The Masterful Mr. Montague

Chapter 12




Penelope led the way into the office of Montague and Son. Montague’s head clerk, Slocum, recognized her immediately and came forward with a smile.


“Mrs. Adair.” Slocum’s gaze went past Penelope to Griselda, whom he had never met, but then his eyes lighted on Violet and his smile deepened. “And Miss Matcham, isn’t it?”

“And this is Mrs. Stokes.” Penelope indicated Griselda. “You have recently encountered her husband, Inspector Stokes, I believe.”

“Indeed, yes.” Slocum bowed. “Good morning, ladies, and how may we help you?”

Violet smiled in return. “Good morning, Mr. Slocum. I’m here to deliver my keys to Lady Halstead’s house to Mr. Montague. If he has a moment, I would prefer to give the keys into his hand.”

“Yes, of course, miss.” Slocum glanced over his shoulder at the door to Montague’s office, presently closed. “He’s with another client, but the meeting is in the nature of a lengthy review, so I will inquire if Mr. Montague can take a moment to meet with you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Slocum—a moment is all that I need,” Violet said.

Recognizing a familiar but unexpected face, Penelope left Violet and Griselda in the reception area before Slocum’s desk and crossed to the smaller desk to one side. The clerk working there had glanced up at their entrance but had gone back to his papers. Penelope halted before the desk. “Mr. Pringle, isn’t it?”

Pringle looked up and smiled a touch tiredly. “Yes, Mrs. Adair.”

Slocum had disappeared into Montague’s office; with a soft rustle of skirts, Violet and Griselda came to join Penelope. Turning to them, Penelope waved at Pringle. “Pringle was Mr. Runcorn’s clerk.” She looked back at Pringle. “You’re working here now?”

Pringle nodded. “Mr. Montague was kind enough to take me on. His practice is quite large and varied, so there’s plenty for me to help with—and I have to say it was a huge relief. Finding a new post at my age wouldn’t have been easy. So few employers value experience these days.”

“Indeed,” Violet said. “I’m Miss Matcham—I was Lady Halstead’s companion and met Mr. Runcorn several times. I was deeply saddened to learn of his death. Working alongside him, you must have felt the loss deeply—you have my sympathies.”

Both Griselda and Penelope echoed the sentiment.

Pringle gravely inclined his head. “Thank you, ma’am, ladies.” Drawing breath, he straightened. “As I said, in the circumstances it’s been a great boon to be kept busy, so I’m doubly grateful to Mr. Montague in that regard.”

Penelope angled her head, swiftly scanning the topmost documents. “So are you working on new clients, then?”

Pringle glanced down at the documents. “Not new ones as yet. My first task is to reassemble the Halstead file.”

“And how is that proceeding?” Penelope asked.

Pringle sighed. “Slowly, I’m sorry to say. I’m aware the information might prove useful to the investigation, but Sir Hugo had quite eclectic tastes in investments, and therefore the documents are very varied, and often not what one might expect. Properly reordering them will take some time.”

Behind them, the door to Montague’s office opened. The three ladies turned in time to see Montague follow Slocum into the main room. Montague’s gaze, Penelope noticed, locked on Violet.

“Violet?” Concern, restrained but ready to leap to the fore, colored Montague’s expression as he strode across the room. Then he noticed Penelope and Griselda, and, slowing, briefly inclined his head. “Penelope. Griselda.” Halting before them, he returned his gaze to Violet’s face; a fraction of a second passed before he asked, “What’s happened?”

Violet smiled reassuringly. “Nothing of any great import.” Raising a hand, she offered him the keys. “I remembered I hadn’t yet surrendered these. They’re the keys to the front and back doors of Lady Halstead’s house. I thought I might leave them with you, to pass on when appropriate.”

Montague took the keys. “Thank you. Yes, that would be best.” His imminent concern evaporating, he glanced at Penelope and Griselda, then once again at Violet. “And what have you three planned for your day?”

Penelope smiled sunnily and leapt in to deflect his attention from the suddenly blank looks on her companions’ faces. “Actually, we’re off for a short jaunt into the country, and we need to be off.”

“Indeed.” Violet had recovered her composure. “We won’t keep you any longer.” She extended her hand.

Montague took it, held it, but his gaze returned to Penelope’s face. “As it happens, my client of the moment”—he tipped his head toward his office—“is a relative of yours. Dexter. He’s your cousin, I believe. Would you like to have a word with him?”

Dexter? Penelope’s smile grew wider; she waved the notion away. “No, no—no need to distract him.”

