The Masterful Mr. Montague

Chapter 11




Lady Halstead’s funeral was held the following morning. Cynthia Camberly had prevailed, and the service was held at St. Peter’s Church in Grosvenor Street, with the interment following immediately afterward in the graveyard beside the church.

Violet was glad Cynthia had won that round; many of the parishioners had been acquainted with Lady Halstead, and they filled the church to overflowing, their voices swelling the three hymns with genuine sorrow. The principal eulogy was delivered by the minister who had known her ladyship well. The large number of others who crowded into the church—older ladies and gentlemen both, many, judging by the gentlemen’s unimpeachably conservative attire, from government and diplomatic circles—would have surprised Violet had Penelope not told her of the Halsteads’ past status in that sphere.

All in all, Violet felt the event was a fitting tribute to Lady Halstead and her life.

From the second pew, with Montague to her left, and Penelope on her right, with Griselda beyond her, and Cook in the corner, Violet watched the casket carried up the aisle on the shoulders of Lady Halstead’s sons, grandsons, and son-in-law.

Cynthia and Constance, both heavily veiled, followed, with Caroline, head dutifully bowed, close behind.

When the trio had passed, Montague stepped into the central aisle and gave Violet his hand.

She took it, felt his strength, that rock-solid certainty that was peculiarly his; she let her fingers curl, grasped, and let him anchor her.

He twined her arm in his, then escorted her up the aisle.

Penelope and Griselda, kindly supporting Cook between them, followed.

The interment was simple and rapidly done, laying Lady Halstead beside Sir Hugo in the family plot. Violet noted that Stokes, Adair, and several constables hung back at the fringes of the crowd; earlier they’d hovered at the rear of the church, watching and noting, although she hadn’t seen anything worthy of their attention.

All went smoothly, uneventfully, unmarred by any bickering among the Halstead brood, for which Violet gave due thanks; despite the circumstances, she wouldn’t have put creating a scene past any of them.

Then the first sod was cast by Mortimer—quickly followed by Cynthia.

Montague turned Violet away. “Come—let’s head to the house ahead of the rush.”

She nodded and allowed him to lead her down a side path to where their group had left their various carriages. Penelope and Griselda had already gone ahead with Cook in Penelope’s town carriage, leaving the Stokeses’ small black carriage for Montague and Violet.

As he handed her up, Violet murmured, “What about Stokes and Mr. Adair?”

“They’ve two carriages from Scotland Yard to ferry them and the constables.” Montague settled on the seat beside her. He waited until the carriage had pulled out into the stream of traffic before saying, “Incidentally, you should be present at the reading of the will.” When Violet looked at him, he met her gaze and nodded. “Lady Halstead clearly valued you, and Tilly and Cook, as well.”

Violet blinked, then softly snorted. “The family won’t be pleased.”

“The family can like it or lump it.” Montague felt uncharacteristically belligerent, but he rather liked the sensation. Rather liked the man he was discovering himself to be, courtesy of the lady by his side. Facing forward, he said, “I’ve seen the will—it’s legally watertight. Any challenge will be a waste of time.”


He felt Violet’s gaze on the side of his face. “Will you be reading the will?” she asked.

“Given the letter of authority from Lady Halstead and my more recent acquaintance with the family, her solicitor, a Mr. Entwaite, has asked me to do the honors.” He glanced at Violet. “Entwaite’s a sound man, but he dislikes dealing with forceful people and unnecessary confrontations.”

A smile curved her lips, dissipating some of the shadows that, today, had closed about her. Satisfied, he faced forward again and listened to the rattling of the wheels as they covered the short distance to Lowndes Street.

Once there, the volume of guests made it easy enough for their small band of investigators to gather in a corner of the drawing room without attracting undue attention.

Cook had retreated to her domain to oversee the presentation of the funeral meats. “She views it as her final duty for Lady Halstead,” Penelope reported.

Both the Camberly and Mortimer Halstead’s households had sent footmen to assist, but both had also sent their butlers. Inclining his head to where those two individuals were eyeing each other much in the vein of cocks about to fight, Montague murmured, “One can only hope the butlers don’t come to blows.”

Following his nod, the others looked, then Griselda, lips twitching, said, “Heaven help them if they do—can you imagine the apoplexy that would cause their mistresses?”

After an exchange of cutting looks, the butlers turned and stalked toward opposite sides of the room.

