The Masterful Mr. Montague

Chapter 18




The following morning, seated before a delicate escritoire set in one corner of the parlor, Violet was drafting a letter Penelope needed to send to a scholar in Aberdeen when, in the distance, she heard the front doorbell peal. Knowing Mostyn would take care of whoever had called, Violet continued carefully scribing.

It had taken her days, but she had finally succeeded in completely organizing Penelope’s huge desk, in the process uncovering several matters Penelope had forgotten to address. With Penelope’s blessing, nay, encouragement, Violet had taken on the role of communicating with the various scholars involved, styling herself as Mrs. Adair’s secretary.

She smiled whenever she thought of the title; in many ways, it was more to her taste than that of companion.

The door opened and Mostyn looked in. When Violet looked up, he tipped his head toward the front of the house. “A Mrs. Halstead to see you, miss. I told her Mrs. Adair’s not in, but she insisted it was you she’s come to see. I’ve put her in the drawing room.”

Violet blinked, then set down her pen. Penelope had gone to meet with her sister Portia, and Griselda had decided that trimming bonnets in her shop was the best way to spend the time while they waited for Corby’s confirmation of Maurice Halstead’s guilt.

But why on earth had Constance Halstead come to see Violet? Today?

Rising, Violet smoothed down her skirt. “Thank you, Mostyn. I suppose I must see what she wants.”

Noting her lack of enthusiasm, Mostyn trailed her into the front hall. “I’ll be just out here, miss, should you need anything.”

Meeting Mostyn’s eyes, Violet smiled her thanks, then, pausing before the drawing room door, she drew in a breath, raised her head, and nodded as Mostyn reached for the doorknob. He opened the door, and, head high, she walked into the room.

To her mind, she owed the Halsteads nothing. Certainly not more than a moment of her time, and, truth be told, she was driven more by curiosity than any real wish to speak with Constance Halstead.

Constance had been sitting on one corner of one of the damask-covered sofas; she was still wearing her half-cape, still had her bonnet and gloves on, and was clutching her reticule tightly in her lap. Seeing Violet gliding toward her, Constance quickly stood.

Violet inclined her head. “Mrs. Halstead.”

With severe civility, Constance stiffly returned the gesture. “Miss Matcham.”

Violet waved to the sofa. “Please, do sit.”

“Actually, I won’t, if you don’t mind.” Constance’s gaze shifted over the furnishings, the fashionable, undeniable elegance of the decor. “This . . . ah, won’t take long.”

With a sudden spurt of insight, Violet realized Constance felt out of her depth. Although the Adairs didn’t flaunt their wealth and aristocratic backgrounds, there was an indefinable, intangible air that marked the household as being of the upper echelon of the ton. Several degrees above the circles in which Constance and her family moved.


Violet’s station fell somewhere between that of the Halsteads and that of the Adairs; she could move in both circles—one higher, one lower—with reasonable assurance, certainly without suffering from the nervous uncertainty currently afflicting Constance.

Telling herself she should take pity on the woman, Violet remained standing, too. “In that case . . . what brings you here, Mrs. Halstead?”

Constance’s lips pinched, her expression reverting to her customary, fussy, never-satisfied mien. “I have come to request your assistance in sorting through Lady Halstead’s things. Now that the police and that Mr. Montague have finally deigned to give the family the keys to the house, we wish to ensure that everything is appropriately dealt with—we don’t want anything vital being accidentally thrown out.” Constance paused, her expression hardening. “What with Tilly gone—”

Violet noted that Constance managed to make it sound as if Tilly had deserted her post, rather than been murdered.

“—then you are the one who knows her ladyship’s belongings best.” Tipping up her chin, Constance somewhat belligerently stated, “I require your help to get her things together so that we can properly decide what should be done with them.”

Violet had no wish whatever to return to the Lowndes Street house. “I’m afraid I’m currently engaged—”

“Miss Matcham.” Constance drew herself up and made a valiant attempt to look down her nose. “Lady Halstead gave you employment for more than eight years. I would have thought simple loyalty alone would move you to perform this last task—this last duty—for her. Only you know where her belongings—those she held dear and would wish passed on—are stowed. Only with your help can we be certain we’ve adequately dealt with such items as she would have wished.”

Violet drew in a breath but continued to hold Constance’s gaze. Her increasingly belligerent gaze.

Constance had been quick to attempt to evoke Violet’s guilt, but the precipitousness didn’t make the sentiment, once called into being, any less effective. Lady Halstead deserved to have her belongings treated with respect and a degree of understanding and compassion her children and their spouses unquestionably lacked. And while there seemed little doubt that Constance wanted to leave this drawing room, to quit what was for her a subtly unnerving stage, equally clearly she was determined to take Violet with her.