Dexter shared many similarities with her older brother, Luc; the two had been thick as thieves for most of their lives—they’d even married twin sisters. And, like Luc, on hearing that she, Penelope, was about to go for a drive in the country, Dexter would be instantly suspicious, and ask why, and where to, and what she thought to do there . . . and while Barnaby was well on the way to evolving into a modern man, one who didn’t feel the need to hem ladies like her in at every step, Luc and Dexter were throwbacks to a more primitive—and much more protective—age.

Keeping her smile bright, Penelope added, “I’ll see him at the next family dinner soon enough, but do give him my regards.” Tugging her gloves on tighter, she turned to Griselda and Violet. “But now we really must be off.”

The other two grasped her desire to leave; even though they didn’t fully understand, both sensed her wish to avoid Dexter, so they smiled and immediately joined with her in taking their leave of Montague.

Penelope was the first out of the door; she didn’t breathe easily until the carriage door was shut, the coach was moving, and they were safely on their way.

A more relaxed smile blooming, she leaned back against the squabs. “To Essex!” she declared.

“To Noak Hill,” Griselda added.

“To The Laurels,” Violet said, “and to whatever we find there.”

Phelps, Penelope’s coachman, had had to stop several times to allow the groom, Conner, to descend and ask for directions, but eventually the carriage rumbled up to a country crossroads and halted. Their last direction had come from the Bear Inn, less than half a mile back down the road, so this had to be it—Noak Hill.

The ladies peered out of the carriage windows. Griselda reported, “The signpost on this side says ‘To the Priory.’ ”

Penelope nodded in the opposite direction. “The rest of the village looks to lie this way.”

The carriage rocked as Conner jumped down. He came to the window and saluted; when Penelope let down the window, he asked, “Which way, ma’am? Church lies straight ahead, but most houses seem to be down there, to the left.”

Penelope debated. “We’re here to visit the vicar’s wife, and I assume she’ll be at the vicarage.”

Conner nodded. “Looks like the vicarage is next to the church just ahead.”

“Hmm, yes—but it would be useful to see if we can locate the Halsteads’ house, The Laurels, first. From the look of things, it most likely lies somewhere along the village lane.” Penelope looked at Conner. “Tell Phelps to drive slowly through the village, and if we spot the house—I would imagine it will have its name up somewhere—to roll past and come around again. We just want to get a good glimpse of it so we know what we’re talking about.”


Conner bobbed his head. “Yes, ma’am.”

He climbed up to the box seat. A minute later, the carriage ponderously rolled forward, rounded the corner, and bowled slowly and sedately along the lane.

Violet and Penelope peered out of the windows on one side of the coach, while Griselda looked out at the opposite side of the lane.

“Cottages,” Penelope reported.

“A set of three small terrace houses on this side,” Griselda said. “The sort estates are building for their farmworkers these days.”

They passed one larger house set back from the lane. “The Orchard.” Violet pointed to the name on a brass plate embedded in one gatepost.

Several more medium-sized houses in their own yards followed. They were nearing the end of the village when Griselda said, “There it is!”

Violet and Penelope scrambled to that side of the carriage. They stared out at a substantial, free-standing house built of red brick, set back from the lane in a garden plot that had in large part been allowed to run to seed.

“The lawn—such as it is—has been recently trimmed.” Penelope sat back as the house fell behind.

Across the carriage, Griselda met her eyes. “The curtains in several upstairs rooms are open, while in others the curtains are fully drawn.”

“Odd if the house was closed up,” Penelope observed. “I think it’s safe to accept that the vicar’s wife’s intelligence is sound—someone is living there.”

The house had been the last in the village. The carriage slowed, then turned as Phelps brought it around. Penelope rose and pushed up the trap in the coach’s ceiling. “Back to the vicarage, Phelps, but as slow as you can past the house on our left.”

Phelps complied, and, shifting to the other side of the coach, the three again peered out at the house. Ivy had completely overwhelmed a high, stone garden wall and was well on the way to claiming the tall wrought-iron gate set between a pair of pillars directly in front of the house’s front door. Above the gate, a decorative wrought-iron ribbon carried the name The Laurels.

“The ivy’s been cut back to reveal the name,” Violet said. “But they’ve left it growing over the gate itself.” She frowned. “How odd.”

Beyond the blocked gate, a straight gravel path led directly to the narrow sweep of drive before the front door. Weeds strewed the path, and the lawn had encroached over its edges.

