The Masterful Mr. Montague

Chapter 3




Violet walked into the kitchen the next morning to find Tilly already busy setting out Lady Halstead’s breakfast tray. Violet smiled. “Good morning.” Scanning the tray, she added, “Nearly ready?”

She routinely accompanied Tilly upstairs to wake Lady Halstead and hold the door, then help her ladyship sit up in bed.

“A good morning to you, too,” Tilly sang back. “And yes, almost there. Just the toast—ah, thank you, Cook, dear.”

Tilly was a tallish, raw-boned, middle-aged woman, her brown-gray hair pulled back in a neat bun, her large hands capable as they set the two slices of toast into the toast rack, then grasped the tray’s handles. Tilly hefted the tray. Perennially cheerful, she’d been with Lady Halstead for decades, far longer than Violet or Cook. Looking at Violet, Tilly beamed. “Lead the way.”

Exchanging a quick smile and a good morning with Cook—a short, rotund, older woman with corkscrew red curls bound back with a white scarf—Violet held open the kitchen door, waved Tilly through, then followed and, as directed, took the lead through the hallway and up the stairs.

Tilly trudged heavily but happily at her heels. “Hope her ladyship slept a trifle better last night.”

“Indeed. I’m hoping that Mr. Montague will return soon and set her mind at rest. She’s still fretting over those odd payments.” Violet didn’t hesitate over mentioning the payments to Tilly; Lady Halstead herself had shared the information with her longtime maid.

Reaching the first floor, Violet went along the corridor to Lady Halstead’s door. She tapped. “Lady Halstead?” No answer came, but that wasn’t uncommon. Despite her sometimes disturbed slumber, Lady Halstead adhered to a rigid regimen and expected to be woken and supplied with her breakfast tray at eight o’clock sharp. Sharing a resigned look with Tilly—if it had been left to them, they would have let the old lady sleep—Violet opened the door and went in.

As usual, the room was drenched in gloomy shadow; Violet crossed to the window to draw back the heavy curtains.

Tilly followed Violet over the threshold but halted just inside the door, waiting patiently until she could better see.

Violet smoothly drew one curtain, then the other, wide and turned to the bed. “Good morning, your ladyship.”

Violet halted, not quite sure what she was seeing.

Tilly, taller and closer to the bed, had a clearer view. “Oh, my God!”

A sharp rattle of crockery broke the silence as Tilly shook and the cup on the tray rattled. “Oh, my God. Oh, my God.” In a fluster, Tilly swung around, saw the tallboy, and rushed to set the tray down upon it. Then she whirled and hurried to the bed—just as Violet did the same on the other side.

Stunned, shocked, barely able to breathe, Violet looked down at Lady Halstead. The old lady’s eyes were closed, but her mouth was open, her jaws wide, as if she’d been shouting. Or screaming.

Her arms, Violet saw, were oddly splayed, and her hands lay lax on the covers, gnarled fingers crooked, as if she’d been clutching, seizing. Her legs, too, weak though they’d been, had churned beneath the sheets.

That Lady Halstead was dead Violet did not doubt. But her ladyship hadn’t died peacefully.

Tilly put Violet’s thoughts into words. “I knew she’d go, and probably soon, but I didn’t think she’d go like this.”

Violet forced herself to look, to see what was before her. “Tilly—this isn’t how she should look, is it? Not if she went quietly in her sleep.”

Tilly audibly gulped. Her eyes locked on her mistress’s face, she murmured, “You’re thinking the same as I am. She was murdered, wasn’t she?”

“Look at the top pillow. No—don’t touch. But see how it’s been stuffed under her head? That’s why her head is at that odd angle. But she never sleeps with that many pillows—she wouldn’t have put it there herself.” Violet glanced at the chair by the bed. “When I left her last night, that pillow was on the chair.”

“We have to call the doctor.” Tilly wrapped her arms tightly about herself. “That’s what you’re supposed to do with a death these days.”

Violet’s wits were whirling, but she knew well enough how matters would proceed. “If we just call the doctor”—looking up, she met Tilly’s wide eyes—“he’ll say she was old, that she died in her sleep, because he’ll know the family will be furious if he declares this a murder.”

Tilly blinked, then her jaw firmed and she nodded. “Aye, that he will, weak weasel that he is. And none of the family will care, will they?”

