The Masterful Mr. Montague

Chapter 17




When Stokes and Barnaby walked into the drawing room, joining Penelope, Griselda, Violet, and Montague, who had arrived moments earlier, Penelope swept the gathering with an imperious eye and demanded, “Has anyone identified the murderer yet?”

When Stokes pulled a face, both negative and disgruntled, Barnaby shook his head, and Montague said, “Not yet,” Penelope paused with her gaze on Montague’s face, but then she waved her hands in a warding gesture and decreed, “No talking about the murder until after dinner. Let’s enjoy the meal first.”

No one argued; indeed, all six fell in with the suggestion, and a gentle, convivial dinner among friends followed.

Violet appreciated Penelope’s tack; even though she’d spent most of her day sorting Penelope’s correspondence, the murders had constantly lurked in the back of her mind, the question of the murderer’s identity nagging like a toothache. Penelope and Griselda had spent their day in non-investigative endeavors, Penelope attending a meeting at the British Library, and Griselda at her shop, but they, too, had confided that the murders had never been far from their minds.

By unvoiced consent, no one mentioned the murders or anything to do with the investigation until they had returned to the drawing room and settled in their now accustomed places on the sofas and chairs—Penelope and Griselda on one sofa, Montague and Violet on the sofa opposite, and Barnaby and Stokes in the armchairs flanking the fireplace, long legs stretched out before them, glasses of brandy in their hands.

“So,” Penelope finally said, “where are we now with this tiresome murderer? Have we unearthed any further clues?”

Lowering his glass, Stokes reported, “We haven’t got any further with their alibis—they’re the sort we can’t prove true or false, so they get us precisely nowhere.”

“But,” Griselda said, “alibis, the checking of them, has allowed us to confirm that Walter is not the murderer, that William did not murder either Lady Halstead or Tilly, and that none of the three ladies were actively involved in the murders.”

“Sadly,” Stokes said, “with this family, that doesn’t get us all that far. The only one of them we can definitely rule out of having any involvement in these murders is Walter. Any or all of the others, including the ladies, could have been involved as accomplices, and any of the remaining five men, Camberly included, could have been guilty of one or more of the murders.”

Penelope grimaced. “In general one assumes that it would be emotionally very difficult, and commensurately very unlikely, for a child to murder their mother, and the notion of a number of children conspiring to kill their mother seems even more far-fetched. In this case, however, given the lack of emotional connection between Lady Halstead and her children because of her long absences abroad . . . well, it’s possible that the normal, natural barriers against matricide might not have been there.”

“More,” Griselda softly said, “it’s possible Lady Halstead’s children, some of them, at least, might have resented a mother who put them so very far behind her husband and his career.”

Both Violet and Penelope nodded. The men soberly absorbed the insight.

After a moment, Barnaby stirred. “To return to specifics, for Runcorn’s murder, at least, the villain remains a Halstead male, so regardless of the existence of any family conspiracy, at least one Halstead male is involved.” He glanced at Montague. “Have you got any further as to who sold the shares to Corby?”

Montague nodded. “According to Corby’s man-of-business, the earl acquired the shares by way of payment of a gambling debt from a Mr. Halstead.”

“Good God, man!” Stokes sat upright. “Which one?”

But Montague had held up a staying hand. “Corby’s man-of-business, a Mr. Millhouse, knew only that Corby got the shares from a Mr. Halstead. However, Millhouse has agreed to inquire further of the earl, but it will be at least noon tomorrow before he expects to have any answer—and that, I suspect, depends on when he can get an audience with Corby.”

Stokes glanced at Barnaby.

Before Stokes could voice what was clearly in his mind, Montague continued, “Should the earl decline to identify the specific gentleman to Millhouse, then perhaps an approach at a more exalted level—for instance, Adair’s father, the Earl of Cothelstone, who is also widely known as one of the peers overseeing the Metropolitan Police—might be in order.” Montague’s lips twisted wryly. “However, experience suggests that Millhouse will have more luck, and that more rapidly. Noblemen like Corby have a tendency to believe that they should not divulge the names of those who lose to them to others of their station, but that the same prohibition does not apply to men of lesser station, such as Millhouse, especially not when, as I suspect he will, Millhouse suggests that the earl should furnish him with the name as a way of ensuring the taint of theft and consequent murder never comes anywhere near the earl’s good name.”