As the carriage rolled on, they drew level with the gates to the drive; of similar design to the smaller gate and also in heavy wrought iron, the much wider gates stood ajar. A gravel drive, clear of weeds and in reasonable state, led to the house; it ran along the front before curling around the far side of the blocklike building.

Penelope glanced up at the house, then sighed and leaned back as it passed once more out of view. “Three stories—there’s dormers above that parapet around the top of the first floor. So it’s of reasonable size, but not large—exactly what one would expect of a family of the Halsteads’ means.”

“So,” Violet said, “the house itself holds no surprises—the only questions are who is using it, and for what.”

Penelope nodded. “Let’s hope Mrs. Findlayson can shed some light on those points.”

It was early afternoon when they walked up the path to the vicarage front door. At their request for an audience, Mrs. Findlayson came to the door; she proved to be a kindly-looking woman of generous girth, with curly white hair surrounding a soft-featured face from which aging blue eyes looked upon the world with a certain calm serenity.

Violet took the lead, making the introductions and explaining that she was calling on Lady Halstead’s behalf, having realized from Mrs. Findlayson’s recent letter that Mrs. Findlayson had known Lady Halstead well.

Mrs. Findlayson was delighted to receive them. She insisted they join her in the comfortably cheery parlor; once they were seated, she ordered tea, then turned to Violet. “And how is dear Lady Halstead?”

Violet broke the sad news as gently as she could.

Mrs. Findlayson grew sad, then sorrowful. “Oh, dear. Murdered, you say? How very dreadful, to be sure. Such evil there is in the world these days.”

The maid arrived with the tea tray and Penelope took charge, pouring a strong cup of tea and adding several lumps of sugar before handing it to Mrs. Findlayson.

The vicar’s wife accepted the cup and saucer in something of a daze.

Penelope and Griselda busied themselves pouring their cups and handing Violet hers.

Her gaze on Mrs. Findlayson’s face, Violet sipped, then murmured, “You knew her ladyship quite well, didn’t you?”

“Oh, indeed.” Her gaze unfocused, Mrs. Findlayson nodded. “We both came to the village at much the same time, both as new brides. We grew quite close over those early years, when she and Hugo spent more of their time here, but then he was posted overseas again, and they left the children—there were just the two then, Mortimer and Cynthia—at The Laurels with their nurses and a housekeeper and staff.” Mrs. Findlayson pursed her lips in mild disapproval. “Of course, Agatha didn’t wish to expose the youngsters to the dangers of life in all those dreadful foreign places Hugo used to have to go to, but over the years, I—well, all of us who knew them—did wonder if, after all, that decision was the right one.”

Mrs. Findlayson looked at Violet and managed a weak smile. “As you knew her, dear, you will agree that a gentler, kinder lady would be hard to find, and I always suspected Agatha intended to come home frequently to visit the children, but with Hugo always being sent so far away, and the ships taking so long to make the journey, well, they didn’t make it back, either of them, all that often.”

Nodding to herself, Mrs. Findlayson went on, “Agatha returned to have Maurice, but then left soon after, when he was still just a babe in arms. William was born overseas—in India, I believe—but Agatha and Hugo brought him home, saw him settled in the nursery, and then they were off again.”

Frowning, Mrs. Findlayson shifted in her chair. “I’m not one to speak ill of the dead, and heaven knew Agatha and I remained firm friends, but the way that poor mite howled for his mother—well, the whole village knew of it. And he ran away, several times if memory serves, but the tutors always went after him and caught him and dragged him back.” Lips thin, Mrs. Findlayson carefully set her cup back on its saucer. “As in any friendship, there were some things Agatha did that I couldn’t approve of, and that was one.” Drawing in a breath, she lifted her head and met Violet’s eyes, then glanced at Penelope and Griselda. “Against that, however, both Agatha and Hugo were delightful people and so very wedded to their duty to this country that it was all but impossible to hold such transgressions against them.”

After a moment, Mrs. Findlayson smiled. “But I’m rambling on, and as both Hugo and Agatha are now dead, there’s no point dwelling on the past.”

“But it’s right that you remember them, and comforting that your memories are so fond, at least of them.” Violet paused, then said, “I’m tangentially involved with the sorting out of Lady Halstead’s estate, and, as you might imagine, there’s been considerable argument between her children as to the disposition of the assets. I wonder”—Violet met Mrs. Findlayson’s eyes—“whether you could give me your opinion of them—the children? You must be one of the few who know all four well enough to comment on their characters, and it might help sort things out.”