“No, they won’t. They won’t bother about getting justice for Lady Halstead—won’t care about finding her murderer. All they’ll care about is the will and the estate.”


“Getting their share of it—you don’t need to tell me. She’s known for years they’ve just been waiting for her to die.”

“Exactly. They’d seemed to be waiting patiently enough, but now . . .” Violet looked down at the gentle old lady she’d come to love. “We can’t let her murderer get away.” She glanced at Tilly. “I don’t think I could live with myself if I . . . just let this be swept under the carpet.”

“Nor me.” Tilly paused, then asked, “So what do we do? Send a boy for the police? Chances are they’ll just have us send for the doctor anyway, and he’ll say what you said, and it’ll all come to nothing.”

Violet did not know where her certainty sprang from, did not know on what it was based, but she had no doubt whatever about her tack. “We send for Mr. Montague. Lady Halstead gave him a letter of authority—it’s reasonable for us to consult him over this. We’re only females, after all, and our sex is known to panic.” She looked at Tilly. “So we’re in a panic and we don’t know what to do—so we’ll summon Mr. Montague, because we know that her ladyship only very recently put her faith, and her trust, in him.”

Tilly blinked, then slowly nodded. “But will he know what’s best to do next?”

“Yes.” Violet thought of the solid assurance with which Montague moved through the world. “I’m sure of it.”

Tilly nodded more decisively. “Right, then—you write a note, and I’ll go and fetch a boy to take it.” Tilly glanced at her dead mistress, reached out, gently stroked the back of one crooked hand, then, jaw tightening, raised her head, turned, and headed for the door.

Her gaze on Lady Halstead, Violet slowly straightened, then, more slowly, more lingeringly, mimicked Tilly’s loving gesture, then followed the maid from the room.

Violet wrote the note in the sitting room, and was still sitting there in a daze when Montague arrived.

Rising to answer the door, she glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was barely nine o’clock; he must have raced to have got there so quickly.

Opening the front door, she registered the concern vivid in his face.

“What’s happened?” His gaze raced over her features, returning to her eyes. “Are you all right?”

“Lady Halstead is dead.” Violet heard her voice say the words, intonation flat, and she finally accepted it as real.

“Dead?” Montague’s features registered his shock. “But . . .” He searched her face, her eyes. “Did she die peacefully?”

Violet drew herself up, drew breath, and said, “I—we, Tilly and I—don’t think so.” She stepped back. “Please, come in.”

Stepping over the threshold, Montague felt an unexpected urge to take her in his arms, to comfort her. She was pale, her expression, judging from their previous encounters, uncharacteristically closed in.

Brittle. Fragile. In need of help.

His help.

He bludgeoned his brain into functioning. “Who else have you notified?”

Turning from closing the door, she met his eyes. “No one—not yet. We know we’re supposed to notify the doctor, and I’m sure he will immediately send word to her family, but . . .” She paused, then, raising her head, went on, “He—Doctor Milborne—will be more interested in serving the interests of the family, the interests of the living rather than the dead.”

Montague nodded curtly. “Yes. I see.” He glanced at the stairs. “Where is she?”

“In her bed upstairs.” Violet waved him on, following as he strode for the staircase. “She went to bed last night as usual. Nothing seemed amiss, nothing at all. Tilly and I went to wake her this morning, as we always do, taking up her breakfast tray and . . . we found her.”

Reaching the head of the stairs, Montague halted. “Tilly?”

“Lady Halstead’s maid—Tilly has been with her ladyship for more than twenty years.”

When he nodded and glanced around, Violet indicated a door along the corridor. “In there.”

Suppressing the impulse to ask why she thought Lady Halstead’s death was suspicious—was murder, even if she hadn’t used the word—Montague strode for the door. “Did anyone—you, or Tilly, or anyone else—move anything?”

“No. Other than opening the curtains and placing the tray on the tallboy, we haven’t moved or changed a thing.” Violet paused, then added as he opened the door, “It’s painfully obvious she’s dead.”

Montague walked into the room and saw what she meant. He halted a yard from the foot of the bed and surveyed the scene. A bare minute passed, then he said, “I concur. This was not a natural”—much less peaceful—“death.”