Inwardly sighing—knowing Constance’s stubbornness of old—Violet slowly inclined her head. “I can spare you—or rather, Lady Halstead—a few hours. But I will have to return here by one o’clock.”

Constance waved the qualification aside. “We can see how far we’ve got by then.” She turned toward the door. “But as you are pressed for time, I suggest we don’t waste any. My carriage is waiting outside.”

Resigning herself to spending the next two and more hours in Constance’s aggravating company, Violet turned and led the way to the door. Opening it, she let Constance precede her into the front hall.

Closing the door behind her, she caught Mostyn’s eyes. “Mostyn—I’m going to go to Lowndes Street, to Lady Halstead’s house, to assist Mrs. Halstead in sorting through her late ladyship’s things.”

“Indeed, miss.” Mostyn glanced at Constance, then looked back at Violet. “I’ll inform Mrs. Adair when she returns.”

“Please tell her I will be back by one o’clock.” Violet glanced at Constance. “If you’ll wait while I fetch my bonnet and pelisse.”

It wasn’t a question, but Constance replied, “I’ll wait in my carriage.” Turning to the door, she added, “Don’t be long.”

Raising her eyes to the heavens, Violet turned and went quickly upstairs.

Two minutes later, when she returned downstairs, her bonnet on her head, gloves and reticule in one hand, and her green pelisse neatly fastened over her pale green gown, Mostyn was waiting before the closed front door. “Are you sure this will be all right, miss? Going back to that house with one of that family?”

The thought had already occurred to Violet; she gave Mostyn the answer she’d given herself. “It seems all but certain that the murderer is Maurice Halstead—we’re only really waiting for confirmation—and believe me, Constance positively loathes Maurice, and I’ll be with her the whole time.” Pausing before the door, she met Mostyn’s gaze. “And Lady Halstead does, indeed, deserve to have her belongings dealt with by someone who loved her, rather than one of her noxious brood.”

Mostyn briefly studied her eyes, then bowed. “Indeed, miss.” Opening the door, he added, “I’ll keep an eye out for your return.”

Stepping outside into a gusty autumn breeze, Violet clamped her hat on her head and, lifting her skirts, hurried down the steps to where Constance Halstead’s carriage waited.

Millhouse’s runner appeared at Montague’s office a few minutes after the City’s bells had tolled eleven o’clock.

Montague, working at his desk, heard the boy’s voice pipe, “From Mr. Millhouse for Mr. Montague,” and only just restrained himself from leaping to his feet and striding out into the outer office.

Through the open doorway to his inner sanctum, he saw Slocum receive a simple missive. Noting the eager, inquisitive glances thrown his way by Gibbons and Foster, and the others, too, he jettisoned all attempts at nonchalance and, rising, met Slocum in the doorway.

Slocum handed over the packet.

Everyone in the office watched, breath bated, as Montague broke Millhouse’s simple seal, unfolded the single sheet, and read.

“Good God!” Head rising, Montague stared blankly across the room as he rearranged the pieces of the jigsaw in his mind . . . then, jaw firming, he nodded decisively. “Yes.” He looked back at the note. “That does fit.”

He had to tell Violet and the others.

Folding the note and slipping it into his pocket, he returned to his office for his hat, saying to Slocum as he did, “Send a brief note to Millhouse thanking him for his help. Tell him it’s been invaluable and I’ll be in touch to explain as soon as I’m able.” Noting Millhouse’s boy hovering by the door, eyes wide, Montague added, “And give the boy half a crown.”

“Yes, sir.” Slocum followed as Montague strode across the office, heading for the coat-stand by the door.

“Who was it?” Gibbons called out. “Don’t leave us in suspense.”

Shrugging on his greatcoat, Montague told them, adding, “I’m heading to Albemarle Street—depending on who is there, I’ll most likely go on to Scotland Yard.”

Leaving his staff speculating as to the ramifications of the truth, Montague went out of the door, clattered down the stairs, and, setting his hat on his head, strode into Bartholomew Lane in search of a hackney.

At last, they had their man.

Violet followed Constance Halstead into the dimness of the front hall of the Lowndes Street house. As had been the case when Violet had slipped in with Penelope and Griselda, and later with Montague, the house was dark, all the curtains drawn tight.

“Faugh!” Constance dropped the keys she’d used to unlock the door on the hall stand and reached up to untie the strings of her bonnet.

Violet noted that the keys were her old house keys; Montague must have sent them to the Halsteads. Deciding that she would rather keep her reticule, bonnet, gloves, and pelisse with her so she could more easily leave when the time came, she wondered, “Where should we start?”


