The Masterful Mr. Montague

Chapter 15




The following morning, as soon as the last member of his staff had come through the door of Montague and Son, Montague called everyone into his office and explained his current thinking regarding the Halstead file.

“So,” he concluded, “we need to ascertain if any documents are missing, and if none are, we’ll need to cross-check everything to determine if there’s some other irregularity.”

“But there has to be, doesn’t there?” Gibbons said from the chair beside Montague’s desk. “If, as you say, Runcorn was murdered because of something to do with the accounts, then somewhere buried in all of that”—Gibbons nodded at the three large piles of documents sitting on Montague’s desk, the accumulated financial records of the Halsteads—“there must be some trace, some clue. No matter if the murderer did attempt to remove the evidence, no matter how thorough he thought he was, unless he was a man-of-business, too, he would have overlooked something.”

Phillip Foster nodded. “Quite a challenge, even for one of us, to eradicate all sign, all the footprints of any particular transaction.” Raising his gaze from the piles of documents, he met Montague’s. “So where are we at present with our searching?”

Montague glanced at Pringle.

Pringle grimaced self-deprecatingly. “I’m still less than halfway through reassembling the main file. I’ve been working backward, but thus far I haven’t found any document that’s missing.”

Slocum looked at Montague. “So where would you like us to start, sir?”

Montague considered, then said, “Let’s see what we can accomplish today. I need you and Foster to take on as much of our scheduled work as possible. Gibbons and I will need to attend any meetings we have scheduled, but beyond that . . .” Montague considered the stack of papers, then said, “Pringle can continue reassembling the file, searching for any missing document, working backward. Mr. Slater?”

Montague’s junior clerk straightened, his expression eager. “Yes, sir?”

“You will watch Mr. Pringle until you have the knack of what he is doing, how his numbering system works, then, under Mr. Slocum’s oversight, in the time in which he doesn’t require your services, you will commence reassembling the file, but working from the earliest documents forward.” Montague looked at Slocum and Pringle. “At this point, we have no notion of when in the timeline of the Halstead documents the vital clue resides, so by having Slater work through the documents from the other end, as it were, we should double our chances of discovering if any documents are missing, and subsequently which documents they are.”

Slocum, Pringle, and Slater all nodded.

Montague glanced at Foster. “Your first task, along with Slocum, is to keep the office functioning as usual, servicing all our other clients.”

Foster grinned and saluted.

“If you have any time left over after that, you can help Gibbons compile a complete listing of the Halsteads’ investments, past as well as present.” Montague glanced at Gibbons. “Fred, you’ll have to work with the file as Pringle reassembles it, and also with the earlier documents as Slater gets those in order.”

Gibbons nodded. “How detailed a list?”

“Everything you stumble on, regardless of whether it paid a dividend, was sold at a profit or a loss, or was simply held and forgotten about. Cross-check with the bank accounts, all of them.” Montague paused, then added, “Given there’s nothing obvious about this—given we have no idea what particular investment or even type of investment, or style of fund or instrument, was of interest to our murderer—then we have to cover absolutely everything. Something that may appear minor and of no real account to us might, for reasons we do not know, be of vital importance to him.”

“Right then.” Gibbons rose. “I’d better get started.”

“So what angle will you be tackling, sir?” Foster asked as he straightened away from the bookshelf he’d been leaning against.

Montague hid a wry smile; Phillip Foster was keen and eager to learn, something Montague was happy to encourage. “I’m going to work my way through the copies of the documents Runcorn had Pringle make for me. Those copied documents should at least touch on all the active sources of income to the Halstead estate.” He paused, then explained, “What I identify through income and expenditure should reconcile with what Gibbons and you put together. If we come up with any anomaly, then we’ll be on to something. But it’s possible we’ll end with a complete match, in which case, it’ll come down to whether Pringle and Slater find something missing. Essentially, I will be working on the money itself, while you and Gibbons identify the sources, and Slocum, Pringle, and Slater will analyze the documentary records. Somewhere in all that, there has to be something missing.”

“Indeed.” With a nod, Gibbons led the way out.

Slocum, Pringle, and Slater gathered the three large piles of documents in their arms and carried them back out into the main office.

Leaving Montague considering the smaller pile thus revealed—the copies Runcorn had had Pringle make for him. That pile might have been smaller than the others; regardless, combing through it wouldn’t be any small task, especially as he had no idea what he might be looking for.

Glancing at his appointment book, he confirmed he had a morning meeting with the Earl of Meredith, who was currently in town. As the earl spent most of his time at his estate in Somerset, that wasn’t an appointment that could easily be rescheduled.

Montague glanced at the pile of documents on his desk, then, with an inward sigh, rose, lifted his hat from the hat stand, plucked the current Meredith file from his shelves—he’d already reviewed it—and headed for the door.