Barnaby chuckled. “You and your peers have a very fine appreciation of the nobility’s foibles.” He looked at Stokes. “Montague’s correct—Millhouse will have a better chance of getting that name than my father. If the pater approaches Corby, Corby will demand to know every little detail about the case before divulging the name, and if we’re trying for discretion—and we must not forget that, despite Walter’s sorry exploits, we have no evidence that Camberly, MP, is involved, nor Mortimer Halstead, Home Office official, either, much less the ladies—then telling Corby all in exchange for a name is not a good way to proceed.”

“Indeed,” Penelope said. “We do need to protect the innocents. This case is not going to end well for the family in any case, but the less speculation over who is actually guilty, the better.”

Stokes looked around the circle, then slumped back in his chair. “Very well.” After a moment, he cocked a brow at Barnaby and Penelope. “So exactly where are we in terms of identifying who, exactly, are the guilty parties here?”

Penelope promptly replied, “On two counts now—Runcorn’s murder and the man who gave Corby the stolen share certificate—we know the guilty party was a Halstead male.”

“We’ve ruled out Walter,” Violet said, “but in terms of who among the others is increasingly unlikely, I doubt William would have moved in Corby’s circles, and, truth be told, I’ve never heard that William gambles, not to any extent. He might not have a great deal of money, but at the level he’s chosen to live, he doesn’t really need much to get by.”

Stokes nodded. “Of the Halstead men, I agree that William is the least likely to have been involved.”

“That leaves us with Mortimer, Hayden, and Maurice as the most likely culprits,” Montague said.

“And as to that . . .” Barnaby shifted to better face them all. “After Montague sent word that it was Corby who now owned the shares, since I knew the earl to be a heavy gambler, I spent the day ambling around the gentleman’s clubs, those I suspected Corby frequents. Through chatting with the doormen and the concierges, I confirmed that the earl was a member and known to play at a number of establishments, and I subsequently inquired whether any Halstead or Camberly was a member of those clubs.”

“What a brilliant notion!” Penelope beamed at her spouse, then impatiently gestured. “And . . . ?”

Barnaby grinned at her. “And, as I was about to divulge, one of Corby’s favorite haunts does indeed boast a Halstead as a member.”

“Which Halstead?” Stokes demanded.

Barnaby met his eye. “The one we might have suspected—Maurice.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Violet said. “Maurice has always been the spendthrift, the profligate. He’s a peacock, and throughout the years I was with the family, everyone knew he gambled heavily.”

After a moment, Griselda said, “So does this mean Maurice is the murderer?”

Stokes grimaced. “From what I’ve seen and learned of him, he’s a devious, calculating sort—he could be behind all three killings. I wouldn’t put it past him.”

“However,” Barnaby said, much in the manner of continuing Stokes’s train of thought, “given the issues with this family, and the twists in this case, we need to be wary of leaping to conclusions, of making judgment calls rather than relying solely on facts. Our judgment, in this case, might lead us astray. The facts won’t.”

“But,” Stokes said, “we are making progress. We are closing in.” He looked at Montague. “I want to know the instant you hear from Millhouse as to which Halstead handed Corby that share certificate.” Stokes snorted. “With this family, we can’t even take it for granted that the Halstead who handed Corby the certificate was the same Halstead who owed him the gambling debt.”

Penelope frowned. “This family gives me a headache—our final breakthrough can’t come fast enough.”

“Hear, hear,” came from all the others.

Mostyn chose that moment to bring in the tea tray and as a group they turned their attention to other things, but once the tea had been consumed and everyone rose as Stokes, Griselda, and Montague prepared to take their leave, their progress with the case again claimed their minds.

“I know I shouldn’t,” Stokes said, meeting Barnaby’s gaze, “yet I’m back to thinking we’ve been making this a lot more complicated than it needs to be.” He glanced at the others, his gaze touching all their faces. “The chances are that, once we confirm that it was Maurice who gave Corby the share certificate, we’ll have our man, and he’ll prove to have committed all three murders.” Stokes met Barnaby’s gaze. “You said it earlier—the murders were all about our man protecting himself from exposure over something, and now we know that something was the debt to Corby and the theft of that share certificate to cover it.”

“From all I’ve heard over the years,” Violet said, “Maurice is barely tolerated on the fringes of the social circles to which he aspires to belong.” She glanced at the others. “If it came out that he’d gambled with Corby and, after he’d lost, had stolen from his mother to cover the debt, and, more, had then passed off a stolen share certificate to Corby . . . well, he wouldn’t be welcomed even within the gentleman’s clubs, would he?”

“Exactly,” Stokes said. “We have sound motive, and the means, now all we need is the final proof. One man, one Halstead—despite all the distractions, we don’t need more than him to account for all the crimes.”

