The Masterful Mr. Montague

Chapter 13




So, you see, we have to act tonight.” Halting before her drawing room fireplace, Penelope looked from face to face around the circle of her assembled colleagues. Barnaby and Stokes were present, along with Montague, each seated in one of the large armchairs, while Griselda and Violet had sat on the chaise, allowing Penelope to claim center stage as she’d paced before the fireplace and described in succinct and factual fashion all she, Griselda, and Violet had discovered that afternoon.

It was already early evening, and time was slipping away.

After racing back to town, they’d let Griselda down in Greenbury Street, then Penelope and Violet had driven straight on to Scotland Yard. There, they’d found Stokes and Barnaby rechecking statements taken from witnesses about Runcorn’s murder. After listening to a brief account of what the ladies had discovered, Stokes had sent a runner to summon Montague, and they’d repaired to Albemarle Street.

Griselda, with Megan and her nursemaid, Gloria, had arrived shortly after, closely followed by Montague. In keeping with her new policy of balance, Penelope had decided that the proud fathers should entertain Oliver and Megan. Leaving the gentlemen, supervised by Griselda and Violet, thus engaged, Penelope had consulted with Mostyn and organized a simple dinner of cold meats, bread, cheese, and fruits, which, given the early hour and the relaxed company, they’d consumed en famille in the dining room.

Once the meal had been consumed, and Oliver and Megan had been handed to their respective nursemaids, the company had regrouped and repaired to the more spacious drawing room. There, aided by Violet and Griselda, Penelope had described all they’d discovered that day, from Violet’s recollection of the letter, to their brief visit to Lowndes Street, and their subsequent journey into Essex, capped by their unexpected discoveries at Noak Hill.

To her mind, and Violet’s and Griselda’s, the need to act now, tonight, was self-evident.

In response to her summation, Stokes exchanged a look with Barnaby, then looked back at her. “Tell me again the reasons you believe we must move on this place tonight.”

Penelope stared at Stokes, amazed that he hadn’t seen the obvious, but then she realized he wasn’t disputing her conclusion but instead was asking her to restate and reinforce the arguments he would need to convince and win over his superiors.

She blew out a breath; where to start? “Well, I suspect the first point we need to make is the intuitive connection Lady Halstead drew between what was going on at her country house, The Laurels, and the odd payments into her bank account.” Resuming her pacing, Penelope continued, “Although she subsequently downplayed it, that connection was instrumental in pushing her ladyship into having her affairs examined by Runcorn—and we are all in agreement that that action is what led to Lady Halstead’s, Runcorn’s, and Tilly’s murders. So the strange entertainments, as Mrs. Findlayson terms them, being held at The Laurels appear critically connected, motive-wise, to the three murders.”

Pausing, Penelope arched a brow at Stokes.

Fingers steepled before his face, he nodded. “That’s good as far as it goes. But why now—why tonight?”

“Because,” Penelope continued, “according to the signs the locals have noted, there will be another such entertainment held tonight. The timing of these entertainments appears to mirror the odd payments—another, more definite link—but, therefore, after tonight there will not be another such entertainment for another month. However”—she held up a finger—“we know that the murderer is aware that the police are now involved, so there is every reason to suppose that tonight’s event will be the last—his last hurrah, as it were, at least at The Laurels.”

“Why,” Barnaby asked, taking on the role of devil’s advocate, “if he’s worried about police attention, would he even bother to hold an event tonight?”

Penelope looked at him, momentarily at a loss, but then she grimly smiled. “Because he has wares to clear.” Confidence escalating, she looked at Montague. “The items Montague has deduced he’s selling, each worth two hundred and fifty pounds.” She looked back at Barnaby, then shifted her gaze to Stokes. “And those items aren’t the sort one can lock in a cupboard and leave until later.”

Stokes nodded. “Very good.” He was clearly formulating his approach to his superiors, an urgent request that, given all they’d learned, needed to succeed.