He returned two hours later, unexpectedly more enthused. Hanging up his hat, then replacing the Meredith file—there had been no surprises there—he returned to his desk. Looking down at the Halstead papers, he went over the plan of attack that had popped into his head as he’d traveled back from Mayfair. The approach was sound. Reaching for the pile, he set it squarely on his blotter, pulled up his chair, sat, and proceeded to sort the documents.

Distantly, he heard the main door to the offices open. An instant later, Slocum said, “Good morning, Miss Matcham. Can I help you?”

Before he’d even thought, Montague was on his feet and striding to the door, propelled by a species of fizzy emotion he’d never felt before. To his rational mind’s surprise, he rather liked the feeling. Passing into the outer office, he saw Violet smiling at Slocum.

As he crossed the room, she turned to him and her smile changed—to something warmer, more personal. More for him.


“Miss Matcham. Violet.” He took the hand she extended, held it. His gaze searched her face; from the calmness investing her features, he knew there was nothing wrong. “Has there been some development?”

“No.” A faint frown swam through her fine eyes. “And that’s why I’m here.” She glanced around the office, at the evidence of their industry. “Stokes and Barnaby are off checking the men’s alibis, and Penelope and Griselda are doing the same with the ladies—we thought it wise to be complete. But”—she raised her hands, palms up—“that left me with nothing to do, no way to contribute.” She brought her gaze back to his face. “So I thought I would come here and see whether there’s anything I can do to help you with your researches.” She paused, then, head rising a trifle, said, “I’ve acted as a secretary for all my adult life, so I am good at reading and organizing documents.”

Montague immediately saw opportunity and moved to seize it. “As it happens”—he waved at the rest of the office, at all his staff, most of whom had glanced up to exchange a smile with her—“I have all these others working in teams, tackling the problem from different angles. I’ve just returned from a meeting and was about to start on my own pile of documents.” When her gaze returned to his face, he met her eyes. “I was going to handle it on my own, but coming back just now I realized there are two separate aspects, two different arms that I need to concurrently investigate—you could help me with one of those if you like?”

Her smile blossomed into delight, and she inclined her head. “I would be happy to assist.”

Ignoring the interested, faintly intrigued, looks from his staff, reining in his own smile as best he could, he ushered Violet into his office. After helping her remove her coat and hanging her bonnet opposite his hat on the hat stand, he settled her in a chair on the client side of his desk and cleared a space on its surface for her.

“Right, then.” Rounding the desk, he opened a drawer and retrieved several sheets of paper, as well as a handful of the sharpened pencils Slocum made sure were always there. Dividing the supplies between Violet’s impromptu blotter and his own, he sat in his chair and faced the Halstead papers anew. Then he looked at Violet, met her encouraging gaze. “These documents are the copies Runcorn sent me. They should contain information on all the dealings required to generate a comprehensive review of the Halstead estate—the financial side of it, certainly. What we—you and I—need to do is list every item of income and every item of expenditure, and link each to a specific source. Gibbons out there, aided by Foster, is combing through the original documents and making a list of all the investments—the sources.”

“So Gibbons’s list and ours should match?” Violet asked.

“Exactly.”

“And if they don’t . . . then whatever point on which they don’t match will be a clue?” When Montague nodded, Violet felt a surge of enthusiasm buoy her. Straightening the sheet of paper before her, she picked up a pencil. “So”—she met Montague’s eyes—“where do we start?”

He hesitated for only an instant. “You can list the income—that’s actually easier than determining what an expense might be. I’ll take care of the expenses.” Picking up the document on the top of the pile, he glanced at it, then replaced it and turned the entire pile upside down. “Pringle reordered these for me, and he put the most recent on top. For our purposes, it’ll be easier to work from the earliest records on. So.” Lifting the top sheet, he turned it over and handed it to her. “You start. Scan each document for any information on income. Whatever you find, note it down—where it was from, the date, and the amount—then hand the document on to me.”

Taking the sheet, Violet scanned it. It was the receipt for a deposit into a fund made by Sir Hugo over three decades previously. “No income here.” She handed the document to Montague.

He scanned it and smiled. “Correct.” He reached for his pencil and nodded at the pile in the center of the desk. “Help yourself.”

Feeling happily involved, Violet did.

They worked steadily through the papers. Mr. Slocum brought them tea and small cakes, which proved to be surprisingly delicious.

“There’s a tiny bakery tucked away at the end of Chapel Court,” Montague said in response to her query.

Licking crumbs from her fingers, Violet nodded and returned to the statement she was perusing. She felt no inhibition over asking questions, checking when an entry wasn’t, at least to her, clearly income or expense. The further through the pile they worked, the more she understood the purpose of what they were doing.

Income and expenditure. When it came down to it, that was all money truly was. All it meant.