After a moment, Barnaby nodded. “Agreed. The possibility of a family conspiracy might be there, but we’ve found no evidence that such an unholy alliance actually occurred. One man, one Halstead—and Maurice Halstead seems to be our man.”

The six of them massed in the front hall, those departing putting on their coats and saying their good-byes.

Griselda had brought little Megan with her when she’d arrived earlier in the afternoon. Hettie, Oliver’s nursemaid, brought the sleeping bundle down from the nursery and gently placed her in Griselda’s arms.

“There now.” Smiling, Hettie stepped back. “She was right as rain the whole time. She and Master Oliver played for a while, then out like lights, they were.”

“Good.” Tucking a fold of the blanket over Megan’s dark head, Griselda smiled at Hettie. “Thank you for watching over her, Hettie.”

Hettie beamed, bobbed a curtsy, then went back up the stairs.

Stokes, who had hovered at Griselda’s elbow, bent to check on his daughter, then, satisfied she was sleeping soundly, he straightened and turned to shake Barnaby’s hand and exchange a brief hug with Penelope, while Barnaby peeked at Megan and gave Griselda’s shoulders a gentle squeeze. “Safe journey home,” Barnaby said. He nodded to Mostyn, who opened the front door.

Stokes shook Montague’s hand. “Let me know as soon as you hear.”

“I will,” Montague assured him.

With a smile and a salute for Violet, Stokes gathered Griselda, who had already touched cheeks with Penelope and Violet, within one arm and ushered her down the steps to their small black carriage, which was waiting by the curb.


Montague watched Stokes, a powerfully built man with considerable standing, hover protectively over his wife and daughter, and acknowledged the visceral tug, the deep-seated yearning, not a jealousy but the recognition of an emptiness he now knew he needed to fill. He might be London’s most lauded man-of-business, but in the final weighing, his life would be worth very little if he didn’t make a push to secure and embrace all he’d thus far lived without.

Not out of choice so much as out of negligence. Of always having work to do.

Montague was about to turn to Violet, when Barnaby swung his way.

A chill breeze whisked through the door, and Mostyn quickly shut it.

“I have to admit,” Barnaby said, a touch of self-deprecation in his expression, “that I hadn’t truly registered that stealing the shares and having that come out might be sufficient motive for murder in and of itself, but for such as the Halsteads, with their social aspirations”—he glanced at Violet, who had drawn nearer with Penelope—“the threat of being identified as such a thief would loom exceedingly large.”

Montague nodded. He glanced around the faces. “Rest assured I’ll send word the instant I have confirmation.”

With a smile, Barnaby shook his hand; Penelope squeezed his arm, then stepped back. Leaving Montague to finally turn to Violet.

He discovered her tightening a warm shawl about her shoulders. She smiled. “Let me walk you out through the garden.”

His answering smile felt like sunshine on his face. “Thank you. I’d like that.”

With the briefest of nods to Barnaby and Penelope, he followed Violet into the garden parlor and out onto the side terrace.

They both paused on the terrace and looked up at the sky. It was chilly but crisp, a fine October night, with the scent of wood smoke on the air and a black velvet sky above.

“We’re nearly there, aren’t we?” Violet asked.

“Yes.” He offered his arm and she tucked her hand comfortably in the crook of his elbow. As he steered her down the shallow steps to the lawn, he added, “After Barnaby’s discovery, the information from Corby will merely be the final confirmation—the last piece of evidence needed to convict Maurice Halstead.”

She shivered. “They truly have proved to be a malignant brood. I will be glad to have this ended, to be able to face forward and look ahead without the specter of a villain lurking in the shadows, waiting to pounce, hanging over me.” She glanced at him, her lips curving. “I have realized that you—and the others, too—have been most assiduous in keeping me company whenever I step out of the house, out of Mostyn and company’s care.”

He shrugged. “We value you. We . . .” He paused, then, voice lowering, went on, “I don’t want to lose you—not even to risk it.” He met her gaze. “Not now I’ve found you.”

Her smile grew more mysterious; as they strolled slowly down the side lawn toward the garden gate that gave onto Albemarle Street, she murmured, “Rest assured my sentiments are complementary.” She held his gaze. “I don’t want to lose you, either—not now I’ve found you.”

Their steps slowed even more. “Tell me,” he said, “what do you seek of life? Courtesy of Lady Halstead, you will shortly have sufficient funds to live comfortably for the rest of your days.”