Barnaby glanced around at the others. The atmosphere in the room, between the six of them, had been progressively changing ever since their ladies had arrived back from Essex with their news. The more he, Stokes, and Montague had heard of what Penelope, Griselda, and Violet had uncovered . . . while some part of their initial response had been faint and, as far as they’d been able to manage, well-concealed horror at the ladies’ glib and apparently carefree plunge into active and independent investigation, none of the ladies’ actions had been reckless, and, at all times, as Penelope had promised, they’d had support and protection in the form of her coachman, groom, and footman—all men Barnaby himself had vetted and on whom he and Stokes knew they could rely. Their initial instinctive horror had been quickly submerged by building excitement, by increased focus and eagerness.

Their ladies had found the key to the murders, and neither he, Stokes, nor, he judged, Montague, were the sort of men to deny approbation and applause where it was due, much less hesitate to seize the information the ladies had assembled and use it to push the investigation along.

And the ladies were with them every step of the way. This investigation was now very much a fully fledged joint effort involving all six of them; each of them had a personal interest, had committed themselves to seeing it through.

As a group, together.

It was a heady, exhilarating, stimulating situation.


Stokes looked up at Penelope. “If, as Barnaby and I have already reported, he—whoever he is—is primarily driven by a wish to keep his identity a secret, isn’t it likely that you three turning up at the door of The Laurels this afternoon will have put our bird to flight? Why, knowing you had called—and you did state you were acquainted with the Halstead family—would he remain, waiting for the authorities to turn up and expose him? Isn’t it more likely that he would take his wares and run?”

“No, he can’t.” Barnaby couldn’t help himself; the excitement of pulling the strands together was too great a lure. “The event has already been advertised.” He met Stokes’s eyes. “All those carriages that turn up to every event—they’re not local. They have to come from somewhere. Those people—his customers, if you will—have already been notified that there’s an event, a sale of some sort, on tonight. He can’t just up and shift the location and time, not without risking a great deal, especially given that those he’s dealing with are unlikely to be your average merchant.”

“Indeed.” Penelope sank onto the arm of Barnaby’s chair. “And I believe you can be confident that although he—whoever he is—presumably knows by now that some lady is likely to pass on to the Halstead family the fact that someone is using The Laurels, he won’t imagine that lady will be moved to do so tonight, or even tomorrow, much less that her information will occasion immediate action by Scotland Yard.” Raising her hands, palms up, she looked at Griselda and Violet. “We were just three females, after all—hardly likely to be an imminent threat.”

Montague and Stokes both snorted.

“However,” Violet said, her clear voice a contrast to Penelope’s forceful tones, “I would wager that if you sent men up there tomorrow, they’ll find nothing more than an empty house.”

Barnaby nodded. “That’s all but certain.” He met Stokes’s eyes. “He—whoever he is—is locked into holding his entertainment tonight. For multiple reasons, he can’t call it off, and although he must know by now that he won’t be able to continue with his business, at least not from The Laurels, from his point of view, his best—indeed, most obvious—course will be to continue with tonight’s event, and then relocate with all speed.”

Stokes held his gaze, the expression in his gray eyes distant as he re-trod their case. The case he would lay before his superiors in support of his request for the authority and men to mount a raid on The Laurels tonight. Slowly, Stokes nodded. “So if we leave it, even until tomorrow, we’ll almost certainly lose him. A man who has committed three murders—three murders the commissioners would like to see solved before the news sheets get wind of them and the Halsteads, and even more the Camberlys, come under public scrutiny. The commissioners want a result, and this is clearly an excellent chance to leap ahead several steps in our investigation—all the way to identifying this not-so-easy-to-identify villain.”

Barnaby tilted his head. “That should shift them, don’t you think?”