When the City’s bells tolled twelve, Montague rose, went into the outer office to consult with his staff, then came back to inform her he’d sent his young clerk, Mr. Slater, and the office boy, Reginald Roberts, for sandwiches for the whole office.

Violet approved. “There is something of a sense of urgency, isn’t there?”

Dropping back into his chair, Montague nodded. “Indeed.” He didn’t add that, for him, the thrust of that urgency derived from his fear that, in seeking to protect himself, the murderer would continue to seek to silence Violet. Not for one moment had Montague forgotten the chill he’d felt when he’d learned that her bedroom door, too, had been opened on the night the blackguard had killed Tilly. He’d come to kill Violet, too, but had been thwarted.

The only way to permanently thwart such a villain was to expose him and catch him.

Lifting the next sheet he needed to scrutinize for expenses, he returned to that task.

The sandwiches came and were consumed in a silence broken only by the occasional rustle of paper.

Just before three o’clock, Gibbons tapped on the door frame and entered, carrying a sheaf of papers in one hand. He raised the papers. “All the investments and every last source of income. Foster and I have been through all the documents. Slocum, Pringle, and Slater have nearly met—they say they need another hour or two, but they will get the entire file re-sorted by day’s end.”

“Excellent.” Montague considered the documents he and Violet had yet to assess. With her helping, the pile had dwindled at literally twice the rate it would have had he had to do it on his own. “Another half hour, and we should be done.” He glanced at Gibbons. “I’ll call you when we are, then you and Foster can read through your list, while Violet and I check to confirm that we’ve got the expected income and expenses.”

Gibbons nodded. “Call when you’re ready. I’ve got a meeting at five o’clock—I’ll be preparing for that, but there’s not much I need to do for it.”

Montague nodded and turned back to his task with renewed mental vigor; reaching the end of his analysis of the Halstead accounts by the close of the day was a very real carrot.

Finally—finally—he slapped the last of the documents back on the pile. “Done!” He looked up at Violet; after finishing with the last document and handing it on to him, she’d risen, stretched, and walked over to look out of the window.

Turning to him, she smiled. “Now what?”


“Now . . .” He looked at the sheaf of papers stacked on her side of the desk and waggled his fingers. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

What she had was a neat list, ranging over several pages, of sources of income with the relevant amounts and dates of payment noted against each. And she’d organized the sources in alphabetical order.

As he’d done the same with the expenses—the original and any subsequent costs for each investment—it was easy to align their lists. “Wonderful.” Standing, he lifted the original pile of copied documents they’d worked through and carried them to a chest nearby. “Let’s get these out of the way.” Returning to his desk, he picked up his listing of expenses and laid the pages out, from A to Z, across his side of the desk. Then he interspersed Violet’s somewhat larger set of pages so that the income derived from each source lay next to the purchase and subsequent expenses for that source.

He surveyed the result with considerable satisfaction. Coming around the desk, Violet joined him. Glancing at her face, he saw much the same emotion reflected there. His lips curved and he looked back at their combined efforts. It was refreshing to discover that her mind was as tidy as his, that she took a similar delight in bringing order to complex matters.

“Now!” Turning, he strode to the door and looked out. “Fred? Phillip, if you’re free. Let’s see what we’ve got.”

Gibbons and Foster came in, both eager to assess the results of their labors. At Montague’s suggestion, the two men took the chairs on the client’s side of his desk, while he positioned a deeper armchair for Violet alongside his admiral’s chair.

Gibbons had picked up the lists he and Foster had assembled. “So how do you want to do this?”

“Start at the earliest record we have,” Montague said. “We’ll work forward from there.”

The first investment Sir Hugo had made dated back more than thirty years. Gibbons read out the name, and Montague confirmed the expense, ticked it off, then crossed to Violet’s accompanying list and read out the income. All agreed the income was as expected, and Montague then ticked that off, too.

They proceeded through the years of Sir Hugo’s investment life, steadily ticking off the entries as they verified them. Initially, the investments were modest, and few and far between, but in the latter two decades of his life, Sir Hugo had been very much more active. “That was when he returned from overseas,” Violet said.

They’d accounted for the investments made up to 1823 when Gibbons paused to note, “Actually, this is building into quite a nice portfolio—Runcorn Senior did well by Sir Hugo.”

Montague nodded. “Indeed. Very sound, and with just the right amount of speculation for that style of client.” He saw Phillip Foster taking mental note.

They continued on through more investments, many more in each successive year, in all cases verifying the purchase and the resulting income. They reached the year of Sir Hugo’s death, and the number of new investments dramatically decreased, but Runcorn Senior had clearly continued to wisely advise Lady Halstead, and, each year, she had added a few new items to the portfolio.

“All very solid,” Gibbons murmured. They continued cross-checking and verifying each investment, its purchase price and the income paid. Nothing was out of order; no alarm bells rang.

Until they reached 1833 and Gibbons read, “A parcel of twenty shares in the Grand Junction Railway.”