She nodded, her expression serious as she said, “The one thing I would choose is to not live alone.” She glanced at him. “Not if I didn’t have to—not if there was someone I wished to share a life with.”

He halted, drawing her to face him. “You know I would gladly share my life with you—that out of all this, that’s the hope, the reward, that for me shines most strongly.”

“As it does for me.” Her sincerity rang in her tone, invested her expression. She paused, then, drawing breath, continued, “When this is ended—”

“The instant it is.”

She nodded, more confident, growing more assured. “As soon as we are free of the tangle of the Halsteads, we—you and I—will . . .” Her hand slid from his elbow to his palm; they both looked down, watched as, driven by their unvoiced need, their fingers twined. She looked up, and hope shone in her eyes.

Raising their linked hands, he brushed a kiss to her knuckles. “We will speak, and talk, and discuss—and we will figure out the ways so that we can live together, so that we can grow together in the ways that best suit us. We are both our own people—we can do as we wish. But for the record, my dear Violet—”

“No!” Slipping her fingers from his, she placed them over his lips. “Don’t say it.” Then she smiled, taking all sting from her words. “I’m . . . a little superstitious. Saying it seems like tempting Fate, and with the likes of Maurice Halstead hovering . . .” She blew out a breath. “My dearest Heathcote, I’d rather not risk it.”

He laughed softly, eyes aglow with a joy she could see even in the shadows. “Very well—until it’s done, I will wait. But for not a minute longer.”

“No, indeed.” She nodded. “I hereby give you permission to speak the instant we are free of this coil.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” He didn’t let go of her hand. “But if I may ask a purely curious question, are you enjoying working for Penelope? Do your talents actually lie in that direction?”

She nodded. “To my surprise, they truly do—and, trust me, she truly is in need of the sort of help I can give.”

“Another pair of intelligent eyes.”

She smiled. “Something like that. I may not be able to translate the obscure languages that she can, but I do know how to keep an appointment book, and that is one skill Penelope sorely lacks. She nearly missed an important lecture that she’d agreed to give at the library today. She’d forgotten to note it down, and if I hadn’t unearthed the letter confirming the date from the stacks on her desk, she would have embarrassed herself dreadfully. So, yes, she does need my help on a continuing basis.”

“Hmm . . . but, perhaps, not on a live-in basis.” He arched a hopeful brow.

Chuckling, she inclined her head. “No, indeed—I could quite easily travel here for a few days each week, and that would be sufficient.”

“And, after all, the City isn’t all that far. Just a short hackney ride.”

She tilted her head. “Is that where you live—in the City?”

He hesitated, then admitted, “I live in an apartment over the office. It’s quite spacious, and the nearness means I’m home very soon after the close of business every day, but—”

Again she placed her fingers over his lips. “No—don’t say anything else. You will have to show me this apartment of yours, and we’ll work things out from there.” She smiled. “I really don’t have any firm views against living in the City.”

He nodded. “Good. That will give me a chance to convince you.”

Her expression grew serious. “You won’t have to do that—where you are, wherever you choose to live, that place will contain the most important element I want—that I rather think I need—to make the rest of my life complete.”

Understanding, pure and true, all but shimmered and glimmered between them, a clarity in their gazes, a seeing with no screen, no veil to dim the reality.


Locked in the other’s eyes, each saw and knew the possibilities, each recognized the potential.

The moment tugged. Montague bent his head, and Violet stretched up. Hands found hands and locked, holding them together, steady and anchored as their lips touched, brushed, then met.

Held.

The kiss was simple, unadorned, bare of anything save their feelings—and what they each intended the contact to convey. A pledge, a promise.

His lips moved on hers, seeking, yearning. Slipping her fingers from his, she reached up, wound her arms about his strong neck, pressed closer and kissed him back.

Gently, his hands rose to grip her sides, then he spread palms and fingers over her supple back, supporting and holding, keeping, but not seizing.

Glorying in her giving.

And his.

Eventually, he lifted his head. And felt faintly giddy in a dizzyingly pleasant way.

With a warmth that bloomed in his chest and spread as he saw the delight in her eyes, saw his own satisfaction mirrored there.

“Soon,” he said.

She nodded. “Soon.” With that, she drew back and, reluctantly, he let her go.

Drawing her shawl more tightly around her shoulders, Violet turned to the gate. Heathcote walked with her the few steps further, waited while she slid the bolt back and swung the solid panel open. She looked up at him—her man, the one man she’d been waiting all of her life to find—and smiled softly. “Good night, Heathcote.”