Mrs. Findlayson’s expression, until then soft and gentle, hardened. She hesitated, clearly weighing the words that had come to her tongue, but then she looked at Violet and nodded. “Agatha’s dead—murdered—and for all I know it was by one of them. Truth be told, I wouldn’t put it past any of them. A more viperous brood would be hard to find—although I have to admit their stinging and biting was always directed at each other. All within the family, so to speak.”

She paused, then went on, “William, for all his troubles, is the best of the lot of them. Followed by Maurice, although I wouldn’t trust him with anything of value. Lacks morals in general, that one. But as for the elder two, Mortimer and Cynthia, if they weren’t Agatha and Hugo’s children, I wouldn’t give them the time of day—not unless they’ve improved significantly since last I saw them. Cynthia is a self-absorbed harpy, and Mortimer . . . well, my husband once described him as a colorless egotist with no ambition beyond himself.”

“They—Cynthia and Mortimer—seem very competitive with regard to each other,” Violet observed.

Mrs. Findlayson nodded. “That was always a feature of life at The Laurels—the battles between those two. Over the years, my husband and I had countless consultations with the various nannies and governesses, and even some of the more concerned tutors. Many were driven to seek advice.” Mrs. Findlayson frowned, patently sifting through her memories. Eventually, she said, “It was such a strange thing, to have children vying to be the most sanctimonious, the most priggish, the most conservative, the most religiously observant. It was almost impossible to upbraid them, you see? How can you punish a child for adhering to the rules too well? For taking those rules to extremes—and then further? And more, their actions, their behaviors, were never sincere—their apparent goodness was ever a product of ambition. For all their outward perfections, those two caused more gray hairs than Maurice, William, and all the other children in the village put together, all of whose transgressions were entirely normal and understandable. Everyone knew how to cope with the others, including the younger two Halsteads, even though they took matters to the other extreme, but the older two Halsteads were all but beyond our ken.”

When Mrs. Findlayson fell silent, Violet was tempted to prompt, but then the vicar’s wife stirred and said, “My husband once observed that what drove those two might initially have been a battle for parental approval—to be the best, better than the others in their parents’ eyes, and recognized as such, and thus winning their private war, but with their parents never there, it became a battle with no end. That affected Mortimer more than the others—he was the oldest, and naturally expected to be the acknowledged leader, but Cynthia, for one, never accorded him that status, and the other two followed her lead, at least in that.”

Mrs. Findlayson paused to sip from her cup, then, lowering it, concluded, “Mortimer lived here, at The Laurels, until he was in his early twenties, and by then he’d become the sort of man who is never satisfied with what he achieves but instead always wants to be more.” Mrs. Findlayson shrugged. “For all I know, Cynthia might be the same—that wouldn’t surprise me. As for the other two, I daresay they will have continued down the roads they’d started well along before they left here—and neither of those roads will serve them well.”

Another silence fell while Violet, Penelope, and Griselda digested that, aligning the information with all they had themselves observed, then Violet set down her cup and saucer. “Thank you.” She met Mrs. Findlayson’s eyes and smiled. “Your insights might, indeed, be of some help.”

“I’m glad to do whatever I can,” Mrs. Findlayson said, “especially if it will help catch Agatha’s murderer.”

“As to that”—Penelope shifted forward, drawing Mrs. Findlayson’s attention—“you wrote in your last letter to Lady Halstead that you and others in the village had observed unusual activity at The Laurels. Although there’s no reason to imagine it’s related to Lady Halstead’s murder, it did seem unexpected.”

“Yes, well.” Mrs. Findlayson arched her brows. “We were all quite surprised when the new people moved in.”

“When was that?” Penelope asked.

“Oh, it would be well over a year now . . . perhaps fifteen months?” Mrs. Findlayson narrowed her eyes. “Yes, that’s right. They’d been there for several months before Harvest Service. As no one from the house had yet attended at the church, my husband called a week before the service to formally invite them and urge them to join us, and, of course, by then everyone was wondering who was living there.”

“And who is?” Penelope’s eyes gleamed behind her glasses.

But Mrs. Findlayson shook her head. “The only people we’ve ever set eyes on are the odd manservant who answers the door and the pair who work in the kitchen. A man and a woman, but they’re rather surly and keep entirely to themselves. Not so much as a nod if one passes them in the lane. Indeed, we never see them out and about except when they head down to Romford in their cart to bring in supplies for one of their evening entertainments.”

“Entertainments?” Penelope’s eyes widened.