Penelope snorted. “Crisis averted. It looks like they’ve realized the limitations of their situations.”

“Speaking of situations”—Barnaby caught Montague’s eye—“what are the odds the family will ignore this crowd and, instead of acting as any manner of host, insist on having the will read immediately?”

Montague huffed. “That’s not much of a wager, but apropos of that”—he looked at Stokes—“as I mentioned to Violet, at their solicitor’s request and courtesy of that letter of authority, I will be reading the will. Violet and Cook should be present—the family can’t argue that, as both are minor beneficiaries. And as Lady Halstead was murdered, I will propose that a representative of Scotland Yard has reason to be there—I imagine you would wish to attend?”

Stokes nodded. “Most definitely.”

“Only one representative?” Barnaby asked, his tone a plaintive whine.

Montague turned his grin into a grimace. “Sadly, yes. One is easy to excuse, especially an inspector, but two is inviting the family to protest, and they could become difficult if they dig in their heels.” He met Stokes’s eyes. “My thinking is that there’s no reason we wish to delay the reading of the will.”

Stokes nodded. “The sooner the better. The more things that happen, and the more quickly they occur, the greater the pressure on our murderer. Who knows? There may be something in the will that casts some light, however murky, on his motives.”

“From what I’ve seen of the will, that’s unlikely—” Montague broke off, his eye caught by a beckoning wave from the ageing solicitor, who was standing in the doorway and craning his neck to look over the crowd. “Ah—here we go.” Montague met Barnaby’s eyes. “That didn’t take them long at all.”

To a chorus of “Good luck” from the others, Montague took Violet’s arm and steered her through the considerable crowd.

As he fell in at their backs, Stokes murmured, his deep voice so low only they would hear, “I would appreciate it if both of you could keep your eyes peeled for whatever reaction we get from the five men we consider suspects. Given there’s just the three of us in this meeting, let’s concentrate on them.”

Montague nodded. Glancing at Violet, he saw her jaw firm as she nodded, too.

The family had elected to use the sitting room for the reading of the will. As Montague ushered her through the door, Violet saw that the furniture had been rearranged. Lady Halstead’s writing desk now sat before the fireplace; a small, neat, precise man in the dark garb favored by solicitors was just slipping into the chair behind the narrow desk. Settling, he perched a pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez on his nose, then rather nervously smoothed his thinning white hair over the sides of his head before somewhat trepidatiously surveying the family members seated in serried rows on more comfortable chairs set in an arc facing the desk.

Montague guided her past those chairs and on to two empty chairs set to one side of the bow window at the end of the room. As she whispered her thanks and sank down, she realized that the position, with the light streaming past her, gave her the best possible view of the family and the tableau before the fireplace.

Of course, the position also gave the family a clear view of her—and of Stokes, who took up a position standing to her left.

Having seen them installed, Montague went to the desk, to the second chair behind it.

Mortimer Halstead frowned at Montague. “What are you doing here?”

The solicitor—Entwaite—cleared his throat. “As Mr. Montague has a valid and wide-ranging letter of authority from my late client, and given his experience with complex estates, I have asked him to assist me in reading her ladyship’s will and explaining its provisions if such explanations are required.” Entwaite paused, then gravely added, “Such an arrangement is entirely within the scope of normal practice.”

Mortimer’s frown turned disgruntled.

“I believe,” Cynthia said, her gaze fixed on Violet and Stokes, “that the reading of my mother’s will should be restricted to the family.”

Picking up what was obviously the will, Montague calmly replied, “All named beneficiaries have a right to be present at the reading of a will. In addition, in this case, given that her ladyship was murdered, Scotland Yard’s interest in the contents of the will cannot be denied.”

Violet noted the glib turn of Montague’s phrases and, despite the occasion, inwardly smiled; all he had done was state the obvious, yet as he surveyed the assembled family, brows raised, clearly inviting any dissenter to speak up, although various family members shifted, none were so brave as to voice their opposition.

The door edged open and Cook slipped in, carefully closing the door behind her.

Montague smiled reassuringly and waved her in Violet’s direction.

Cook all but scuttled down the room; Stokes held the chair beside Violet for her, and Cook sank onto it gratefully.

Violet patted Cook’s hand. “Don’t worry,” she whispered.

“Very good.” Montague glanced at Entwaite. “Everyone is present, I believe?”