Violet had halted nearer the door. In a small voice, she asked, “So what should we do?” When he turned to face her, she nodded toward the old lady lying in the bed. “For her.” Meeting his eyes, voice strengthening, she stated, “We—Tilly, Cook, and I—want to see justice done. We want to see her murderer caught and held to account. She was a gentle old lady. She never harmed a soul. She might have been old, might even have been dying, but she didn’t deserve to die like this.”

Looking into her eyes, seeing the resolve behind the soft blue, he stated, “In that case, while we must at some point call for her doctor, we should first summon the police.”

As matters transpired, Doctor Milborne arrived first.

After leaving Lady Halstead’s room, Montague had gone downstairs with Violet. In the kitchen, he had consulted with her, Tilly, and Cook, then he’d written an urgent note to Inspector Basil Stokes at Scotland Yard, sending it off via a local boy Tilly and Cook often engaged to run errands. Montague had assisted Stokes in several cases over recent years; he’d felt confident Stokes would return the favor.

They had then waited for as long as they’d dared—for as long as they would reasonably be able to explain—before dispatching a summons penned by Violet to the doctor. That note had been sent via the first boy’s brother at eleven o’clock.

The doctor knocked on the door half an hour later.

Subdued and somber, Violet greeted the man, saying only that she and Tilly believed that Lady Halstead had died during the night.

Standing behind Violet in the shadows of the front hall, Montague assessed the doctor; he was in his late thirties and, from the cut of his coat, appeared to be prospering.

Milborne assumed a suitably grave mien. “Of course, we knew this day would come. Nevertheless, you have my condolences, Miss Matcham. You must be overwrought.”

“As to that, sir . . .” Violet paused to draw in a breath that wasn’t entirely steady. Pressing her hands together, she tipped her head toward the stairs. “We believe we need you to view the body and give your opinion as to how her ladyship died.”

“Indeed, indeed.” Milborne glanced at the stairs. “In her room, is she?” He headed for the stairs. “I know the way.”

Violet and Montague ignored the implied dismissal and followed Milborne up the stairs; they were at his heels when he walked into the bedroom.

Milborne checked at the sight of Lady Halstead’s body, but then recovered and, rather more slowly, continued to the side of the bed.

Thinking, Montague decided; Milborne was thinking hard about how best to handle the situation—about which avenue promised the greatest benefit to him.


Milborne looked down at her ladyship’s face, jaw hinged wide, mouth agape, then he reached for her wrist and made a show of checking for a pulse there, and then at the side of the old lady’s neck. Then he raised her lids, first one, then the other, but he only gave a cursory glance at the staring eyes thus revealed.

He was going through the motions.

Violet felt certain her and Tilly’s assumptions about the doctor were correct; he would do what was best for the family.

Sure enough, after that most superficial of examinations, he sighed and turned to face her. “It seems her heart gave out. To be expected, at her age.”

Especially if someone held a pillow over her face while she screamed and screamed. Violet dragged in a breath. Wrapping her arms about her, she swallowed the words and glanced at Montague. They’d agreed it would be unwise to try to force their opinions or conclusions on Milborne, but . . .

Montague met her gaze, almost imperceptibly nodded in support. Then he looked at Milborne. “Am I to take it you intend to declare this a natural death?”

Milborne blinked, shifting his attention to Montague. “Well, in the circumstances . . .” Then he frowned. “I’m sorry—you are?”

“Heathcote Montague, of Montague and Son, in the City.” Montague said nothing more; they needed to delay Milborne, to keep him from issuing a death certificate declaring the death natural, until help, in the form of Stokes, arrived. Stokes would take one look at this scene and know there was nothing natural about the manner of Lady Halstead’s passing.

Milborne’s frown grew more puzzled. “I’m unclear as to what your interest in Lady Halstead’s demise might be.”

“Her ladyship recently engaged me as a financial consultant with wide-ranging authority to delve into all matters concerning her situation.” Montague let Milborne puzzle over that for a moment, then, when the man was clearly searching for the correct words with which to frame his next question, added, “Given the circumstances surrounding the initiation of my consultancy, and given the scope of the formal letter of authority Lady Halstead enacted, I believe her demise most definitely falls within my purview.”

Milborne blinked, now clearly uneasy. “I . . . see.”

Meaning he no longer had any idea of what was going on, or which way he should bend. Milborne glanced again at the bed, at the frail body lying in it.

A heavy knock sounded on the front door.

Montague looked at Violet.

“Tilly will get it,” she said.