Violet watched as Montague scanned his sheets. Sir Hugo had made a significant investment in the Liverpool and Manchester Railway in 1826, and that had been paying quite a nice income since the railway had opened in 1830; it was no great surprise to discover that Lady Halstead had bought shares in a second railway.

Pencil halting over an entry, Montague nodded and read out a sum.

“That’s correct,” Phillip Foster confirmed.

“And . . .” Montague tracked across to Violet’s listing of income. And frowned.

Thinking back, Violet frowned, too. She leaned forward and looked at what she’d listed under the sources starting with G. Frown deepening, she said, “I thought I heard that the Grand Junction Railway opened earlier this year.” She looked at Montague. “Perhaps they haven’t made any payments as yet?”

Montague continued to stare at the sheets. “But they have.” Raising his head, he looked at Gibbons. “And a very nice dividend it was.”

Eyes widening, Gibbons nodded. “August, wasn’t it? Unexpectedly large.”

Montague pushed back his chair and rose. Retrieving the Meredith file he’d recently returned to the shelf, he opened the ledger, flicked through the pages, then, finger on the relevant entry, nodded. “Yes. It paid a very large dividend in late August this year, eight weeks after opening. Those shares should be returning . . . a very large amount.”

Both Gibbons and Foster sat up, focused and ready to pounce. Montague held up a staying hand. “Before we get too excited, we should check that Runcorn, thorough though he appears to have been, didn’t simply miss putting that page into the pile to be copied for me.”

Returning the Meredith file to its place on his shelves, he led the way into the outer office. Gibbons and Foster followed close behind. Montague glanced back and saw Violet on her feet; across the office he met her eyes, smiled, and nodded. She had, after all, been instrumental in getting them to this point.

Reaching the long table Slocum, Pringle, and Slater had commandeered, spreading the pages of the huge file out across the surface so they could steadily add to their ordered piles, Montague halted, and, when the three glanced up at him, said, “We’re looking for a statement of income, a dividend which should have been paid into the Halstead estate somewhere—we don’t know to which account—in late August this year.”

Slater, seated at one end of the table with three neat piles of documents before him, peered over them at Pringle, at the table’s other end. “You should have that.”

Already searching through one of the two piles before him, Pringle nodded. “This August . . .” Carefully, he drew out a small stack of papers from toward the very bottom of one pile. He held it out to Montague. “This is what we have for August this year.”

“Barring anything still left in the mess.” Slocum reached for the now very much smaller melee of papers in the middle of the table, those yet to be correctly re-filed by their dates. Picking up a handful, Slocum quickly checked the dates.

Pringle grabbed another handful, as did Slater.

Spurred by the hope that they’d finally stumbled onto something, Gibbons and Foster joined them.

Montague, meanwhile, stepped back from the fray, the already ordered documents for August in his hand. Waving Violet, who had hung back, to join him, he retreated to Foster’s nearby desk. With Violet’s help, he checked over those documents . . . and found nothing to indicate that any income had been paid to the Halstead estate from the Grand Junction Railway Company.

Meeting Violet’s gaze, he saw the speculation rising in her eyes.

“Have we found it?” she asked.

He pressed his lips tight but couldn’t quite suppress his excitement. “We might have.”

Turning, they watched as, one after the other, the rest of his staff set down the papers they held. The last to do so was Slater. Looking up, he met the others’ gazes and shook his head. “Nothing.”


Everyone turned to Montague.

Returning to the table, he handed the papers he and Violet had checked back to Pringle. “There’s nothing here, either. So . . .” He met Gibbons’s gaze. “It appears that the Halsteads haven’t been paid for their shares in the Grand Junction Railway. Our next step is to locate the share certificate.” He looked at Pringle. “Do you know who held their certificates—was it Runcorn, or did Sir Hugo keep them?”

Pringle blinked, then he rose. “One moment.” Going to his desk, he pulled out a drawer and lifted from it a small black notebook. “I took this from Mr. Runcorn’s office, because without it . . . well, no one would know what was where.”

Opening it, he flicked through the pages. Slocum, curious, went to look over his shoulder.

“Here it is,” Pringle said. “The Halsteads.” He ran his finger down the page, then stopped. “It says here that Sir Hugo kept his share certificates.”

Montague frowned. “Does it say if he kept them at his bank, or at his home?”

“It doesn’t say,” Pringle reported.

“Try some of the other entries,” Slocum suggested.

Pringle flicked slowly through several more pages. “Ah, yes—this is mostly notes from the older Mr. Runcorn, but he does say for others ‘kept in bank.’ ”

Montague nodded. “So we can assume, therefore, that Sir Hugo kept his share certificates at home.” He looked at Violet. “Have you any idea where? Was there a safe?”

She shook her head. “No safe, of that I’m sure. But . . .” She frowned. “What do share certificates look like?”