Entwaite nodded. “Indeed. We may proceed.”

Montague raised the will, transfixing the attention of every member of the family. In a clear, steady voice, he read the preamble, then passed on to the clauses giving effect to the distribution of the estate established under Sir Hugo’s will, followed by the provisions detailing the disbursement of Lady Halstead’s personal property.

Although he had read the will earlier in the day, he still had to pay attention to the words. He used the pause after each clause to quickly scan the faces turned his way.

There was nothing in the will to cause consternation; as expected, the combined wills of Sir Hugo and Lady Halstead stipulated that the bulk of the estate, being the residue after all disbursements to the minor beneficiaries, be divided equally between their four children.


Said children heard the news, and—as might be expected of the Halstead brood—each appeared disappointed that their mother hadn’t somehow favored them over their siblings.

Also as Montague had anticipated, the entire family paid close attention to what Lady Halstead had willed to others; when he named the sum of the annuity left to Violet—enough, if properly managed, to see her through the rest of her days in quiet but genteel comfort—the family threw darkling glances her way. The smaller annuities left to Tilly Westcott and Cook—Mrs. Edmonds, as she proved to be—elicited several mutters. He ignored the grumbling but took a moment to confirm aloud that, as Tilly had died after Lady Halstead, all that Lady Halstead had left to Tilly would pass on to Tilly’s heirs.

Entwaite helpfully capped the comment by stating that he had located Tilly’s brother, who was her legal heir.

Montague inclined his head in thanks. He scanned the family’s faces once more, but as had been the case throughout, they all appeared faintly disgruntled, dissatisfied, but also detached; none appeared greatly exercised by anything they’d heard thus far.

Raising the will, he continued reading, listing the last of the bequests. Lady Halstead had—very sensibly in Montague’s view—divided her jewelry piece by piece, naming which family member should receive each item. At the end of the list, her ladyship had left what she’d described as tokens of her affection to the three members of her household—a pearl choker to Violet—and that news made Cynthia Halstead suck in a quick breath through her teeth—a pearl brooch to Tilly, and a pearl ring to Cook.

Montague looked at Cynthia Halstead, wondering if she would protest, but although her face had set in lines of deep disaffection, her lips had compressed to a thin line, and she made no move to open them.

He was about to announce that that was the conclusion of the reading when Caroline Halstead said, “There’s no sense in giving a pearl brooch to a dead woman, much less to her laborer brother.” Fixing Montague with a stare every bit as arrogant as her aunt’s, she stated, “As my late grandmother’s only granddaughter, the brooch should instead come to me.”

Montague had hoped—all but prayed—that someone would protest something. Caroline’s objection gave him the chance to say, “If you wish to insist on such a redirection, you will need to contest the will, which, of course, will delay probate.”

Mortimer frowned at him. “Delaying probate—what will that mean for the rest of us?”

Montague arched his brows. “In effect”—he cast his gaze over the faces turned his way, focusing on the men as he said—“not a penny of the estate will be paid out to anyone, not until the disputed matter is decided by the court and probate is finally granted.”

As there was a good chance the murderer needed his share from the estate, Montague had hoped to jolt a telling reaction from the villain. Instead . . .

Cynthia swung to face Mortimer and shrilly declared, “I won’t have my share held to ransom by your greedy daughter!”

Maurice half rose, his gaze locked on Caroline. “Don’t be daft—it’s just a brooch, you silly chit!”

William growled, “Have you lost your mind, girl?”

Camberly looked peevishly disgusted. Even Constance turned an appalled face to her daughter.

Who was already cowering under her father’s black glare.

“We,” Mortimer declared, his tone sharper, his voice harder than Montague had previously heard it, “are not going to hold up probate over a paltry brooch.”

Caroline all but shrank into her seat and subsided.

Nothing more was said about the brooch.

Clearing his throat, Montague declared the reading of the will concluded. He handed the document to Entwaite, then looked blandly at the family. “Subsequent to Mr. Runcorn’s murder, at the behest of Scotland Yard I currently hold, and will continue to hold, the Halstead financial records in my firm’s vault until such time as you, via Mr. Entwaite, inform me whom you have appointed to deal further with the estate.”

The family all blinked at him, then Mortimer frowned and said, “You seem capable—can’t you deal with it?”

