained to me about the dust enveloping your desk.”

She sighed. “Yes, well, I had no idea having a baby—or rather, said newborn itself—would prove such a very distracting distraction. You have to remember I’m the youngest of my family—I had no idea babies were so sweet and funny and altogether delightful. Oliver just has to start waving his hands and I’m enthralled, and an hour wings by before I even notice.”

He humphed. “You can’t claim any distinction on that score—I’m the same.” Reaching out as she passed, he looped an arm around her waist and drew her to him—into his arms, into a kiss.

She kissed him back, her lips moving with familiar and confident ease beneath his, then, as he did, she drew back.

He looked into her eyes, so dark in the muted lamplight that their expression was impossible to read, then, very much feeling his way, he murmured, “I wonder if the effect will still be the same once our second child comes along.”

Her hands gripping his upper arms, leaning comfortably back in his embrace, she studied his eyes, then her lips lightly quirked upward. “My guess would be probably not, for us—you and me—at any rate, but I daresay we’ll find out—in good time.”

Tilting her head, she went on, “I want to enjoy this time—this first time, with our first child—fully before we complicate matters further. I want to know, to feel confident that I’ve worked out this balance thing—that I’ve found the ways to organize all the facets of my life so that I can fully enjoy all of them, that I can get the most and give my best to each aspect without neglecting any other, rather than feeling as I have in recent times that all the aspects are constantly tugging at me, pulling in different directions, and that although I’m trying as hard as I can, I’m failing to properly succeed with any of them.”

He studied her face. “I hadn’t realized it was that . . . problematic. That it—everything all together—was tearing you apart.”

She nodded, one of her usual decisive, definite nods. “That’s exactly how it felt—like a mental drawing and quartering.” She met his gaze, and her lips gently curved. Twining her hands at his nape, leaning back against his hold, she swayed a little, side to side. “But, as I said, we’re making progress, and, indeed, we’re well on the way to getting it right—to finding the way for me to keep my balance and be happy and satisfied in all areas of my life.”

“That’s why you’re so pleased to have Violet as your secretary—she’s a part of your plan.”

“Exactly. The weight of papers on my desk is not something Griselda can assist me with, but Violet can—and, indeed, I rather suspect she, too, is one who would feel shortchanged by life and ultimately unsatisfied if her skills weren’t appreciated and put to use.” Pausing, she studied his eyes. “But what of you? What do you think of the new order taking shape, of my new and better balanced life? For, of course, you are one of the areas of my life I’m seeking to better service.”

Knowing full well her choice of verb wasn’t in the least accidental—a fact underscored by her pressing closer and suggestively continuing the side-to-side sway of her hips against his upper thighs, her taut stomach, encased in sleek silk, stroking over his already significant erection—he couldn’t help but grin, yet he could see in her expression, tell from her watchfulness, that her question was serious and his answer important. He looked inward—and somewhat to his surprise found the truth waiting to be uttered, all but on his tongue. “I like it—I like having you beside me, mentally if not always physically, in an investigation.” He paused, then confessed, “I didn’t know how much I’d missed it—your involvement—not until you insisted and pressed, and forced your way back.” An idea—a truth—occurred to him; for an instant, he considered holding it back but then drew breath and, with her warm and vital in his arms, admitted, “I suspect—I believe—that I need your intelligence, your mind, engaged and committed, to strike the brightest sparks from mine.” His voice lowered; his next words came from somewhere so deep that their utterance felt like a catharsis. “Without you by my side, I will never be the best I can be.”


Penelope read the truth in his blue eyes, the cerulean hue brilliantly bright even in the muted light. She heard the echo in his deep, rough tone, felt it in her heart, in her bones.

Letting the curve of her lips deepen, she stretched up and drew his lips to hers. Murmured, in the instant before their lips met, “We’re a pair, you and I—just as well we’re doing this together.”

She pressed upward and sealed his lips with hers, kissed him—then let her lips part in invitation, let the reins slide from her grasp, and sensed him make the same decision, and surrender to the moment, to the night. To her.

To them, together.

Clothes fell to the floor, hands whispered over skin. Stroked, caressed, and kneaded.

Pleasure was their only goal—that, and togetherness.

Sharing, not just their bodies but each other’s delight, the joys and the thrills and the passion-filled yearning, they divested each other of all restraint.

They knew the journey well, and neither saw any reason to rush. Crystal moments of sensation spun out, stretched, fragile and exquisite, before the next rush of heady, greedy desire surged, and shattered them.

Naked, bodies gilded by the lamplight, they swayed and danced, played and twined. Hands worshipped and lips paid homage; desire thrummed beneath their skins, heating, burning, while need sharpened passion’s whip and lashed their flesh, their senses.

Then, at last, it was time, and he lifted her and they came together on a breathless gasp, a guttural groan, as the moment of joining seized their wits, their senses, their very beings. As the cascade of sensation and emotion ruthlessly focused each of them on themselves, on the other, on what together they were, could be, could create.

On the wonder.

On the indescribable, utterly overwhelming delight.

Catching her breath, she tossed back the tangling mane of her dark hair, brushed one damp curl back from his forehead, and looked down into eyes burning with the steady glow of his passion.

She read of his need, undisguised and viscerally real, saw the steadfast commitment, the devotion, the love.

Felt the complementary emotions surge through her in response.

Bending her head, she pressed her lips to his, merged their mouths, and gave herself—all she was, all her love—to him.

As he gave his to her.

Together in body, together in mind.

Together in bliss.

They had each other, and together they had everything.

Fog blanketed the streets, wrapping houses in gray clouds, impenetrable and disorienting.

Affected by the pervasive damp, the stairs in the Lowndes Street house creaked.

He paused, listened, but detected no movement from above, no sign that she’d heard him.

Drawing breath, he continued more carefully, keeping to the edge of the treads. Reaching the first floor, he paused again. Listened again.

When nothing but the echo of silence filled his ears, he drew another breath, a deeper one this time, to steel himself.

The doorknob turned freely. To his surprise, the door swung open.

Poised before the threshold, he stared at the half-open, freely swinging door, at the patch of moonlit floorboards now revealed.

He’d expected to have to push the dresser out of the way; he’d been willing to risk the noise, trusting to time, distance, and the cook’s self-interest to be able to do what he’d come to do and quit the house without being seen.

Without risking being identified.

If push had come to shove, he’d been prepared to kill the cook, too.

He watched as one of his gloved hands reached out and pushed the door fully open.

Even as, still taking care to be quiet, he tiptoed into the room, some part of his mind already knew what he would find—had already understood what the absence of the dresser across the door meant.

The bed lay empty, the covers straight.

“She’s not here.” His whisper swelled to fill the room. Seemed to echo back and fill his ears, slide in and fill his mind.

Abruptly, he shook his head, shaking away the whispering.

Glancing around, he registered the absence of brushes, combs, all personal items.

Frowning, he stared again at the bed. “Where the devil has she gone?”