Stokes grimaced. “I hate politics—I’m sure all the commissioners as well as the Chief will want to agree and give the go-ahead, but . . . I fear they’ll hesitate. Even with your father there, and Peel, too, the others will want to weigh up the pros and cons, to assess how the case weighs in the public scale. And with Camberly and Halstead involved . . .” Leaning forward, Stokes clasped his hands between his knees. “If there was something—just one more thing that would be certain to keep the public on the police’s side, even if this raid proves to be a complete waste of time—”

“There is.” It was Montague who spoke. When all eyes turned his way, he met their gazes gravely. “We haven’t dwelled on it, but all of us can guess what ‘items’ the villain is selling.” He looked at Griselda. “You saw one at the window—a young, desperate girl. According to my analysis of the sums he’s cleared every month, he’ll have at least four others in that house, very possibly more.” Montague swept the group with his steady hazel gaze. “And none of us have to think too hard to guess to whom he’s selling such wares.”

Stokes’s face slowly transformed into a mask of almost vicious, delighted triumph. “That’s perfect,” he growled. All but springing to his feet, he looked around at the others. “I’ll go to the Yard and—”

“Wait, wait, wait!” Rising, Penelope waved her hands. “We need to work out a plan first.” Hunting in a pocket, she drew out a crumpled sheet. Smoothing it, she shifted to show it to Stokes. Barnaby rose and looked over her other shoulder. “This,” Penelope explained, “is a map Griselda, Violet, and I drew of The Laurels—as much as we could deduce from what we could see of the house and the immediately surrounding areas. See”—she pointed—“there are thick woods on this side, which should be useful, and—”

Ten minutes later, with the plan for the raid on the late Lady Halstead’s country house fully detailed and defined, Stokes shrugged into his greatcoat and left to summon the commissioners, to lay out his case, gain their approval, and gather his constables, leaving Montague and Barnaby to arrange transportation for the rest of their company to the agreed rendezvous in the woods alongside The Laurels.

Waiting in the front hall for the carriages to be brought around, Penelope all but jigged with happiness. Not one of the men—not even Montague—had made any attempt to dissuade the ladies from attending, much less questioned their right to do so.

Their new investigating team was well on the way to becoming a fully functioning reality.

It was a cool night in Essex. A pale sliver of moon showed fleetingly through the canopy, concealed, then fitfully revealed by the low clouds scudding across the sky and the restlessly shifting branches of the tall trees in the wood. Although the majority of leaves had yet to fall, enough already had to provide a soft carpet underfoot, sufficiently thick to deaden the clomp of heavy boots as Stokes issued whispered orders and his men spread out, circling the house as silently as they could, as far as possible keeping under cover.

Violet wasn’t sure such caution was truly necessary. As arranged, they’d gathered in the wood at half past nine—the six of them, plus Penelope and Barnaby’s two coachmen and four grooms and footmen, as well as a good score and more of Scotland Yard’s finest. From what Violet had made out from the earlier whispered exchanges, several of the young Turks on the detective side of the force, all of whom clearly held Stokes in some awe, had volunteered to assist him. Stokes had organized his force into smaller groups, assigning two detectives to a cohort of constables; he was presently engaged in dispatching the groups to positions around the house.

As far as Violet could see, no one in the house was watching, was in any way on guard; no one was expecting any interruptions to their proceedings, whatever those were.

Their force had assembled before any carriages had appeared, but even then all the curtains in the house, on both upper and lower floors, had already been drawn. Light shone through them, softer lamplight upstairs, while the downstairs rooms appeared to be ablaze—exactly as if a major social gathering was underway.


The carriages, all black and heavily curtained, had started to arrive at ten minutes before the hour; by ten o’clock, nine had pulled up, had disgorged their passengers, then been drawn to a halt along one side of the drive. The coachmen, all of them, had tied up their teams and gone inside, too, somewhat unexpectedly following their masters through the front door. The door had opened to every coachman’s knock but was always swiftly closed after every admittance.

After ten minutes passed and no further coaches had rattled along the lane and in at the gate, Stokes had started sending his men out from the cover of the wood.

From her vantage point perched on a sturdy branch high enough to see over the wall, more or less in line with the front porch, Violet, along with Penelope, Griselda, and Montague, all similarly clinging to branches and tree trunks, had studied the “guests” who had arrived in the nine carriages. Both men and women, roughly an equal number of each; all had climbed down and walked quickly but not hurriedly inside, sparing not so much as a glance at their surroundings.