He could, especially as he’d decided to keep Pringle on, but he was far too experienced to touch clients like the Halstead brood with a double-length beanpole. “Sadly, no. My firm’s client list is full. You will need to appoint some other man-of-business or similar agent.”

With an abbreviated nod, he turned away and exchanged bows and farewells with Entwaite, then, leaving the solicitor gathering his papers, he walked down the room to where Violet and Stokes still lingered. Cook had already scurried out of the room, back, no doubt, to the relative safety of her kitchen.

Behind him, the arguments had already commenced.

Halting before Violet, still seated on her chair, Montague met Stokes’s gray gaze. “I didn’t detect anything—nothing that might point to one man over the others.”

Stokes grimaced. “Nor I.” He shifted so that, while appearing to converse with Montague, he could look past him to the family conclave raging before the fireplace. “Entwaite’s getting out as fast as he can, although none of the family seem to be paying him any heed.”

Violet shook her head. “They’re already too engaged in arguing over how to divide the estate.”

The three of them loitered, listening; in their usual manner, none of the family thought to temper either the substance or the level of their utterances. Along with Montague and Stokes, Violet heard the four Halstead children rapidly agree, somewhat amazingly, that none of them wanted any part of the two Halstead properties. That, however, was the limit of their consensus; Mortimer and Maurice were of the opinion the properties should be sold and the funds divided, while Cynthia and William, whether from true belief or simply to oppose the other two, insisted that they would be better served by leasing both properties.

After another three minutes of nothing but more argument, Stokes shook his head. “We’re not going to learn anything useful here. Barnaby, Penelope, and Griselda were going to circulate among the guests and see what they could learn. I suggest we join them.”

Violet nodded. Montague offered his hand, and she took it and rose.

Stokes stayed them with an upraised hand. His gaze had once again gone down the room. Violet followed it and realized he was looking at Caroline, predictably sulking, a bad-tempered glower on her face as she watched and waited for her parents to finish their arguments.

Glancing back at Stokes, Violet saw him exchange a look with Montague, then Stokes met her gaze. “I suspect it would be a wise idea for you, escorted by Montague, and perhaps Penelope and Griselda, too, to go upstairs to Lady Halstead’s room and remove the bequests—the pieces of jewelry her ladyship left you, Tilly, and Cook.”

Violet blinked, then glanced at Caroline. “I believe you’re right.” She looked at Montague. “I’ve written to Tilly’s brother—he’ll call at your office when he comes to town to fetch her body.” She pushed the thought of Tilly’s body away; she couldn’t afford to dwell on that now, not here. Raising her chin a notch, she went on, “If you could send him on to me, I’ve already got Tilly’s belongings, so I can add the brooch to them, and I’ll give Cook the ring before I leave.”


Both Montague and Stokes nodded.

“Come.” Montague offered his arm. “Let’s find Penelope and Griselda, then we’ll go upstairs.”

Stokes fell in behind them. “I would head upstairs sooner rather than later. The instant they stop arguing, they’ll be up to sort that jewelry—you can count on it.”

Knowing he was right, Violet quashed the impulse to look after what were, in effect, her ladyship’s last guests—to cover the hostess gap neither Cynthia nor Constance had thought to fill—and instead allowed Montague to gather Penelope and Griselda, and escort the three of them up the stairs and into Lady Halstead’s room.

She and Tilly had tidied the room on the day before Tilly had been murdered . . . Violet ruthlessly forced her mind back to her task and refused to allow herself to think beyond that. Crossing to the dressing table, she drew out the second drawer on the right. “Lady Halstead kept her pearls in here.”

“Best to let me.” Montague bent and drew the drawer fully out. Straightening, he set it on the table, then met her gaze. “If the Halsteads inquire—as they might—I can truthfully say that, as her ladyship’s appointed agent and acting in accordance with her will, I took the pearls and gave them to you.”

Although her lips wouldn’t curve—not in this room—she smiled inside. “Thank you.” Looking into the drawer, she pointed to a small box. “That’s the brooch. And the choker is in that blue velvet bag. The ring . . . is that small box there.”

Montague took the three items out, checked them, then handed them to her.

Leaving him to return the drawer to its place, Violet turned—and saw Penelope and Griselda peering into the wardrobe. Penelope was examining the gowns, while Griselda had bent to study Lady Halstead’s boots and shoes. Violet frowned. “What are you looking for?”