She hadn’t really meant to speak aloud, but Constance glanced at the jeweled watch she wore pinned to her collar, then looked up the stairs. “I daresay we should start in Mama-in-law’s bedroom.”

A fraction of a second was enough consideration for Violet to verify her deep antipathy to going anywhere upstairs. “Actually”—turning, she boldly led the way into the sitting room—“if you wish to make best use of my time, then we should start in here.” Crossing the room toward the windows, she glanced back at Constance, who had come to hover in the doorway. “There’s far more of her ladyship’s things tucked away down here than there are in her bedroom.”

Constance’s lips thinned. She looked as if she wanted very much to argue, but she couldn’t find any real grounds on which to do so.

Looking away, smiling to herself, Violet grasped the curtains and pulled them wide; enough light streamed in through the panes to allow them to work without lighting any lamps. Returning to the sofa, she set down her reticule, then reached up, undid her bonnet strings, and lifted the bonnet from her head. Setting it down on the sofa, she started unbuttoning her gloves. The house had grown cold and somewhat damp; she decided to keep her coat on. “So”—she looked at Constance—“where should we start? With the bureau, or the writing desk?”

Frowning, Constance came into the room. “The writing desk, I suppose.”

Inwardly shaking her head at the woman’s grudging tone, Violet turned to the desk, opened it, and started to pull out the top row of tiny drawers.

She tried not to listen to the ghosts of countless memories, of the happy times she, and often Tilly, too, had spent with Lady Halstead in this room, when her ladyship had been moved to show them the small trinkets she’d kept and tell them of her travels and the strange places she’d seen, the exotic adventures she’d had.

Lady Halstead had lived a full life, but she hadn’t deserved to have it end as it had.

At the hands of her son. Gasping her last under a pillow Maurice had held over her face.

A chill touched Violet’s heart, but then Constance joined her before the desk, and Violet dragged in a deeper breath and focused her mind on the task at hand—on fulfilling her last duty to her late employer.

Montague leapt from the hackney before it had halted, tossed the crown he’d had ready to the jarvey, then, hat in hand, strode up the steps of the Adairs’ house and rang the bell.

Mostyn opened the door and immediately stepped back. “Mr. Montague, sir.”

Montague strode across the threshold, eager to see Violet, to tell her the news—to learn what she thought of it. “Good morning, Mostyn. Miss Matcham, your master, and mistress—are they at home?”

“No, sir.” Closing the door, Mostyn faced him. “Mr. Adair went to the Yard to consult with Inspector Stokes, and Mrs. Adair went to meet with her sister, Mrs. Cynster, but I expect her back for luncheon.”

None of that surprised Montague, but . . . “And Miss Matcham?” Violet was supposed to have remained indoors, or alternatively have gone out only with those they trusted.

“A Mrs. Halstead called and asked Miss Matcham to go with her to the Lowndes Street house to help sort through the old lady’s things.” A slight frown bloomed in Mostyn’s eyes. “I did ask if that was wise, sir, but Miss Matcham assured me that Mrs. Halstead loathed Maurice Halstead—him who’s the murderer—and so she’d be safe with Mrs. Halstead.”

Montague felt a chill touch his soul. Instinct reared, but not one he recognized. He was accustomed to dealing with intuition, with flashes of insight born of experience, of simply knowing through recognizing some pattern . . . but those familiar instincts involved money and investments.

This one told of life and death.

This one screamed of danger.

Of murder.

He swore and swung toward the door.

“Sir?” Mostyn instinctively reached for the doorknob.

Montague paused. His face felt graven, his mind awash with a torrent of emotions, of cascading thoughts and conjecture. He dragged in a breath and forced himself to think; Violet might not survive if he made a mistake. “Send word—urgently—to your master and to Inspector Stokes. Tell them to bring constables to the Lowndes Street house.” He swallowed, had to force the next words out. “I believe the murderer has lured Miss Matcham there to do away with her.” He met Mostyn’s wide eyes. “I’m going there directly.”

He moved to the door. Mostyn opened it wide. “I’ll take the message myself, sir.”

Montague nodded, slapped his hat on his head. “Pray I’ll be in time.” With that muttered injunction, he hurried down the steps.

The jarvey who’d brought him from the City was on the verge of rolling on again. Montague hailed him. “Lowndes Street, Belgravia—at the best pace you can manage.” Opening the hackney door, he added, “A sovereign if you get me there in record time.”

The jarvey flashed him a grin. “Then hop in, guv, and hold onto your hat.”

Montague tumbled onto the seat, grabbed the door, and hauled it shut as, true to his word, the jarvey sent the carriage all but careening down the street.