Montague held up a finger, asking her to wait. He strode into his office. Through the open doorway, she saw him walk to a section of bookshelves, press some spot, then swing the bookcase back to reveal a very large wall safe. The door was the size of a room door. Montague quickly spun dials, then turned the handle and pulled open the heavy door. He stepped into the dim space beyond but almost immediately reappeared, a stack of papers in his hand.

Returning and halting beside her, he showed her the papers. They were somewhat larger than bank notes but were covered in much the same elaborate writing and had a seal attached. “These,” he said, fanning the papers, showing her various different styles, “are share certificates. They constitute proof of ownership.”

Reaching out a hand, Violet ran her fingers across the papers. “Oh, I recognize these. I know where Lady Halstead kept them.” She met Montague’s eyes. “They’re in the locked middle drawer of the chest of drawers in her bedroom.”

Montague didn’t look impressed. He glanced at his staff. “I’ll need witnesses for this. Fred—you have your meeting. Pringle—you should come. And Foster, if you’re free?”

Both Foster and Pringle were eager to assist.

Violet hurried back into Montague’s office, donning her coat and tying on her bonnet as Montague, who had followed her, returned the share certificates to the safe, closed and locked it, and swung the bookcase back. Then he shrugged into his greatcoat, picked up his hat, and retrieved the keys to the Lowndes Street house from his desk drawer.

A minute later, he guided her out of the office and down the stairs to the street, Foster and Pringle following close behind.

The house in Lowndes Street was as dismal and chilly as the last time she’d been there, but Violet barely registered the gloomy atmosphere. Having let them in via the front door, Montague waited only until Pringle shut it behind them before waving her up the stairs.

She led the way to the first floor and Lady Halstead’s bedroom. Entering, she went straight to the chest of drawers.

“The lock,” Montague said.

She threw him a look, pulled out the small drawer that formed the base of the mirror sitting atop the chest, reached inside, and drew out a small key.

Montague looked disgusted. As she fitted the key into the lock in the middle drawer of the three that formed the top level of the large chest, he glanced at Foster. “That’s why I do not allow my clients to keep their own share certificates unless they possess a safe.”

Stifling a smile, very conscious of the excitement bubbling through her veins, Violet turned the key, heard the lock click open, then she tugged on the round wooden handle, and slid the drawer out.

Everyone crowded around to peer inside.

Three thick rolls of share certificates, each tied with a ribbon, lay neatly aligned, filling the bottom of the drawer. “Well,” Montague said, studying the evidence, “we knew Sir Hugo had purchased lots of shares.”

Reaching inside, he lifted out the three rolls, confirming just how thick each was. “Going through these is going to take time.” He met Violet’s gaze. “I’ll be taking these with me when we leave—they are far too valuable to be left in an empty house. Close the drawer, and let’s go downstairs.”

She did, and they did; repairing to the dining room, they used the table to unroll and spread out the certificates. Pringle commandeered the salt cellars and some cutlery to act as paperweights.

They searched through one roll, then the second, and finally the third.

Montague laid the last certificate down. “No certificate for those Grand Junction Railway Company shares.”

After a moment, he looked at Foster and Pringle. “Gather these up and take them back to the office. Pringle, I want you and Slocum to take an official inventory before Slocum locks them away, then, Foster, you can check the inventory against the list you and Gibbons prepared. If you find any further discrepancy, send word to me at Albemarle Street.”

“Yes, sir.” Both Foster and Pringle started to gather the certificates.

Montague rose and drew back Violet’s chair.

She searched his eyes. “Where are we going?”

Montague met her gaze. “To tell Stokes, and the others, too. This is far too important for them not to know.”

At eleven o’clock the next morning, Montague left his office and took a hackney to Albemarle Street.

On leaving the Lowndes Street house the previous afternoon, he and Violet had gone to Scotland Yard, but Stokes and Barnaby had been out; Stokes’s sergeant had recognized Montague and told him that Stokes had said that he and Adair would be visiting various locales to check Walter Camberly’s alibis.

Denied the most appropriate outlet for their building excitement, Montague and Violet had headed for Albemarle Street. There, they’d had to wait for Penelope and Griselda, who had earlier returned from an outing aimed at verifying the alibis of the Halstead and Camberly ladies, but had subsequently taken their children for an airing in Grosvenor Square. Rather than chase after them, Violet had suggested a late afternoon tea; suddenly realizing he’d been famished, Montague had agreed. They’d sat in the pleasant parlor and sipped and nibbled, and he had started to think through his next steps aloud.

Then Penelope and Griselda had arrived; not having any news of their own to impart, they’d been keen and eager to hear what Montague and Violet had together discovered.

Immediately grasping the significance, Penelope had sent a summons to Stokes and her husband, enticingly stating that a breakthrough had occurred and that they needed to return to Albemarle Street forthwith to learn its substance.