Both glanced her way, then took one last look before stepping back. Shutting the wardrobe door, Penelope explained, “Trying to get some idea of her character—with women, clothes and shoes often say a lot.” She waved at the wardrobe. “From her gowns, she seems to have been a soft, flowy, gentle lady.”

Violet nodded. “She was. But she wasn’t weak. She didn’t like her children, but she couldn’t change them, so she put up with them.”

“That fits with her footwear,” Griselda said. “Good quality and fashionable, but also functional. She liked fashion, but underneath, she appears to have been a sensible, practical sort.”

Violet felt her features soften. “Yes—that was her.”

They’d all gathered by the door. After one last look around, Violet led the way out and down the stairs.

In the front hall, she paused, looking at the open door to the drawing room, hearing the muted cacophony of the voices within; there were still a considerable number of mourners lingering over the refreshments.

Dragging in a breath, she turned to face the others. She glanced at Penelope, then looked at Montague. “I really don’t wish to go in there and be sociable.”

“There’s no reason you should,” Penelope stated. “You’ve done all and more than your association with her ladyship demanded.”

Montague touched her arm—just a fleeting touch, but she felt his support. “There’s no need for you to stay longer.”

Violet glanced down at the three items in her hands. “Let me give Cook her ring and say good-bye, and then I would like to leave.” And never come back. She didn’t say the words, yet they resonated inside her. This was the end of one phase of her life; she could feel that in her bones. It was time to quit this house and move forward, into a future that was as yet nebulous, but she wasn’t without friends, wasn’t—thanks to Lady Halstead’s generosity—without reserves.

The others trailed her to the kitchen. Farewelling Cook proved to be a teary undertaking, but, eventually, both she and Cook dried their eyes, and after exchanging their directions—Penelope helpfully supplied the address of her house, and Cook scribbled her sister’s address in Bermondsley on a piece of paper—they parted.

Barnaby and Stokes were waiting in the front hall. “There you are,” Barnaby said.

Violet felt Barnaby’s keen blue gaze travel over her face; she had no idea what he saw there, but his voice had softened when he said, “Ready to go?”

She nodded.

Stokes, with Griselda on his arm, led the way out. Barnaby and Penelope followed. Montague gave Violet his arm and she took it, grateful, as they stepped out of the door and into a crisp breeze carrying the scent of dying leaves, for his support.

For his strength, and his willingness to lend it to her.

He steadied her down the steps and onto the short path. Barnaby held the gate. As she passed through, Violet was aware that the others were chatting softly about something—their observations, perhaps—but they made no demands of her and didn’t look her way. As the gate swung shut, the other two couples started off down the street to where their carriages waited further along the curb. On Montague’s arm, Violet followed.

Then she paused and glanced back. Back at the house she’d spent the last eight years living in, being reasonably content and settled in, caring for and working with two women she would never see again.

Montague had halted beside her, but he watched her, her face, not the house.

As she was about to turn and meet his eyes, Violet saw movement behind the sitting room window.

Mortimer was staring out—whether at her, the group, or unseeingly at the street she couldn’t say. Even at this distance, his expression appeared pinched and peevish. Then he turned and walked away, deeper into the room.

Meeting Montague’s eyes, Violet grimaced. “The family are still at it, still arguing, it seems.”

Retaking her arm, Montague snorted. “With that family, they always will be.”

There was no help for it, he would have to leave Miss Matcham for now. Aside from all else, he didn’t know where she was staying, and if anyone heard him asking after her now . . . he couldn’t afford that.

Best to lie low, at least for a little while.

Besides, he had other issues to deal with—and what the devil had been going on with the old lady’s accounts?

Regardless, Wallace’s suggestion that it was Tilly who had taken the money and subsequently been killed by her lover-accomplice, whom she’d previously assisted in murdering the old girl herself, had been beyond inspired. A gift from the gods, from his point of view.

And the police seemed to pose little real threat; they were scurrying around trying to find the thief, assuming whoever it was was also the murderer. Who knew? Their efforts might even provide a suitable scapegoat.

And thank heaven that man Montague had refused to deal with the old lady’s affairs. Now he’d checked the man’s credentials and had learned of his reputation, he realized how close a call he’d had.