“Indeed.” Mrs. Findlayson nodded. “That was what prompted me to write to Agatha, because, really, these odd events have been going on for long enough. Every month, or thereabouts, carriages—all black and with curtains drawn—come rolling up and turn in at The Laurels. Eight or more carriages, every month, but they always arrive very late, usually after ten o’clock at night.” Mrs. Findlayson primmed her lips, then opened them and confided, “Even the lads who’ve climbed the nearby trees to look over the walls say they’ve not been able to see anything of the goings-on inside the house, because even though the whole ground floor looks to be well lit on those evenings, the curtains are all drawn tight.”

“How long do the carriages stay?” Griselda asked.

“Only two hours or so—we usually hear them roll past again about twelve or just after.”

Penelope frowned, then asked, “And when the carriages leave, all their curtains are drawn?”

Mrs. Findlayson nodded. “Every single time, every carriage. So, you see, we have no idea who is living in that house and holding these odd events, and we also have no idea who is attending, much less what’s going on in the house on those evenings.”

Violet leaned forward. “You said these events happen monthly? On a specific date?”

“No, not exactly. It’s roughly every month, but we never know the exact date—not until we see the two staff head out in their cart for Romford.”

“When was the last entertainment at The Laurels?” Penelope asked. “Or, more pertinently, when do you anticipate the next event will be?”

“I can’t remember the date of the last, but the next event will be tonight.” Mrs. Findlayson met Penelope’s eyes. “My gardener saw the pair from the house head off to Romford this morning.”

They’d thanked Mrs. Findlayson, promised her that they would convey all she’d told them to those dealing with the Halsteads’ affairs, then hurried back to Penelope’s carriage, where they’d piled in as Penelope had directed Phelps to drive back to The Laurels.


Now the three of them stood just outside the overgrown front gate and, using the dense ivy as a screen, peered through the leaves at the house.

“Curtains are still open on the second floor,” Penelope said, “but all the ground-floor rooms have curtains fully drawn.”

Violet glanced at the trees in what appeared to be a dense wood growing along the side wall of the garden. “Even from high in those trees, no one could see into the first-floor rooms.”

“Hmm, no.” Penelope humphed. “No sense sending Conner into the wood to see what he can spy.” After considering the house for a moment more, she said, “So what do we do? We’re here, the house is here. If Mrs. Findlayson’s information is correct, if we go to the door and knock, we’ll either meet this odd manservant or . . . there’ll be no one at home.”

Griselda snorted. “And if there’s no one at home, you’ll want to look around, and possibly find your way inside—”

“Which might give us some clue as to what these peculiar entertainments are all about.” Penelope nodded. “Exactly.”

Violet drew back to stare at her.

Feeling her gaze, Penelope turned her head and met it.

Violet read the determination in her new employer’s face . . . then she blinked, and nodded. “What an excellent idea.”

Penelope grinned. “I knew you’d fit in with our little band.”

Griselda was still studying the house. “There’s no movement visible at all, either upstairs or down.” She glanced at Penelope and Violet. “I can’t see any point in going back to London without at least knocking on the door and seeing what more we can learn.” She focused on Penelope. “So how are we going to do this?”

Penelope thought for only a moment, then turned back to where the carriage stood a little way along the lane. “We do it in style. It’s the only sensible way.”

They climbed back into the carriage, and, following Penelope’s directions, Phelps drove up to the gate. Conner jumped down and pushed the gates wide, then swung up behind as Phelps sent the fashionable carriage sweeping through and up and around the drive, eventually slowing his team to halt the carriage before the two steps leading up to the porch before the front door.

Penelope waited for both Conner and James, the footman, who, in keeping with her promise to Barnaby, she’d had join their company for the day, to descend to the gravel. Conner went to the horses’ heads while James, at his most regal, paused, then opened the door, let down the steps, and, terribly formally, handed her down.

Head tilted high, Penelope descended, hoping very much that someone was watching to appreciate their performance.

Violet followed to stand just behind her, then Griselda joined them, taking up position beside Violet.

Penelope nodded to James, and, in formation, they ascended the steps, James in the lead.

Halting before the door, Penelope raised her head, and nodded to James.

James pulled the chain dangling to one side of the front door. Deep inside the house, they heard a bell clang.

Seconds ticked past.

His hand still on the chain, James arched a brow at Penelope. She was about to nod when she caught the tramp of feet on carpet. With her eyes, she signaled James to take up his correct position to her right. He did, to the sound of bolts being drawn.

Several—and from the sound of them, rather heavy—bolts.