Hanging onto the swinging strap, Montague ignored the mayhem left in their wake as the jarvey tacked and weaved and drove like a demon through the late morning traffic. He didn’t care about causing a public ruckus; all he cared about—the entire focus of his being—was on reaching Violet and keeping her safe.

Giving Mostyn those orders had required a leap of faith. In truth, Montague had no notion if his call to action would be an embarrassing false alarm, but . . . he couldn’t take the chance.

Not when Violet’s life hung in the balance.

What did his dignity, his reputation, matter against that?

Clinging to the strap as the hackney veered dangerously around some dowager’s carriage, then rocketed ahead along Piccadilly, Montague suffered a moment of utter self-astonishment. Of looking at himself and seeing . . . someone he hadn’t realized was there, lurking beneath his reserved, conservative, deliberately mild exterior.

He’d never thought of himself as a man of action, yet here he was, racing through Mayfair to rescue a lady.

Compelled to do so, even if it meant making an abject fool of himself.

He truly didn’t care.

All he cared about was Violet.

The thought, and all it meant, resonated in his brain.

Then he drew breath and grimly focused on the Lowndes Street house, and what he might find when he reached there.

They’d been in Lady Halstead’s house for barely half an hour when Violet saw Constance check her tiny watch for the third time.

They’d finished emptying the writing desk of its contents and had sorted the keepsakes into various piles. In a rare burst of familial feeling, Constance had remarked that she supposed she’d better let Cynthia look at things before she threw anything away. Of course, Constance had immediately marred her performance by making a snide, gloating comment about Cynthia no doubt having much to cope with in the wake of Walter’s spectacular fall from grace.

Ignoring the remarks, Violet had moved on to the bureau. It contained significantly more by way of personal mementos than the desk had. Three long, deep drawers’ and three smaller ones’ worth, to be precise.

She and Constance worked steadily through the drawers, top to bottom. They’d started on the first of the long drawers when Constance once again checked her watch.


Hands inside the drawer, Violet paused, assembling the words for a polite inquiry as to what Constance was waiting for, when the sound of the front door opening had them both looking up, then turning to face the sitting room door.

Violet in surprise, but, she immediately saw, Constance in relief.

“Thank heavens.” Constance went to the side table, where she’d left her reticule.

Before Violet could ask what was going on, the sitting room door opened and Mortimer Halstead walked in. He, too, was consulting his watch.

“About time!” Constance’s exasperation rang clearly. “I told you I was expected at noon for luncheon with Mrs. Denning, and that’s all the way out at Twickenham!”

Tucking his fob-watch back in his waistcoat pocket, Mortimer raised his gaze to his wife’s face. “Indeed. My apologies, but I was delayed by some accident at Hyde Park Corner—all the traffic is banked up.”

Violet experienced a sudden pang of memory; the detached, disconnected, subtly dismissive expression on Mortimer’s face—entirely usual for him—was one Lady Halstead had described as “Home Office neutral.” It told the world precisely nothing about what was going on in his mind—indeed, it raised the question of whether anything was going on in his mind at all.

Entirely accustomed to her husband’s unresponsive demeanor, Constance humphed. “Lucky, then, that I’m headed in the opposite direction, or my day would have been a disaster.” She glanced at the table before the sofa where she and Violet had arranged the piles of letters and mementos. “Miss Matcham and I have made a start in here, but she says her time is limited today, so I’ll leave you to decide what most needs doing.” Tugging her coat straight, reticule in hand, Constance nodded coldly to Violet. “Miss Matcham.”

Violet didn’t bother replying, not that Constance waited for any acknowledgment; she was already sweeping past Mortimer and on into the front hall.

A second later, the front door opened and shut. Leaving Violet alone with Mortimer Halstead.

It had happened so quickly, and distracted by the unexpected memory, Violet hadn’t had a chance to consider . . . but Maurice was the murderer, not Mortimer. Nevertheless, she’d never liked Mortimer—if she’d had to choose the Halstead offspring she liked least, it would have been him—and, now she consulted them, her thumbs were pricking.

She didn’t want to be alone in this house with Mortimer Halstead.

Even if he wasn’t the murderer.

His gaze, slightly frowning, had fixed on the piles of his mother’s belongings. Mortimer walked forward; halting before the sofa, he examined the various groupings, then sighed. “It’s a start, I suppose, but . . .”

From outside, the sound of a carriage rattling off reached them; Mrs. Halstead making good her escape.

Violet inwardly grimaced. Should she have protested against the impropriety of being left alone with Constance’s husband? Could she have? Would Constance have listened?

No; Constance would have looked at Violet as if she’d been some species of insect far beneath her, much less her husband’s, notice. Constance would have told her not to be ridiculous; she would have been no help.