That Tilly had, indeed, opened the front door was immediately apparent as a rumble of male voices in the hall downstairs reached them.

Several male voices. Stokes had brought others—at least two others—with him.

Straining his ears, Montague caught an inflection, a certain deep drawl, one rather more sophisticated than Stokes’s raspy growl, and wondered . . . suddenly hoped.

Sure enough, when, a bare minute later, Stokes walked into the room, the tall, elegant figure of Barnaby Adair appeared behind him.

If knowing Stokes had arrived had brought relief, Adair’s coming with him meant salvation was assured.

Violet watched the large, dark-haired, and dark-featured man pause just inside the doorway, his open greatcoat hanging from broad shoulders, his eyes—slate gray and oddly piercing—taking in the entire bedroom and all in it in one single, comprehensive glance. That glance ended on Montague, and the man inclined his head.

“Montague.”

Montague nodded back. “Inspector Stokes.” With one hand, Montague indicated Violet. “This is Miss Matcham, the late Lady Halstead’s companion of many years. And this”—Montague turned to the doctor—“is Doctor Milborne, who, I understand, has been overseeing her ladyship’s health for several years.”

“Ah—yes, about five years . . .” Milborne looked confused; he glanced from Stokes to Montague. “Did you say ‘Inspector’?”

“Yes—he was referring to me.” The dark-haired man—Stokes—moved toward the bed. “Inspector Basil Stokes of Scotland Yard. We”—Stokes glanced back at his companion, who had curly blond hair, was most definitely a gentleman by his dress, and was lingering in the doorway—“have reason to wish to satisfy ourselves as to the nature of her ladyship’s death.” The slate gray gaze returned to pin Milborne. “So, Doctor, what say you? Is this a natural death, or something the Yard needs to be aware of?”

“Ah . . .” Milborne was out of his depth and floundering; he patently did not know which way to leap. “I . . . ah, had thought it might be, could be, purely the result of old age. I mean, although she appears to have struggled, well, she might have been gasping her last, as it were, and—”

“Were her eyes closed, her lids lowered, when she was found?”

The question, uttered in an urbane voice that instantly commanded attention—and respect—came from the tall, blond man who had accompanied Stokes. Strolling into the room, he politely inclined his head to Violet, nodded briefly—as to a friend—to Montague, then glanced at Milborne, before halting by the bed and looking down at Lady Halstead’s face.

After an instant, the man glanced up at Milborne, then at Violet. “The Honorable Barnaby Adair. I’m a consultant to the Yard, and often work with Stokes. Especially”—his distinctly blue gaze returned to Lady Halstead’s face—“in cases involving members of society.”

It took Milborne another moment to digest that, then some of his tension left him. “In that case—”

Violet spoke over him. “Her eyes were shut—the lids lowered—when we found her.” At Adair’s cocked brow, she elaborated, “Tilly, her ladyship’s maid, and I came up to wake her as we usually did, and found her.” Violet nodded at the bed. “Just like that. We didn’t move her at all.”

“Excellent.” Adair crouched and looked at Lady Halstead’s face from close quarters, then angled a glance at Milborne. “Any bleeding in the eyes?”

Milborne shifted. “A little. But she’s old, and—” He broke off, then bent, raised one of the lids, and looked again. When he straightened, one could see that he’d paled. “Yes. There’s unnatural bleeding in the eyes.”

“Hmm.” Adair slowly straightened. “That’s usually a sign of suffocation, isn’t it?”

Milborne’s lips tightened, but he nodded. “Yes.”

Adair glanced at Violet. “Was there anything else in the room when you found her—or anything you’ve noticed that’s missing?”

Violet stepped forward and looked at Lady Halstead. “The only thing that’s wrong, that’s out of place, is that pillow. The one that’s been pushed under her head. Her ladyship never slept with that many pillows, but that one was left on that chair by the bed”—she nodded at the armchair—“because she needed it behind her when she sat up.”

“So,” Adair all but purred, “when you and her ladyship’s maid arrived with her breakfast tray, had it been a normal morning, you would have found Lady Halstead lying asleep on one less pillow, and the pillow presently beneath her head would have been waiting on the chair for you to place at her back when she sat up.” Adair slanted a quietly encouraging look at Violet. “Is that correct, Miss Matcham?”


Meeting his eyes, Violet raised her chin and nodded. “That’s precisely correct, Mr. Adair.”