Then, of course, the four of them had had to wait with mounting impatience for Stokes and Adair to arrive. Once they had . . .


In the end, they’d all stayed to dine, the discussion over the dinner table rife with supposition, hypothesis, and suggestions as to how they might best proceed. Everyone had agreed that the missing share certificate was a major clue and that they needed to learn who presently held it—who had received the recent large dividend—with all possible speed, but at that point, the group had divided into three camps. Stokes and Penelope had been all for barreling ahead regardless of how much noise and dust they raised. Montague and Barnaby, however, had urged caution and care in taking their next steps, while Violet and Griselda had sat back and weighed the merits of both arguments. Ultimately, it had been agreed that, despite the acknowledged urgency over identifying the villain—already a murderer three times over—before he either murdered again or, alternatively, fled, caution and circumspection were nevertheless required in dealing with such a matter.

As Barnaby had said, “The police marching into a share registry and demanding to see their books—even assuming you can—will only cause outrage and resistance on many fronts, none of which are pertinent to this investigation, and none of which will help us in the least.”

Montague had nodded. “Indeed. It may not seem so, but in such a case, asking one question at a time will get us further faster, without unnecessarily raising anyone’s hackles or alerting anyone beyond the most discreet officials to our inquiries.”

Reluctantly, the others had agreed and had left it to him to formulate and ask the questions about the shares.

Meanwhile, Stokes and Barnaby would pursue the alibis of Walter and the Halstead men, while Penelope, accompanied by Griselda, would confirm Constance Halstead’s, Caroline Halstead’s, and Cynthia Camberly’s alibis, purely to ensure they hadn’t missed some connection.

As Stokes had somewhat grimly growled, “After this business with Walter, I wouldn’t be surprised if we found some other irregularity within that family, something else that has nothing to do with the murders.”

That comment had strengthened the argument for care in pursuing the question of the missing share certificate. Once burned, twice shy; they had no reason to feel certain that the missing share certificate was, indeed, the critical issue behind the murders.

Of course, they all believed it was, but . . . pedantic caution and care had become their new watchwords.

The hackney rocked around a corner. Glancing through the window, Montague saw the familiar fa?ade of Carlton House roll by, then the hackney headed smartly down Pall Mall.

He’d spent the last hours identifying the firm that held the registry for the Grand Junction Railway Company shares. Unhappily, that firm was located in Manchester; he’d drafted a formal query and had sent it off by courier. He couldn’t expect to hear back until at least the next day.

Now, as he’d promised, he was reporting his progress to Albemarle Street—to Violet, who had been designated their central contact. Although none of the others had voiced their concern, no one had wanted Violet to go out of the house alone.

The simple fact that she—and, it seemed, no one else still alive bar the murderer—had known where Lady Halstead’s share certificates had been kept had escalated their fears for her safety. Montague’s fears, certainly, and he’d seen a similar understanding in Stokes’s, Adair’s, Penelope’s, and Griselda’s eyes. None of them wished Violet to come to any harm; none of them wanted her to be unwittingly exposed to the murderer. If they could have, they would have hemmed her in with protections, but they were all rather too intelligent for that. Instead, they’d crafted a role for her that would keep her safely within the Adairs’ house, and Montague would have wagered his last guinea that Adair’s staff had been alerted to watch over her.

Montague was therefore unsurprised when, having climbed down from the hackney, paid the jarvey, and ascended the steps to the Adairs’ door, he was admitted by their majordomo, Mostyn, who greeted him with a knowing smile and the words “Miss Matcham is in the parlor, sir.”

“Thank you, Mostyn.” Handing over his hat and cane, Montague settled his cuffs. “No need to show me in—I know the way.”

“Indeed, sir.” Mostyn hesitated.

Montague cast him a questioning look.

“I was just thinking, sir,” Mostyn said, “that if you were so inclined, you might escort Miss Matcham for a walk in the park. Don’t want her feeling cooped up and deciding to go for a walk on her own.”

Montague arched his brows. “No, indeed.” He inclined his head. “Thank you for the suggestion, Mostyn. I believe I will take it up.”

As he walked down the corridor to the parlor, Montague noted that although the weather had been somewhat dismal of late, today the sun was doing its best to make an appearance, and there seemed little imminent threat of precipitation.

Violet was seated on one of the sofas plying her needle on some mending; she’d heard his footsteps and looked up. The expression that suffused her face, that lit her eyes, made him feel . . . special. Setting aside the mending, she rose. Smiling, she held out a hand. “Mr. Montague.”

As, halting before her, he closed his hand about her fingers, she studied his face. “Do you have news, sir?”

It wasn’t his news, or the investigation, that filled his mind. He looked down at her for several seconds, then quietly said, “My given name is Heathcote, although most call me Montague.” Indeed, there was no one still alive who called him Heathcote. “I wonder, Violet, if you could see your way to calling me Heathcote.”