And as for Mortimer . . . watching him, Violet knew that, innocent of the crimes though he might be, his only interest would be in seeing her do the work he wanted her to do, and that most expeditiously.

She therefore wasn’t surprised when, a touch of peevishness now in his expression, he raised his gaze to her face and stated, “While I daresay this is all well and good, my mother kept her more valued and meaningful possessions in her bedroom, and as I can only spare an hour away from the office—which, as I understand it, will also suit your timetable—might I suggest, Miss Matcham, that we continue these endeavors upstairs?”

Violet hesitated.

Mortimer glanced at the items they’d already sorted. “I’m really only concerned with items of consequence, not knick-knacks and keepsakes—if, instead of bothering with the rest of these, we can at least locate and gather everything stowed upstairs, it will greatly expedite this exercise.” He looked at her. “Don’t you think?”

Violet couldn’t disagree, and she wanted to be finished and done with this task, with this house, as much as, apparently, Mortimer did. Lips tightening—she still didn’t like any of this—she nodded. “As you say.”

She looked at the letters she still held in her hands, then ran her gaze along the piles on the table. Selecting the most appropriate, she set the letters atop it, then looked at Mortimer.

Stepping back, he somewhat pompously waved her out of the room.

Stifling a flaring impulse to head straight for the front door, Violet led the way to the stairs. As she lifted her skirts and started climbing, she realized she’d left her reticule, bonnet, and gloves in the sitting room but decided they would be safe enough there; she would be leaving in an hour.

Halfway up the stairs, premonition—strong and absolute—swept her, chilling her nape, tightening her lungs.

Mortimer . . . how odd that he’d stood back, that he’d elected to follow her up the stairs rather than lead. He’d always treated her as a higher servant, one who should follow, not be deferred to.

Until now.

Her scrambling senses abruptly focused on the man behind her.

He was following two treads back.

Senses abruptly expanding, she registered that his footfalls had altered—not just in rhythm but in weight, from the lighter steps of the fussy, self-important, but, in reality, inconsequential Home Office bureaucrat to a heavy, deliberate, intention-filled tread.

Pressing one hand to her waist, she raised her chin, surreptitiously sucked in air.

And tried to steady her giddy head.

Tried to think through the instincts that were now screaming—that knew, simply knew, regardless of all their information to the contrary, that the murderer now walked at her heels.

She’d slowed, but she forced herself to keep climbing as steadily as she could.

How to get out of this? How to escape him?

How?

Reaching the top of the stairs, moving like an automaton, she stepped into the gallery. Sheer desperation gripped her, and she shoved her wits into action. Mortimer wasn’t tall for a man, but he was taller than she was, and considerably heavier. Unquestionably stronger. As she walked steadily toward Lady Halstead’s room, and very likely to her own doom, her mind frantically surveyed her late employer’s bedroom, searching for something—anything—that might give her a chance.

Pausing outside Lady Halstead’s bedroom door, Violet dragged in another breath, then opened the door and, deliberately leaving it set wide, walked in. She paused, making a show of considering where to start, but she’d already made up her mind.

Battling to show no hint of fear, much less suspicion, she went around the bed, heading for the bedside table that stood against the wall between the bed and the fireplace. “I know her ladyship kept her most recent and important correspondence in here. As well as other items she valued.”

She clamped her lips shut. She couldn’t afford to babble. Penelope hadn’t expected to return to Albemarle Street until sometime after midday; she wouldn’t receive Violet’s message in time to grow curious and come to rescue her—not in time. Not before Mortimer killed her.

That he intended to do so Violet did not doubt—no longer harbored the slightest doubt. He had followed her into the room, his movements, his whole demeanor far different from his customary fussy vagueness; his dark gaze was focused and rested heavily on her. His expression was intent. A predatory stillness seemed to descend over him as, watching him from the corner of her eye, she drew out the top drawer of the small table and started lifting out the contents.


Laying the letters and notes, the ribbons and pins on the bed, she kept her gaze apparently on them, on her hands as she lifted, considered, and sorted each item. Again and again, her gaze flicked up, and from beneath her lashes, she checked on Mortimer, but he didn’t move.

He said nothing at all.

Just watched her.

Minutes ticked past.

Her first handful sorted, she drew in a tight breath and turned again to the drawer. She was reaching in, grasping another handful of Lady Halstead’s mementos, when she saw movement at the edge of her vision—she focused and saw that Mortimer had moved to the opposite side of the bed.

Straightening, she turned and looked at him—as, his gaze still locked on her, he lifted the pillow from that side of the bed.

His expression was set. His mind was made up.