His answering smile held a touch of possessiveness. “Good night, my Violet.” With a dip of his head, he stepped through the gate. “Good night.”

On a sigh, she shut the gate, listened—and realized he was waiting for her to lock it. She did. A few seconds after the bolt slid home, she heard his footsteps slowly walk away.

Smiling, her expression incapable of adequately reflecting the joy buoying her heart, she turned and walked back to the terrace.

Walking up the shallow steps, she murmured to herself, “And how I’m going to manage to fall asleep I truly do not know.”

Smiling even more widely, she went indoors.

How absolutely lovely!” On a happy, satisfied sigh, Penelope turned from their bedroom window that overlooked the side garden.

Into Barnaby’s arms. He had come to look over her shoulder to see what she was so avidly watching below. He’d taken one brief glance, then had transferred his gaze, and his attention, to his wife. Meeting her dark eyes, he smiled. “You’re rather lovely, too.” He hesitated, then, more soberly, said, “Have I told you that recently?”

She tilted her head the better to search his face, his eyes, then the subtle curve of her full lips deepened. “Not recently enough. Perhaps you should remind me?” Her hands had come to rest on his chest; sliding them slowly up and over his shoulders, she moved nearer, pressed artfully closer. “Of that, and all associated sentiments.”

He felt his lips curve with sexual intent, then he bent his head and set them to hers. Matched them to hers.

For a heartbeat they held still, then she parted her lips, and he angled his head. And took advantage of her flagrant invitation and filled her mouth, took, possessed, and savored.

And she savored him with an open, undisguised appreciation he’d come to treasure. One of the many joys of marriage, of a connection that had grown, one that had deepened and broadened, and, to his secret relief, had, if anything, returned stronger than ever after Oliver’s birth.

There was a confidence there, between them now, that spoke of mutual experience, of a degree of intimate knowledge of the other that could never be achieved with anyone else. For him there was her, and for her there was him, and both of them lived with that mutual certainty anchoring their hearts.

Their foundation.

Rock-solid and sure, unwavering and immutable, it promised them all the strength they would ever need.

In the here and now it gave them the understanding and ability, and even more the reason, to go slow.

To take each moment and stretch it, expand it to the fullest, and squeeze from every heartbeat of the interlude every last drop of pleasure.

From the first brush of his hands over her silk-clad curves, to the pressure of her hands easing his coat off his shoulders, through each choreographed beat of a dance they knew by heart, they immersed themselves in each instant.

Each tick of their sensual clock brought delight.

Fed desire.

Invoked, provoked, and stoked their passions.

Divesting her of her gown became a tempting, alluring, irresistible prelude. Ultimately revealing her breasts was a special delight; now their son was weaned, her breasts had softened into lusher, utterly sumptuous mounds, ones he could now reclaim, could once again feast upon.

She gasped, and clung, and held him to her, urging him on not with words but with deeds, fluent in the unspoken language of loving as they both now were, but, as ever, she refused to cede her share of the reins.

She demanded, and took her turn at stripping him, revealing, rejoicing in, and then feasting.

With her small hands, with her lips, her hot mouth, and her teasing tongue.

With every last one of her senses.

As he had with her, she explored, claimed, and possessed, and set fires beneath his skin.

Then she slid to her knees and took him into her mouth, and razed his senses utterly.

Devoted herself wholeheartedly to the task.

When he could withstand her sensual torture no longer, not for another heartbeat, he broke, and drew her up, drew her fully into his arms—and they both froze, and together seized the moment to absorb, to appreciate to the fullest that excruciatingly evocative instant of naked bodies meeting, of bare skin sliding, gliding, her silken sleekness stroking against his harder and rougher, hair-dusted limbs as their bodies instinctively adjusted and accommodated each other’s in their intimate embrace. Instinctively, together, they drank in the free, unfettered giving—and the consequent eruption of mutual delight.

Mutual pleasure.

That was their goal as he bent his head, as she stretched up and their lips sealed in a kiss of blazing, aching, unforgiving need.

They let the flames rage; they held to the kiss and let passion’s flames lick, spread, then coalesce and roar.

Breaking from the conflagration, he raised his head and lifted her.

On a desperate gasp, she wound her arms about his shoulders, clasped her hands at his nape, shook back her tumbling curls and, raising her legs, wrapped them about his hips.

And sank down as, gripping her hips, he drew her down.

They came together on a sensual sigh.

In a moment of aching togetherness. Of acute, unfettered, unrestrained intimacy.