She held his gaze, and through that simple connection told him that she, too, felt the link, the quiet but steady, unobtrusive but very real connection that was forming between them. Then she dipped her head in acquiescence. “I would be honored to call you Heathcote.”

Another second passed, then she drew her fingers from his clasp and waved him to a chair. “Please, sit, and tell me what has happened.”

“As to that, I wondered if you would care to take the air? We can talk as we walk. Green Park isn’t far, and, indeed, I have little to report.” Smiling a touch tentatively, he added, “It would be pleasant to get more from my journey here than just a few minutes of your time.”

She laughed, twin dimples appearing in her cheeks. “Indeed, sir, and I would welcome spending more minutes with you in a gentler setting.”

“We’re in agreement then.” Smiling more confidently, he offered his arm. “Let’s send Mostyn to find your coat and bonnet, then we’ll set out to indulge ourselves.”

Five minutes later, her hand tucked in the crook of Montague’s arm, Violet paced down Albemarle Street and around the corner into the busier thoroughfare of Piccadilly. The closeness engendered through their mutual endeavors of the previous day had developed further, and, it seemed, strengthened, and not just on her part, but on his—on Heathcote’s—too. She felt a silly, giddy recklessness at the feel of him so close, so protectively strong by her side, a sense of solid male that played, alluring and comforting at the same time, on her female senses. As for the implication of his request that she call him by his given name, she decided she couldn’t dwell on that—not while she was in public. Later, she would indulge, when she was on her own and there was no likelihood she might have to behave with any sense.


There were too many others strolling the pavements for them to safely speak of the investigation; instead, they walked, taking in the sights of the fashionable carriages that rattled over the cobbles, some ferrying ladies, others tooled by exquisites of varying degrees, all drawn by high-bred horses. They crossed Berkeley Street and paced past the long fa?ade of Devonshire House, then at Clarges Street, they waited for an opening between the carriages and crossed the road, and walked on through the gate giving access to Green Park.

Immediately faced with the Reservoir, they turned right; eventually passing the fountain that marked the Reservoir’s western end, they headed into the quieter walks beyond. The trees lining the walks were large and old; their leaves had already turned, and many had fallen, creating a carpet of golds and browns.

After glancing around and confirming that there were no others near enough to overhear, she looked up at Montague. “So, my dear Heathcote, what information do you have to report?”

His lips lifted and his eyes met hers, and for a moment they indulged in an unvoiced understanding, but then he looked ahead and dutifully divulged, “As discussed last night, I’ve located the firm that holds the registry for those shares. Had they been a London firm, I would have had more to report today, but, sadly, they’re located in Manchester, so I’ve couriered a request to them.”

She arched her brows. “What, exactly, did you ask for—and how likely are they to respond with the information we need?”

He glanced at her. “You’re right—normally, a request to know who holds a particular share certificate wouldn’t get far. The firm would treat that as confidential information. However, I called their attention to the fact that Sir Hugo Halstead had previously owned that certificate, which is a fact they’ll be able to verify. Each certificate is numbered, so we are asking after a particular certificate—they are not interchangeable, like bank notes.” When she nodded her understanding, he went on, “I explained that consequent to Lady Halstead’s recent death, I was assisting in a review of the Halsteads’ affairs prior to the same being submitted to the court for probate, and that I needed to clarify and provide proof of the transfer of that share certificate.”

Meeting her eyes, he grinned. “No firm operating in the financial arena will unnecessarily allow their name to be cited in court proceedings, certainly not in relation to any unresolved question. They will want this matter clarified and dealt with before the estate is passed in for probate. I fully expect them to respond to my request with the name of the current owner, but, as they are in Manchester, that information won’t reach me until tomorrow at the earliest, and perhaps not until the next day.”

They strolled on; after several minutes, she asked, “Is there anything else you—we—might do to learn what happened to that share certificate?”

He shook his head. “It’s as I explained last night. If we start asking openly, trying to locate the current owner, we will almost certainly find that person alerted to our inquiries before we learn his name. If it’s the murderer who is the current owner, then we can all but guarantee he’ll flee, and that long before we can get to his door.” He glanced at her. “Asking in the way that I have, within the fraternity, so to speak, and we are, after all, a very discreet lot, then the Manchester firm will think to protect the current owner from having to deal with whatever court mess might otherwise ensue and so will give me his name, assuming I will then simply find proof of a chain of transfer, all legal and aboveboard, and no one will hear of the matter again.”

“Ah—I see.” After a moment, she met his eyes, quiet amusement showing clearly in her own. “I will be sure to repeat that to Penelope—who is certain to champ at the proverbial bit when she hears of the delay.”

He laughed and closed his hand over hers where it rested on his sleeve. In pleasant and mutual accord, they ambled on beneath the autumnal trees.