Slowly and deliberately, he started to walk around the bed, his gaze rising to lock with hers.

Violet saw her death in the dark orbs, in his fixed and weighty stare.

She swallowed and took a step back. Found her tongue. “Is that how you killed her?” She nodded at the pillow. “Your mother? With that pillow?”

He blinked, slowed. “Yes.” He hesitated, then added in a blandly conversational tone, “It was surprisingly easy.”

He stepped around the corner of the bed, and she sidled another step, scrambled to say, “What about Runcorn? Was that you, too?”

Halting, turning the pillow so he held it crosswise, he frowned. “Of course. Once the old bat set him onto going through her affairs, eventually he would have stumbled across the missing shares.”

“But Tilly.” Keeping her eyes locked with his—if his gaze was locked with hers he wouldn’t notice what lay beyond her—Violet clasped her hands before her, wrung her fingers, and hoped she was projecting a suitably helpless image. “Why did you kill Tilly? She was no threat to you.”

“Ah—that’s where you’re wrong. Tilly surprised me while I was going through Mama’s share certificates, looking for the one that would best serve my need. When the question of the missing share certificate arose, as it would have at some point, Tilly would have remembered, and I couldn’t have that.” Mortimer’s gaze searched Violet’s face, then his eyes narrowed.

Violet held her breath and prayed he hadn’t guessed her plan.

She almost exhaled in relief when he asked, “Didn’t Tilly tell you? Didn’t she mention seeing me here, going through Mama’s papers?”

Violet forced herself to shake her head. “No. She never mentioned it.”

Mortimer stared at her for a long moment, then his brows faintly arched. “How sad for you that you’re going to die essentially for no reason.”

Eyes flaring wide, she opened her mouth to try to dissuade him, but he spoke first, his voice dropping in register as he murmured, “But, regardless, you are going to die.”

“But how on earth will you explain it?” she all but blurted. She didn’t know why she was so desperate to keep him talking; she knew there was no help on the way. But the longer she kept him talking, the longer she put off the final dreadful moment when she would have to fight for her life. “Your wife knows she left you here with me. How will you explain that away?”

The faint curve of his lips chilled her blood. “Simple. I’m running late for a meeting at the Home Office—I truly am. Suddenly remembering that meeting, and knowing of no reason I couldn’t trust you, I left you here continuing to sort through my mother’s things for the rest of the time you could spare us.”

Shaking her head, she eased back another step. “But then how did I die?”

His gaze flicked to the window at the end of the room, then returned to her face. His smile grew even colder. “Again, what could be more simple? Overcome with guilt, because, of course, it was you all along—you who, with your lover-accomplice, stole the share certificate, then, when that threatened to come out, you let him in and he killed the old lady, and then Runcorn, and then Tilly. But in looking through my mother’s things, here in the room where you watched her die by your lover’s hands, guilt rose up and smothered you.” He glanced at the pillow he held in his hand, and his smile grew. “Literally smothered, and then, of course, you do what any self-respecting lady like you would do—you jump out of the window to your death. The cobbles below should ensure that no evidence of you being unconscious, or having struggled before you fell, remains.”

Such evil . . . Violet met his eyes and slowly shook her head. “It won’t work. Too many people know me too well—and even now they’re asking the Earl of Corby who he got that share certificate from. He’ll identify you, and you will be caught.”

Mortimer blinked; for an instant, the pedantic civil servant who was paranoid about his status, his social and professional standing, surfaced, but almost immediately he sank back behind the darker, somehow deader, almost certainly more genuine face of the murderer. “Montague.” He paused, then shrugged. “I’ll take care of him later.”

What? “No!” She hadn’t intended to point him toward Heathcote. “I mean, why add another murder to your list?”

Again, he shrugged. “Why not? Removing people one by one has proved easy enough thus far.” His fingers flexed on the pillow. “And instructive though our little discussion has been, Miss Matcham, I regret that meeting of mine won’t wait much longer.”

Raising the pillow, he came for her.

Violet whirled. Grabbing the poker from its stand by the hearth as she turned, she swung it up and around—straight for Mortimer’s head.

He saw the danger just in time to ward off her blow with the pillow.

Feathers flew. Mortimer cursed. Desperate, Violet yanked the poker free, hauled it back, and swung again.

Flinging the pillow aside, with both hands Mortimer caught the poker along the shaft.

Seizing it, he pulled.

Violet clung and refused to let go. If she did, she would die.

Mortimer cursed and hauled.

Locking her fingers about the handle, Violet grimly hung on, shifting to keep her feet as Mortimer tried to wrench the weapon from her.

He paused, clearly thinking of some way to dislodge her. Before he could, she kicked him in the knee.