But Montague had declined, and the old lady’s papers were now in his firm’s vault, no doubt pushed to the back wall. They could gather dust there until he located a suitable man-of-business, one he could influence or bribe, and inveigled the rest of the family to accept his choice. Which might well entail ensuring they never learned that the man was his choice, but he’d grown adept at such manipulations.

As his carriage rattled through the night, taking him home from his club, he reviewed the facts and measured them against his feelings. His compulsion to ensure, beyond all possible doubt, that he was safe. That nothing could possibly threaten his future.


No matter how he weighted the facts, regardless of that compulsion, this wasn’t the time to act.

No, indeed. Things were going well—or, at least, better than he’d expected. Better than he’d had any reason to hope.

Now wasn’t the time to senselessly rush ahead, put a foot wrong, and stumble.

He didn’t—couldn’t—question his certainty that permanently silencing Miss Violet Matcham was necessary for his long-term peace of mind, but he didn’t have to act now.

If she had recognized the import of what he was certain she knew, she would have shared the information with the police, but she hadn’t, yet, and to this point no one suspected him.

Keeping it that way was imperative.

So he would wait, and bide his time. And, eventually, an opportunity would arise and he would be able to silence Miss Matcham and finally win free of all possible threat to his future.

“Who knows?” Wreathed in shifting shadows, he arched a brow. “There may even be some way to twist the tale so that the maid’s nonexistent lover-accomplice takes the blame.”

Two mornings later, Violet entered the sunny breakfast parlor in the Adairs’ Albemarle Street house to find Penelope already at the table.

Violet mock-frowned as she slipped into a chair alongside her new mistress—who didn’t behave like any mistress ever known. “Are you always this early?”

Crunching on a piece of toast slathered with jam, Penelope nodded. She swallowed. “Usually. I was always an early bird, even as a child.” She grinned. “Disgusting, isn’t it?”

“I’ll reserve my answer.” Picking up the teapot, Violet poured herself a cup.

“I can recommend the jam.” Penelope waved her toast. “Cook opened a fresh jar of her gooseberry preserve, I suspect in your honor, so you should try some so you can tell her how delightful it is. Which it is. If you like gooseberries.”

Even though she’d spent only one day in the house, Violet had already grown accustomed to Penelope’s sometimes disjointed and often unexpected utterances—enough, at least, not to be thrown. “I’ll be sure to stop by the kitchen later.”

For several minutes, they sipped and crunched in harmony, then Penelope pushed aside her empty plate. “I was wondering if there’s anything specific you’d like to do today. Oliver has a small case of the sniffles, so Hettie has warned me off taking him out.” Meeting Violet’s eyes, her own impossibly innocent behind the distracting lenses of her spectacles, Penelope arched her brows. “So, is there anywhere you’d like to visit? Anything by way of entertainment you’d like to do?”

Violet looked into Penelope’s chocolate-brown eyes and decided it was no wonder that she’d so taken to the other woman. She knew precisely why Penelope had made the offer; for Violet, yesterday had been both difficult and tiring.

Tilly’s brother had called, sent around by Montague; Fred Westcott proved to have been Tilly’s twin, and he’d been so much like her that Violet had had to expend considerable effort fighting to hold back her tears. Tears that would have made poor Fred even more bewildered and uncomfortable; he’d been having such a hard time believing his twin sister was dead.

He lived in Kent and had driven into town in a small wagon; he’d followed Violet’s directions to Montague’s office, and had been sent on to Albemarle Street to pick up Tilly’s things en route to the morgue, where he’d planned to take possession of Tilly’s body and drive it back in the wagon for burial in the little village graveyard beside their parents.

So Tilly was gone, and after Fred’s departure, Violet had felt shattered.

Had truly felt and comprehensively understood the destructiveness of murder.

Penelope and her staff, and even young Oliver, had gathered around and done what they could to distract her; even Barnaby, when he’d joined them for dinner, had been almost unbearably kind.

When night had fallen, she’d escaped early to her bed, and in doing so had underscored that she, unlike Tilly, still had a place, a purpose, and a life to live.

This morning, when she’d woken, she’d discovered that her determination to expose the murderer and gain justice for Lady Halstead, Runcorn, and Tilly had only grown more steely.

Meeting Penelope’s gaze, she said, “Actually, there’s something curious I remembered this morning about the Halstead estate.”

Penelope widened her eyes, her interest immediate. “Do tell.”