But by the time they turned and headed back toward Albemarle Street, along with a sense of regret over soon losing Montague’s—Heathcote’s—company, Violet’s mind had thrown up an even darker thought. And once she’d thought of it, it blossomed, overriding all else, all other considerations.

She waited until they were once more back in the front hall, and Mostyn left them, giving her privacy in which to bid Heathcote farewell. Holding out both hands to him, she caught his gaze as he took her fingers in his warm and comforting clasp. “These inquiries of yours . . .” She paused, then quietly said, “I cannot forget that Runcorn was murdered, and, it seems, the motive was to conceal who stole this certificate.” She let her concern—real and welling—show in her eyes, then simply said, “You will be careful, won’t you?” Feeling she’d pressed too far, she hurried to add, “I know it’s not my place, but—”

“On the contrary.” He held her gaze, then, very deliberately, he raised one of her hands and pressed a kiss—a gentle, warm, but entirely chaste kiss—to the backs of her fingers. “If there is any right in question, then, my dear Violet, I freely cede it to you.”

The ensuing moment grew intense. Locked in each other’s eyes, searching the other’s eyes, they each looked for, and saw, found . . .

He hesitated, then said, “Now is not the time. But after this is over and all is settled . . . ?”

She hesitated not at all. She nodded, and for good measure stated, “Yes. When this is all over . . . we will talk about this then.”

His lips eased into a slow, gentle smile.

She returned it. Her heart gave a silly little leap when, releasing her hands, he raised one finger and with its back lightly caressed her cheek.

The breath he drew in as he lowered his hand seemed tight. “I must go.”

Wordless, she nodded. As he set his hat on his head, she moved past him and opened the door.

As he crossed the threshold, she said, “I’ll be sure to pass the gist of all you said on to Barnaby, and Stokes, if he calls.”

Gaining the pavement, he turned and flashed her a smile. “And you’ll have to tell Penelope and Griselda, too, because if you don’t, they’ll drag it from you.”

Violet laughed. With a jaunty salute, Montague strode away down the street.

She watched him go, then closed the door on a happy sigh.

Well, well, well! Who would have thought it of Walter?”

He certainly hadn’t. He’d always imagined Cynthia’s get to be a mere cypher, little more than a stuffed doll—the expected heir—that she and Wallace trotted out for public consumption whenever a son’s existence might improve their standing.

“I would never have imagined that Walter would have the intestinal fortitude to do anything so wonderfully, outrageously criminal. And so very socially unacceptable! And now . . .” His smile knew no bounds. “Oh, how the mighty are fallen!”

Even he could hear the gloating joy in his voice, the sound filling the quiet of his dressing room with openly malicious glee.

He reveled in it.

“And, oh, joy of joys, how terribly perfect if Walter is blamed for the murders, too!”

He honestly couldn’t imagine any happening that would more delight him.

It took several minutes before the euphoria engendered by that prospect drained sufficiently for his underlying, ever-present obsession to resurface. But once it had . . . he still wasn’t safe.


He had yet to fully secure his future.

He grimaced, but then turned thoughtful. “With the police focusing on Walter, perhaps now is the time to silence Miss Matcham?” He considered his reflection in his shaving mirror, tipping his head as he considered. “On the other hand, perhaps that’s a sign to hold back for just a little longer.” Eyes narrowing, he murmured, “But it would be unwise to wait too long—best if Miss Matcham’s death can be made to appear connected in some way . . .”

Several minutes ticked by, then his expression started to lighten. “Perhaps Miss Matcham might have an ‘accident’—something that will suggest that she might have killed herself out of remorse for the old lady’s and the maid’s murders . . . what if Miss Matcham was the one who’d had a lover? And that lover had, with Miss Matcham’s connivance, killed the old lady, the man-of-business, and the maid, but, in the end, the murders prove too much for Miss Matcham’s delicate sensibilities, so she kills herself, but takes the name of her lover to the grave . . .” He smiled. “Oh, yes. That will do nicely.”

He stood before his mirror and watched himself think things through.

Miss Matcham had yet to remember anything relevant, or, at least, she had yet to say anything to the police, or they would have come knocking at his door asking very awkward questions. He had no way of knowing whether the matter of the share certificate he’d stolen would ever surface, but if it did . . . the maid had surprised him in the old lady’s room; she’d seen him going through the share certificates, so she had had to die.

Given Miss Matcham and the maid had been close, he had to assume that the maid had mentioned finding him doing something she didn’t understand with her mistress’s papers to her friend.

Hence, for his peace of mind, Miss Matcham, too, had to depart this earth.

Until she did, until he could be certain there was no threat of exposure hanging over his head, he would never be able to relax and enjoy the fruits of his considerable labors.

So Miss Matcham had to die. The only questions remaining were: When? And: How?