Thunder rumbled.

Mortimer cursed and staggered but didn’t let go of the poker. Regaining his balance, he set his feet and braced his shoulders, his features contorting in a black snarl as he tensed to, once and for all, wrench the poker from her.

The floor shook. From the corner of her eye, Violet saw a flash of movement in the open doorway. Heard a curse—not from Mortimer.

Wholly focused on her, Mortimer didn’t register the intrusion. Jaw setting, he violently yanked—and wrenched the poker from Violet’s grasp.

Immediately, he swung it high over his head, clearly intending to strike her down.

With a roar, Montague charged across the room, driving his shoulder into Mortimer’s, barreling into him and knocking him away from Violet.

He and Mortimer ended on the floor, struggling in a heap beneath the window.

Vicious curses spewing forth, Mortimer struggled and fought to get free.

Montague wasn’t having that. Jaw clenched, propelled by a potent mix of fury and fear, with a strength he hadn’t known he possessed, he grabbed Mortimer by the lapels, and, twisting and shifting, he slammed the other man’s back—and the back of his head—to the floor.


Swinging over Mortimer, straddling him, Montague planted a hand on Mortimer’s heaving chest and held the man down while he prepared to rise—to check that Violet was all right.

It was her scream that saved him. “Heathcote—watch out!”

He saw the poker swinging at his head just in time.

Grabbing the iron bar in his left hand, he staved off the blow. Gritting his teeth, he held the poker back, raised his right fist, and slammed it into Mortimer’s jaw.

Something crunched. Even though his hand throbbed, Montague realized on a flash of savage satisfaction that it wasn’t his bones that had broken.

Mortimer groaned, then slumped, eyes closed.

Montague twisted the poker from Mortimer’s lax grip, then slowly—watching to make sure the man truly was unconscious—he eased up and rose to his feet.

He turned to Violet—as she rushed into his arms.

He closed them around her, felt her arms go around him and crush tight.

Tossing the poker onto the bed, he hugged her even tighter, setting his cheek to her hair. “I was so frightened,” he confessed. “All the way from Albemarle Street, all I could think about was you—him hurting you. Possibly killing you. Then the carriage couldn’t get through, and I had to leave it and run . . . I didn’t think I would get here in time.”

He heard the emotion investing his words, heard the inherent vulnerability exposed, and didn’t care. Violet was in his arms, safe and whole, and nothing else mattered.

She tightened her arms, then eased her hold enough to lean back and look into his face. She met his eyes, and her face, her smile, was everything any knight could ever hope for; radiant, joyous, she held his gaze, her love shining in her eyes. “But you did arrive in time, and you saved me.” She studied his eyes and her smile softened. “Actually, you did more than that. You lent me your strength so I could hold on until you came.”

He arched his brows. “I did?”

She nodded. “When it came to that fraught moment when I had to face the reality of possibly losing my life . . . I discovered I wanted to live—so much. I wanted to live, was determined to live, because of you. You lent me your strength, even though you weren’t here. You gave me the will, and therefore the wherewithal, to fight, to resist, even though I had no idea anyone might arrive to help. But you did.”

Lacing the fingers of one hand with hers, he raised her hand to his lips and tenderly kissed her knuckles. “You fought, and held on, and I came, and so we’ve caught our murderer, and now we can go forward.”

She’d agreed he could speak the instant this was over. Trapped in his gaze, Violet felt the moment close around them. The sounds of arrivals downstairs reached them, but neither paid the impending interruption any heed. Heathcote’s gaze moved lovingly over her face, then, almost tentatively, he lowered his head.

Violet stretched up and, inwardly joyous, set her lips to his.

Kissed him as he kissed her, in an inexpressibly sweet exchange, an acknowledgment that they were there, together beyond the danger, alive and unharmed, able and ready to go forward hand in hand.

That they had found each other, had saved each other, and valued and wanted and desired the other above all else in the world—that was what their simple kiss said.

Eventually, he raised his head and she lowered her heels to the floor.

Still locked in each other’s smiles, arms twined, they turned to the door—and found Stokes and Barnaby waiting, both trying to hide their smiles.

Keeping one arm around Violet, not even trying to hide his pride, Montague waved at Mortimer. “I”—he glanced at Violet, met her eyes, and amended—“we give you our murderer, gentlemen.”

Resuming his usual stern mien, Stokes stalked forward and looked down at Mortimer Halstead, who was beginning to stir, to groan. “Not Maurice?”

“No. Millhouse sent me word earlier.” Montague looked across the room at Barnaby. “You were right that it was Maurice who was a member of Corby’s club, but you don’t have to be a member to play at a club, much less lose to Corby.”