Although the light was poor, all the attendees had appeared fashionably, even elegantly, dressed. The ladies had worn dark gowns; some had carried shawls and reticules. Most of the males had sported coats and cravats, and some had carried canes and fashionable hats.

The confidence, the assurance, with which each had approached and entered the house was, Violet thought, telling. Leaning closer to the trunk of the tree, closer to Montague, standing on a lower branch on the tree’s opposite side, she whispered, “All of those who arrived have been here before—probably many times.”

Through the dark shadows, Montague met her gaze; after a moment, he nodded. “Yes, you’re right.” He glanced back at the house. “Anyone who was new to the place would have glanced around, at the very least shown some sign of hesitation, of taking stock. None of them did.”

“Nor did their coachmen,” Penelope whispered from the next tree. She started wriggling along her branch, clearly intending to jump down. “Whoever they are, they’re all a part of this—there’s no innocent bystanders in that lot.”

Griselda humphed an agreement as she carefully stepped down, branch by sturdy branch, from her perch.

“Wait!” Montague hissed as Penelope prepared to jump.

When she stopped and looked at him, he hesitated for only a second before saying, “You might slip and twist your ankle, and then you’d have to stay here and miss all the excitement.”

Penelope studied him for a moment, then softly laughed. “Oh, you are good. You, Montague, are a very welcome addition to our band of investigators. All right. I’ll wait.”

Montague clambered down, and Penelope allowed him to lift her down from her perch.

Violet, meanwhile, had edged to the trunk, but before she could start to climb down by herself, Montague returned and, with no more than a glance by way of requesting permission, reached up and lifted her down.

Somewhat to her surprise, her lungs stopped working—seized up in a most peculiar way in response to the feel of his hands about her waist, to the sense of strength as he so easily lifted her down and gently set her feet on the leaves. He hesitated for a second, a telltale moment in the dark of the woods when he stood and looked down at her, their shadowed gazes locked even though, in the poor light, they couldn’t see—but they could sense, and they did, then he drew breath, and, sliding his hands from her waist, he stepped aside, out of her way. But he remained close beside her.

Stokes and Barnaby had been overseeing the disposition of their troops; they returned, two rather large shadows moving surprisingly silently, weaving through the trees.

Joining them, Stokes nodded. “We’re ready.” A flash of teeth in the darkness was a sharklike smile. “Our group will go in via the front door.” A contingent of the burliest constables, as well as the six men from Penelope and Barnaby’s staff, waited a few feet away. “Although I’ve got a warrant, I want Montague to lead the way using his letter of authority—the more confusion we can create over what exactly is going on, the better, and the easier it will be to break up the group inside and take everyone into custody.”

Stokes’s gaze shifted to Penelope, Griselda, and Violet. “I want you three, along with your coachmen, grooms, and footmen, to follow us through the gates and take up position on the lawn directly opposite the front porch.” He paused, his shadowed gaze touching each of their faces in turn. “If this business is as we suspect, I want to be able to get the girls out of there as quickly as we can. I’ve told our men that they’ll be able to steer the girls out of the front door and they’ll be able to see you from there.” Stokes tipped his head to the coachmen, grooms, and footmen. “Your men will stay with you, and help shepherd the girls from the front door to you. I don’t want to risk any of the blackguards inside thinking to take hostages—not of any sort.”

Even Penelope saw the sense in Stokes’s plan. They all nodded and murmured agreement.

Stokes lifted his head. “Right then.” He glanced at his men. “Let’s get this raid underway.”

They followed Stokes out of the wood, into the lane, and, falling into the requested formation, marched through the gates, presently set wide, and up the gravel drive. Violet had to admit it was a stirring moment; the crunch of so many heavy booted feet sounded like a drumbeat—the march of justice.

On reaching the area before the porch, their small party diverged from the rear and took up their appointed positions.

Montague, she saw, fearlessly led the way up the steps. Halting before the front door, he nodded to Stokes, who pulled the dangling chain. Montague waited for a heartbeat, then raised his fist and thundered on the door.