“The family arguing about how to divide the estate jogged my memory—they mentioned the family’s country house, The Laurels. It’s part of the estate, and they were all arguing about whether to sell or lease it.” Violet licked the last of the gooseberry preserve—it really was excellent—from her fingers, then, frowning, went on, “I have no reason to believe that this has anything at all to do with what’s been going on, with those odd payments into Lady Halstead’s account, but one of the factors contributing to her anxiety about the estate was that she’d received a letter from a neighbor in the country—the vicar’s wife—about someone living at The Laurels.” She met Penelope’s gaze. “As far as Lady Halstead knew, The Laurels is closed up and untenanted, and has been for years.”

“Ah.” After a moment of considering her, Penelope asked, “I don’t suppose you read this letter?”

“No.” Violet held Penelope’s gaze. “But I know where it is.”

“Where?”

“In Lady Halstead’s traveling writing desk, which is in the bottom drawer of that big chest of drawers in her room.” Violet paused, then said, “While they might have taken the jewelry by now, I doubt the family will have bothered with the writing desk. It was old and not especially noteworthy.”

“They might not even have stumbled on it yet.” Behind her spectacles, Penelope’s eyes gleamed.

Violet nodded. “And I remembered something else this morning that I’d forgotten.”

Penelope’s eyes widened even further. “What?”

“That I haven’t handed Mr. Montague my keys to the house.”

“Oh, my.” A smile of quite remarkable energy spread across Penelope’s face. “That settles it, I believe.” She locked eyes with Violet. “Clearly, we are supposed to go to the house and examine this letter, and, if it proves to be interesting, remove it. Who knows? It might be vital evidence, even if we don’t yet know what about.”

Barely pausing to blink, Penelope continued, “I suggest, my dear Violet, that you and I have the carriage brought around, then take a trip to Greenbury Street to pick up Griselda—she’ll definitely want to be a part of this—and then we can stop by in Lowndes Street and secure the letter before going on to the City and calling at Montague’s so you can hand him those keys.”

Penelope beamed. Violet couldn’t help but beam back.

“And that,” Penelope said, pushing back her chair, “sounds like an excellent way to spend our morning.”

The Lowndes Street house already looked deserted.

When, at Penelope’s direction, her carriage slowed to a halt by the curb in front of the house across the street, Violet peered out at the fully curtained windows. “They must have had the footmen and butlers draw all the curtains.”

Seated opposite, Griselda gave a little shiver. “I hate it when they do that—it’s as if the house dies, too.”


“But there’s not even black ribbon on the knocker.” Penelope leaned closer to the window, scanning the house, then what she could see of the street. “Which is just as well, I suppose. Less reason to note us if anyone sees us going in.”

She glanced at Violet. “Ready?”

Fishing the ring with the keys to the front and back doors from her reticule, Violet nodded. Jaw setting, she glanced at the house, then followed Penelope and Griselda from the carriage.

Leaving Penelope’s groom with the carriage, they crossed the street—three ladies out for a morning stroll.

“Quick.” Penelope swung open the gate. “There’s no one about at the moment. Let’s get inside.”

Violet knew Penelope didn’t mean her to hurry but rather not to dally. Very ready to oblige, she walked directly up the path, key already in her gloved fingers. Reaching the door, she slid the key into the lock, turned it, then twisted the knob, opened the door, and led the way inside.

Whisking around, she quietly closed the door immediately Griselda stepped past.

In the gloomy dimness of the hall, they all paused, listening, straining their ears for the least little sound that might indicate the presence of some footman or other servant left to watch over the house. If anyone arrived to question their presence, Violet would explain that she’d forgotten something from her room upstairs; she’d even brought a finely carved thimble so she could produce some real item as their excuse.

But no one came.

After a moment, Griselda shook her head. “There’s no one here.”

“I didn’t really think there would be.” Violet turned to the stairs. “This is a family that simply doesn’t care about anything that isn’t their own.”

She led the way up the stairs. Penelope followed; Griselda brought up the rear.

Violet was grateful they were there, at her back, doing this with her. The deserted, empty, rather chill atmosphere that had spread through the house was unsettling. Faintly threatening. And made even worse by the dismal lack of light.

When they walked into Lady Halstead’s room, it was immediately apparent that her family had visited. Even with the curtains tightly drawn, enough light seeped past for them to note the empty spaces.