Barnaby nodded, then ambled around the bed to join them, allowing two large constables, who had been waiting by the door, to respond to Stokes’s beckoning; Stokes was still standing looking down at a semiconscious Mortimer.

Acknowledging Violet with a smile, Barnaby said, “And I suspect I know why he did it—why someone like Mortimer sat down to play with a notorious gambler like Corby. I’ve just been talking to the pater, and he mentioned that Corby was one of the peers sitting on an appointment board for the Home Office. Mortimer was due to appear before it in a week’s time, seeking promotion.”

Montague glanced at Mortimer, still stretched supine at Stokes’s feet. “So he what? Intended to lose, or thought to win?”

“In Mortimer’s eyes, I suspect either would have served,” Barnaby murmured. After a moment, he went on, “All of this, from start to finish, has been about currying favor with Corby to ensure Mortimer’s promotion.”

Another moment passed, then Violet shivered. “It almost beggars belief that anyone would be so . . . cold-bloodedly self-serving.”

A stir at the doorway had them all looking that way—to see Penelope poised on the threshold. She took all the elements of the scene in in one glance, then she looked at Barnaby, Montague, and Violet, and wrinkled her nose. “Damn! I’m too late.” Walking forward, she gestured widely. “Clearly everyone is hale and whole, and, sadly for me, you appear to have everything well in hand.”

Barnaby laughed. He held out one hand, and when she reached for it, he twined their fingers and drew her close.

Penelope took it further and linked her arm with his, but her bright, dark gaze wasn’t distracted; it traveled to Violet’s face, then moved on to Montague’s.

Then Penelope smiled brilliantly; looking up, she met Barnaby’s gaze. “And, equally clearly, everything has worked out wonderfully all around!”

Barnaby grinned. Violet and Montague shared a smile. And Penelope continued to beam delightedly upon them all.

Unsurprisingly, Mortimer, once he regained consciousness, didn’t share Penelope’s view.

“This is nonsense!” Marched down the stairs with his wrists shackled, then thrust into a chair at the dining room table, he huffed and puffed. “I’m an important senior Home Office official. I’ll have you know that the Home Secretary himself is chairing a meeting at this very moment, one I’m supposed to be at, and instead—” With his bound hands, Mortimer gestured at Montague and Violet, who, along with Penelope and Barnaby, had followed Stokes and his men into the room, purely to see what transpired.

What sort of story Mortimer would concoct.

“Instead,” Mortimer all but spat, “I was set on by those two. I found them upstairs, rifling through my mother’s papers. Doubtless trying to find something to steal—or perhaps trying to conceal something.”

Stokes, who had halted, standing, at the head of the table, eyed Mortimer with a certain curiosity.

When Stokes made no response, Mortimer squirmed; his features contorted. “Get these shackles off me, I say! I’ve done nothing wrong!” With his head, he gestured to Montague and Violet. “It was them, I tell you!”

Stokes studied him some more, then in a perfectly equable tone asked, “Any more lies you’d like to get off your chest?”


When Mortimer glared at him, Stokes smiled his sharklike smile. “It’s no good, Halstead. We have Corby’s word, and when that’s combined with everything else, all the evidence we’ve accumulated, it’ll be more than enough to hang you.”

Mortimer looked belligerently recalcitrant. He dropped his gaze from Stokes’s face, but his eyes shifted back and forth, as if he was searching for some other way to excuse himself, or to talk his way out of his crimes.

Stokes arched his brows. “Nothing more to say?” When Mortimer didn’t respond, not even by a look, Stokes glanced at his constables. “Take him to the Yard. Tell the desk he’ll be charged with the murders of Lady Halstead, Mr. Andrew Runcorn, and Miss Tilly Westcott. Also the attempted murder of Miss Violet Matcham, and the theft of a share certificate from Lady Halstead.” Stokes looked back at Mortimer; the man had hunched his shoulders and was looking down, occasionally shooting furtive glances to either side. “I’ll be along shortly to finalize the charges. Meanwhile, put him in a cell and tell the desk he stays there until the Chief says otherwise.”

Both constables snapped off salutes. “Aye, sir.” With determined expressions, they closed in on Mortimer.

The others stood back and watched as, between them, the constables hauled Mortimer Halstead to his feet and marched him out of his mother’s house.

They all trailed behind. Halting in the dim front hall, through the open door, they watched as Mortimer was escorted down the path and out of the gate.

When the constables and their prisoner had passed out of sight, Stokes turned to Violet, Montague, Barnaby, and Penelope. And grinned. “Got him. I’ll have to go and formalize the charges, but after that”—his gaze settled on Montague and Violet—“I believe a celebration is in order, on several counts.”