When the door failed to open, at Stokes’s nod, Montague knocked heavily again.

Half a minute passed, then the door eased open.

Up on her toes, Violet could just glimpse the curious manservant as he stood blocking the doorway. His “Yes? Can I help you, sir?” floated over the many burly shoulders between them.

Montague flicked out the letter of authority he held in his hand. “I am empowered by the owner of this property, the late Lady Halstead, to investigate the use of her house.” When the man simply gawped, Montague had no compunction in raising a hand, palm out, and shoving the villain backward; the man staggered back several paces, and Montague seized the opening and strode over the threshold into the front hall.

The door to his left was closed; directly ahead a wide staircase led up to the first floor, while a narrow corridor beside it gave access to the rear rooms of the house. To his right, a pair of doors stood wide, showing a section of what was plainly the drawing room. Pivoting in that direction, Montague strode forward, feeling decidedly more pugnacious than he could recall ever feeling as he took in the two couples beyond the doorway.

They might have been mistaken for guests attending a fashionable soiree if not for the hardness in their eyes and the signs of dissolute living etched in their faces.

Both couples had frozen, their expressions blanking, their eyes widening as their gazes locked on the men at Montague’s back; ignoring the couples, Montague marched into the room and looked down its length.

And saw Walter Camberly, his eyes rounding, his mouth agape, standing alongside a round, raised dais—the sort of thing Montague had seen in dressmaker’s shops. Atop the dais, tears streaking her face, stood a girl of some twenty summers, utterly naked.


Montague finally understood. Walter was auctioning the girls.

“Stokes.”

“Yes. I’ve seen enough.” His gray gaze locked on Walter Camberly, his face the definition of grim, Stokes moved up beside Montague. “I’ll take care of him, you get the girl out of here.”

“Done.” Montague strode forward, shrugging out of his greatcoat as he went, barely registering the other people, men and women both, scattered about the room.

Walter Camberly’s mouth opened and closed, but no sound issued forth. As Stokes reached him and seized him by the arm—ungently—Walter managed to croak, “Here! I say—”

“If you’ve got any brains, you’ll keep your trap shut,” growled a man—well-dressed, but clearly no gentleman—standing a few paces away.

Montague shut his ears to the mounting exchanges of pleasantries as Stokes’s men moved through the room and introduced themselves to Walter’s “guests.” Raising his greatcoat, Montague held it up to screen the poor girl. “Here, my dear. Wrap yourself up, and let’s get you out of here.”

Tentatively, as if hardly daring to believe what was taking place before her very eyes, the girl slowly took possession of the coat; Montague averted his eyes as she slipped properly into it and hugged it about her body.

“Excellent.” Montague held out his hand to assist her down from the dais. “Come along, my dear—you’re entirely safe, and there are ladies waiting outside to help.”

Blinking huge blue eyes, the girl took his hand and, holding the coat tight with her other hand, clambered down. Once she was on her feet, she met Montague’s eyes. “There’s others like me—upstairs.”

Montague nodded, gently urging her forward. “Yes, we know. Others will be bringing them down momentarily.” Shielding her from the jostling of the many bodies—police and their captives—now crowding the room, he guided her out into the front hall. There they found other girls being brought down from upstairs and led outside by solicitous constables. Barnaby had been in charge of that group, all of them older men with daughters of their own.

Remaining with his charge, Montague joined the exodus, escorting her across the porch, helping her over the gravel—although she was barefoot, she seemed unconcerned by the small stones—and then they were on the lawn and he handed her into Violet’s care.

With a smile and a comforting embrace, Violet led the girl to join the others, gathering in a small circle inside the protective cordon of Penelope’s men. The men were all studiously watching the house, showing the scantily clad girls as much courtesy as they could.

As Montague watched, the girl he’d escorted out was welcomed with cries of “Hilda!” Several of the other girls threw their arms around her.

Penelope waited for the hugs and cries to subside, then asked, “Girls, is this all of you?”