Lids falling, they savored the inexpressible delight.

Absorbed the welling pleasure.

Then they let the surging, driving need take them. Have them, capture them, whip them on.

And from somewhere amid all the passion and the fire and the heat and the urgency, from beneath their sensual desperation, joy, effervescent and unstoppable, unquenchable, bubbled up.

And filled them.

Merging with the sweeping tide of their sensual pleasure, with their driving need for completion, that joy, brilliant and acute, wound and twined and added another dimension to their experienced joining.

And opened their senses to another dimension of delight.

Penelope felt like she was close to bursting with the welling, surging, geysering emotions; never had they been this strong, this powerful, this glittering and engaging.

Dragging her lips from Barnaby’s, she tipped her head back, then, all but bubbling with that swirling delight, she framed his face between her hands, found his heavy-lidded eyes with her gaze, and gasped, “The bed.”


She didn’t have to ask twice. In three swift strides, he was by the bed’s side, then he tipped them both down.

They bounced once, then sank into the billows of their featherbed, and she reached for him as he drew her fully beneath him; she wriggled and then arched, and on a glorious gasp took him in, took him deep as, on a guttural groan, he thrust powerfully into her.

Then they rode the racing tide of their uninhibited, unfettered passions.

When the peak appeared before them, they raced on without check, in concert, together, in unshakeable accord.

Up and over the sensual cliff, and into the void they flew.

Striving to reach their sensual sun.

Hands gripping, fingers twined, bodies cleaving, hearts beating as one they stretched, touched, and let the implosion take them. Let ecstasy break them, fragment, and remake them.

As it had so many times before, but this time, in that infinite instant of searing togetherness, of emotional as well as physical melding, from under heavy lids their eyes met, held, and they both saw, both knew, both sensed the subtle addition that extra joy had brought to them—to their union  .

Another strand woven into the emotional rope that linked them.

Another element of their love.

An additional strength that would hold them together over the years to come.

Heavy-lidded, passion-spent, their gazes held for an instant longer, then she let her lids fall, felt a smile—full and open—curve her lips.

Felt its mate curving his lips as he touched them to hers.

And they let go and sank into the glory, into the bliss that was theirs to claim.

Later, they shifted and settled amid the rumpled sheets, wrapped in each other’s arms. His head on the pillows, Penelope slumped against him, her head resting in the hollow beneath his shoulder, Barnaby stared up at the shadowed ceiling and, without conscious intention, found his mind sorting through all he’d felt. All he’d sensed.

All that had come to be, settling like an additional layer of experience between them.

Raising one hand, he stroked the rumpled silk of her dark hair. He knew she wasn’t yet asleep. “You’re happy, aren’t you?” She’d grown more settled, more assured and content, over the last weeks. “Happy with the way things are working out.”

It was that happiness he’d sensed running through their loving.

Without raising her head, she nodded. “We might not have caught our murderer yet, but in a personal sense, we’ve already succeeded—or so I believe.” A second ticked past, then she lifted her head; looking into his face, she met his eyes. “I’ve found the balance I was searching for—I don’t just think that, I know that. It feels right. My studies, my lectures, my helping others with translations—that’s all still important, still speaks to a certain part of me, of my mind—and you, Oliver, and this household, and to a lesser extent our wider families, will always come first, have first claim on my time and my energies, yet still I truly need that extra element that comes through investigations.”

She paused, eyes on his; after several seconds of considering, she stated, “It’s not just the intellectual challenge of solving a mystery, of ferreting out all the facts and putting them together in a jigsaw of events to clearly define what took place. That’s a part of it, true, but, ultimately the highest calling, the strongest motivation, is to see justice done. Through helping with investigations when the opportunity is there, contributing to the overall justice of our world is something I can do, and therefore should do.”

Her lips curved lightly as she added, “The pursuit of, and support of, justice. That’s why you do what you do, and why I should, and need to, assist whenever I can. Whenever Fate lays the opportunity before me, I should, and need to, respond.”

He paused, studying all he could see—all she let him see—in her eyes, all that he could feel through her gaze, read in her expression, then he murmured, “I see it, too—that you have found your balance. And it’s one I understand, a stance I can—and will happily—accommodate and support.”

Her smile was the definition of radiant. “Excellent!” Snuggling back into his arms, settling her head as she liked, in the hollow beneath his shoulder, closing her hands over his as he settled his arms about her, she sighed deeply and relaxed. “Now we just need Corby to confirm that Maurice Halstead is our murderer, and all will be completely well.”