Penelope waved at the dressing table. “The big jewelry box is gone.”

“So are the silver-backed brushes and the ivory combs,” Griselda said. “Along with the crystal tray they sat on.”

“So—let’s see.” Violet went to the large chest of drawers, bent, and pulled out the deep bottom drawer. As the other two gathered around, she smiled. “As expected, they didn’t get this far.”

“Or simply weren’t interested.” Penelope stepped back as Violet straightened, the writing desk in her hands.

She walked to the bed and set the slanted-topped wooden box on the counterpane.

Griselda had already gone to the window; she eased one curtain back, allowing weak autumn sunlight to spill across the room to illuminate the bed and the writing desk.

“Thank you,” Violet murmured. Opening the lid, with its worn leather inset, she set it fully back, revealing what lay in the cavity beneath—a loose jumble of letters covered in a variety of spidery hands.

She reached for the creased sheet lying uppermost. “This should be it.”

Raising the letter, she angled it to the light, holding it so that all three of them could gather around and read.

The letter wasn’t overly long, and from the easy salutation and the comfortable tone, it appeared that the wife of the vicar of Noak Hill, a Mrs. Findlayson, had been a longtime acquaintance of Lady Halstead. She wrote that Lady Halstead’s Essex friends were somewhat curious about the fiercely reclusive people currently living in her ladyship’s house. While Mrs. Findlayson had written nothing specific about what, exactly, had incited the locals’ concerns, the implication that there was something of a dubious nature afoot came through clearly.

After perusing the letter twice, Penelope looked at Violet, then glanced at Griselda. “Noak Hill. I have no idea where that might be, precisely, but as it is in Essex, it can’t be all that far.”

“Perhaps,” Griselda said, “we might ask your coachman if he knows of it?”

Penelope nodded. “And, if so, how long it will take to get there.”

“And back,” Griselda said. “It’s already eleven o’clock, and we won’t want to be too late home.”

“No, indeed.” Penelope’s expression had taken on a certain steely quality. “But I do think, Violet dear, that as Mrs. Findlayson and her friends have very likely not yet learned of Lady Halstead’s death, you—accompanied by Griselda and me—should call on Mrs. Findlayson and let her know that her ladyship has passed on.”

Violet met Penelope’s gaze. “It would be the right thing to do. I’m sure Lady Halstead would wish me to inform her country friends of her death.”

“Well, from all we’ve seen, her family won’t bother,” Griselda put in. “So I, too, vote yes—we should, if we can manage it within the day, visit Noak Hill vicarage.”

“And, just possibly, pass by The Laurels, too.” Penelope turned to the door. There, she paused, waiting for Violet to close the writing desk and, retaining Mrs. Findlayson’s letter, return the desk to the chest of drawers. “Last item on this meeting’s agenda,” Penelope said as Violet straightened and Griselda closed the curtain again, plunging the room once more into gloom. “Do we tell Stokes, Barnaby, and Montague first, or later?”

Violet glanced at Griselda, then looked back at Penelope. “Actually, although the letter bothered her ladyship and she initially worried that the two issues might be connected, on reflection she decided that any problem at The Laurels was entirely separate from the odd deposits paid into her bank account—the sums involved were far too large to have been rent or anything like that. She decided that the people at The Laurels were most likely itinerants or something of the sort, and, relatively speaking, that that was a minor matter. As the bank account problem was her primary concern, she elected to concentrate—and have Runcorn and later Montague concentrate—on that, so she deliberately didn’t tell them about the problem at The Laurels—she didn’t want to distract them from the more pressing issue.”

Violet paused, then more slowly went on, “More importantly, she didn’t mention the letter or the problem at The Laurels to any of her family, so whatever the problem at The Laurels might be, it can’t have any connection to the murders.”

“Excellent!” Penelope said. “So as it’s a side issue, and as such one our men don’t have time to pursue, there’s no reason we shouldn’t, and see what we can learn. Especially”—turning, Penelope led the way out of the door and back toward the stairs—“as there’s no reason to suppose that the strange people at The Laurels have anything to do with the murders.”

“Regardless of what we might hope,” Griselda wryly added.

Penelope nodded. “Precisely.” She started down the stairs. “And anyway, it’s an uncontestable fact that the three of us will make a much better fist of interviewing Mrs. Findlayson, the vicar’s wife, than any man ever born.”