There were seven girls in all. They looked around, then Hilda raised her head and nodded, “Yes, miss. There were seven of us they’d caught this month. I heard him as was in charge”—with her chin, she indicated the house—“say as they usually had more, but tonight, this month, there was just us seven.” Hilda’s voice lowered, trembled. “We’re all girls from the country, miss, good girls an’ all. Each of us came down to try to find honest work in the city, but he came along with his lies and his promises of a good place to work that he knew . . . and then he brought us here and locked us up.” Her voice dropped lower. “He were going to sell us for ravishment and worse.”

“Yes, well,” Penelope said, “you can rest assured that he won’t be doing that, or much of anything else, not where he’s going. Those gentlemen over there”—with a wave she indicated the constables marching the arrested “guests” out in a steady stream to the police wagons that had drawn up, having waited down the lane to the priory until they’d been summoned—“are from the police, and they will ensure that those dreadful people get their just deserts, which, trust me, won’t be sweet.” The words and Penelope’s tone combined to help the girls relax just a little, their tension fractionally easing. “Now,” Penelope continued, “do you know where your clothes are? If you’ll give me instructions, I’ll send my husband and Mr. Montague here to fetch what they can find.”

Supplied with instructions in short order, Montague returned to the house and found Barnaby in the front hall; they went through the rooms upstairs, gathering up the bags they found in each room and filling them with whatever belongings they could find.

“The girls were maids from the country,” Montague told Barnaby when he rejoined him at the top of the stairs. Montague had four bags, two under his arms and one in each hand, while Barnaby carried three similar cases. As they started down the stairs, Montague continued, “They came to London looking for honest work. From what I gather, he—by which I believe they mean Walter Camberly—met them soon after they arrived and offered them employment. He then brought them here.”

Barnaby nodded. “I’d wager he hung around near the coaching inns. Easy enough to spot the wide-eyed innocents who’ve never been to town before.”

Reaching the hall, they paused, and Stokes joined them, Walter Camberly in tow.

Walter still looked stunned, still uncomprehending as, hands bound before him, propelled by a burly sergeant, he stumbled along.

When the sergeant halted Walter a pace away from Stokes, Montague fixed Walter with a witheringly condemnatory glare. “You disgusting excuse for a gentleman—you preyed on innocent girls for your own gain.”

“And,” Barnaby said, his tone equally hard, “you then murdered your own grandmother to hide your crimes.”

“Not to mention murdering your grandmother’s man-of-business, Mr. Runcorn, and her ladyship’s maid, Tilly Westcott,” Stokes said.

Walter’s face lost all color. His jaw dropped, hung open for several seconds, then his eyes bulged and he snapped his mouth shut. He looked at them, at their expressions, then vehemently shook his head. “No.” With every evidence of desperation, he raised his bound hands as if pleading his case. “No—I didn’t.”

His face graven, Stokes signaled to the sergeant. “Take him away.” As the sergeant shoved Walter on, Stokes added, “Just make sure you keep him well away from the others. No telling what they might do.”

“Aye, sir,” the sergeant replied, pushing Walter through the open doorway and onto the porch.

Twisting around to look back at them, desperation in every line of his face, Walter Camberly wailed, “I didn’t murder anyone! That wasn’t me!”

It was a long and busy night, but not one of them begrudged the effort.

Buoyed by triumph and the deep satisfaction of knowing they’d saved seven, at least, of Walter’s victims from violation and misery, the six intrepid investigators banded together to take care of all the issues arising from the evening’s raid.

Albemarle Street became their headquarters. Penelope, Griselda, and Violet returned there with the girls; Mostyn and the rest of the household rallied around, finding beds, comforting the girls with hot milk, then settling them to sleep. They put the girls in three bedrooms, two in each of two rooms and three in the other, so none of them would be alone.


Griselda descended the stairs with Penelope and Violet after they’d assured the girls that help would be forthcoming to find them honest work on the morrow, and then had bid them a good night. “I daresay tonight will be the first decent night’s rest they’ve had since they reached London.”

“Poor things.” Violet sighed. “What Walter did was simply unconscionable.”