The door swung soundlessly inward, and a man—thin, only a few inches taller than Penelope, who definitely didn’t qualify as tall—looked out at them, the expression on his distinctly weasel-like features declaring he was supremely bored. “Whatever you’ve come to suggest, we’re not interested.”

His accent suggested he’d spent much of his youth in the London slums, but although there were telltale broken veins decorating his face and nose, he did not appear to be inebriated at that moment. Regardless, he would never qualify as a butler, nor even a respectable manservant.

Penelope looked down her nose at him, something her breeding allowed her to accomplish despite her lack of inches. “I beg your pardon?”

Her tone, that of a daughter of the nobility addressing an abject serf, made the man blink, and rethink his approach. “Ah . . . what would you be wanting, miss—” His gaze took in Violet, Griselda, James, and the men and the carriage behind them, and he amended, “ma’am?”

Penelope waited with quite awful patience until he brought his gaze back to her face. “I wish to speak with your master. Please conduct us to the drawing room and inform him we are here.”

The man frowned. “And you would be?”

Penelope’s brows rose. “A lady from London—that is all you need to know.”

She went to sweep forward, but the man, eyes widening, leapt to swing the front door half closed.

Penelope halted, then drew in a breath, clearly outraged.

Before she could wither him, the man hurriedly said, “My master—he’s very particular-like. Doesn’t let just anyone inside. Worth my job, it’d be, to let you in.” His eyes flicked to James and the other men. He swallowed. “If you’ll give me your name, I could see if he’ll make an exception for you.”

Penelope narrowed her eyes. “Who is this man you call your master? If he’s the man I think he is . . . well, clearly he can’t be, for he would never hire such an ill-informed manservant. So, sirrah, his name if you please. If he is who he should be, I will give you my name to take to him.”

Violet had to admit that was a masterstroke, but, sadly, it didn’t get them anywhere.

Edging the door even further closed, the man shook his head. “Only people the master knows come here. You don’t even know who he is.”

“I know who the owners of this house are,” Penelope declared. “And I seriously doubt they’re your supposed master. Does this man even exist?”

“He exists, all right, and there’s nothing havey-cavey about us being here. We rent the place, all right and proper.”

“No, you don’t,” Penelope stated. “I’m acquainted with the Halsteads, the owners of this house, and they know nothing about your tenancy.”

That piece of information rocked the man; he pulled back for an instant, then, jaw clenching, growled, “You don’t know what you’re talking about, but I can tell you this—you’re trespassing! And I don’t have to answer to trespassers!”

With that, he slammed the door shut.

Immediately, they heard the bolts rammed home.

Penelope stared at the door. “Well!” She swung around and, leading the way, marched back down the two shallow steps and headed across the gravel to the waiting coach.

Griselda and Violet had fallen in behind. They were halfway across the stretch of gravel when Griselda murmured, “Don’t turn around and look, but there’s a girl at the first-floor window at the far end—I think she’s trying to attract our attention.”

“Indeed?” Penelope tossed her head as if flinging the comment over her shoulder. As she faced forward again, pausing before the carriage steps to sweep up her skirts and take James’s hand to steady her, she said, “Yes—I saw.”

Violet followed Penelope into the carriage; sinking onto the seat, she looked for the girl, but from where she was, the light reflected off the window. “Damn!” she muttered. “I can’t see past the glass.”


Penelope looked across the carriage at Griselda, who met her gaze. James shut the door, then the carriage dipped as he and Conner climbed up.

With a sharp crack of Phelps’s whip, the carriage started rolling, slowly turning, gravel crunching loudly under the wheels.

Penelope ducked her head and peered up at the house again, then sat back. Again she met Griselda’s now very serious and sober gaze. Penelope waited until the carriage rolled out of the gates and was bowling freely down the lane before nodding. “Yes, I saw—the poor thing looked quite desperate.”

“Indeed,” Griselda rather grimly said. “And I just realized something else. All the windows had bars—not just the downstairs windows but the first-floor windows as well.”

Penelope stilled. “We’re so used to seeing bars on windows in Mayfair that we don’t register them anymore.”

“But,” Violet said, her expression turning as grim as Griselda’s, “why would they have bars on windows in the country?”

“And even more to the point,” Penelope said, “why does one have bars on windows on an upper floor?”

The three women exchanged glances, then Penelope stood and pushed up the trap in the ceiling. “Phelps?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Back to London with all speed—don’t spare the horses.” Penelope exchanged another look with Griselda and Violet. “We need to alert the Inspector and your master that there’s something very wrong going on up here.”