“Indeed.” Penelope was unusually somber. “I don’t like to think about how many more he sold off over the last—what was it? Fourteen months?”

“Dwelling on the number won’t do any good, but,” Griselda said, “given they caught the brothel owners involved, and with any luck that will be all of them, then I suspect Stokes and his men will be closing down several such enterprises and freeing the girls shortly. Not that that will ameliorate the damage done, but at least they will be free again.”

Penelope halted, head tilting as she considered that prospect. Then she nodded and continued down the stairs. “Fingers crossed, but it may well be that because of Walter’s crimes, we might end up freeing many more girls than those he himself sent to hell.”

As matters transpired, it wasn’t going to be Stokes and his men who closed down the brothels. When he, Barnaby, and Montague finally returned to Albemarle Street, Stokes slumped in an armchair, accepted a glass of brandy from Barnaby, and answered Griselda’s eager question. “Not me, love, but my peers in Manchester, Leeds, Birmingham, and Coventry.” He sipped, sighed, then met the ladies’ encouraging gazes with a half smile. “Walter Camberly stumbled on a lucrative non-London market. The brothels in those lesser cities can’t keep enough girls—those that way inclined who have any sense move to London and the better pickings here. We snared nine brothel owners and their madams—the Chief’s in alt. Usually, it’s easy enough to catch the madams, but the owners . . . they are rarely to be found, and are even less easy to charge with any crime.

“This time”—with his glass, Stokes waved—“we have them all singing. And they’re all giving us the same song. Cromer—he was the man you took to be a manservant, but in fact he was more deeply involved in the racket, a full partner—was the connection. Through him, Walter Camberly approached the brothel keepers in those four cities and offered to sell them country girls—fresh, clean, unsullied country girls. Not being complete flats, Cromer and Camberly took the precaution of insisting they had to be paid in cash, and that the brothel owners themselves had to be present to take possession of the goods immediately after the auction.”

Penelope shuddered. “Evil—simply evil.” She looked at Stokes. “But how did Camberly find the girls?”

“It seems,” Barnaby said, “that Walter stumbled onto the value of being innocuous. According to him, ever since he was a boy he would occasionally loiter about the coaching inns simply because he liked watching the coaches and the horses and the travelers—he said he used to imagine running away, the usual adolescent dreams.” Barnaby paused to sip, then went on, “But as he grew older, and looked more mature, on and off over the last years, he would be asked by fresh-faced country maids just off the coaches for directions. Sometimes even recommendations as to where they might find work, or where they might stay.” Barnaby paused, then said, “Eventually, an evil scenario took root and blossomed in his brain.”

“It sounds like his parents keep him on a very tight rein.” Stokes knocked back the last of his brandy. “We haven’t formally interviewed him as yet. I wanted to let him stew through the night.” Stokes looked at Griselda, then Penelope. “What of the girls?”

“Thankfully, we got there in time for these seven. I’ve already sent a note around to Phoebe Deverell’s agency, and I received an immediate reply. The woman in charge—a Mrs. Quiverstone—wrote that she and the agency will be happy to take all seven girls in and keep them under their wing, assess and train them, and make sure they get appropriate positions.” Penelope leaned back in her chair. “So they are saved, safe, and well on the way to getting back their lives.”

“Indeed,” Violet said, “and from what the girls said, they do appreciate that, the horror of the last weeks aside, they might well end up in a better situation than they might have had Walter Camberly not interfered in their lives.” Violet smiled. “They are very resilient, which is all to the good.” She met Montague’s eyes. “They’re already looking forward, not back.”

Penelope heaved a tired, but clearly satisfied, sigh and locked gazes with Barnaby. “Excellent, excellent, and excellent! We”—she waved one hand, indicating the six of them—“have notched up a major success. All that remains is to confirm that Walter Camberly committed the three murders, and it’ll be time to celebrate.”

Stokes looked at Barnaby, then Montague, then stoically said, “There’s just one problem—Walter Camberly continues to insist that he hasn’t murdered anyone.”