Adair glanced at Stokes. “I believe that settles it.” He looked at Milborne. “So, Doctor, what’s your verdict?”

Milborne looked grim but dutifully intoned, “Death by suffocation by persons unknown.”

Violet glanced at Stokes and saw him smile a positively sharklike smile.

“Murder, then,” Stokes said.

Milborne grimaced. “As you will have it so, but I warn you the family aren’t going to like it.”

Stokes’s face darkened and his response came in a dark growl. “I don’t like it and I’m not even related. But I’m sure you’re not saying that the Halsteads are the sort of family who would happily sweep murder under the carpet in order to avoid a little inconvenience?”

Milborne shifted and reached for his black bag. “No. Of course not.” Lifting the bag, he moved to pass around Stokes. “If you have no further need of me, I’ll go downstairs and write the certificate, then take my leave.”

Stokes watched him go. As Milborne passed through the doorway, Stokes narrowed his eyes and raised his voice. “Just make sure you send the certificate to the Yard.”

Right, then.” Basil Stokes sank into a chair midway down one side of the dining table in Lady Halstead’s Lowndes Street house. Barnaby drew out the chair to his left as Montague, having seen Miss Violet Matcham to the chair opposite Stokes, settled into the chair opposite Barnaby.

Stokes regarded Violet Matcham with no expression but with a degree of sympathy. He was not a naturally empathetic man, yet it required little insight to comprehend that Miss Matcham had been sincerely fond of her late employer. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and the tip of her nose was a trifle pink, but she was making every effort to remain calm and composed. Something Stokes appreciated.

Once the doctor had quit the scene, Stokes had sent one of the constables he’d brought with him back to the Yard to summon their medical man to take charge of the body. He’d left the other constable on guard in the room, watching over the deceased and any evidence yet to come to light.

Stokes and Barnaby had accompanied Miss Matcham and Montague downstairs to the kitchen, and there had met the other two members of the small household—her ladyship’s maid and the cook. Both had exhibited a mixture of alarm and resolution; if Stokes was any judge—and he was—the alarm was caused more by the unexpected necessity of having anything to do with a crime and the police, while the resolution stemmed from the same devotion that was keeping Violet Matcham’s spine poker straight.

They’d all liked the old lady and wanted her murderer caught.

None of the three women showed even the vaguest sign of guilt, nor even any hint of an uneasy conscience.

Which suited Stokes; he was quite happy to cross them off his list of suspects. Although he would interview each of them, his focus would be on learning everything they knew that might be relevant.

Leaning forward, resting his forearms on the polished mahogany, he took a moment to order his thoughts, then fixed his gaze on Miss Matcham’s face. “I understand you’ve been with her ladyship for several years.”

She nodded. “Yes. Eight years this August.”

“And before?”

“I was companion to Lady Ogilvie in Bath. I was with her for five years—from soon after my father died.”

“And your father was?”

“The Reverend Edward Matcham of Woodborough—it’s in the Vale of Pewsey.” She hesitated, then added, “My mother had died several years previously, and I was left to find my way.”

Stokes appreciated her candor. “Thank you. With regard to her ladyship’s murder, the first question I must ask is whether you have any reason to suppose that anyone—anyone at all—might have wished the old lady dead.”

Violet hesitated, very aware of the two shrewd gazes trained on her—Stokes’s slate gray, hard and uncompromising, and Adair’s quietly observant blue—then she lifted her chin and firmly stated, “I have no reason to suspect that anyone bore her ladyship any degree of animosity. I’m not aware of any direct quarrel, recent or otherwise, much less any clash of the sort that might lead to murder. However”—she glanced at Montague, seated alongside her—“as Mr. Montague can explain in greater detail than I, Lady Halstead had become . . . concerned over a matter of unidentified payments into her bank account.” Returning her gaze to Stokes’s dark-featured face, she went on, “Over the past week, her ladyship had grown increasingly intent on learning what those payments were about—where they came from, who the money really belonged to, and why whoever it was was using her account.”

Stokes looked at Montague. “That’s the reason her ladyship gave you that letter?” Montague had already shown him the letter of authority Lady Halstead had written and signed; Stokes would lay odds Montague himself had dictated it—the letter gave him virtually unlimited authority to involve himself in Lady Halstead’s affairs. It was one reason why Montague was sitting at the table now; even had Stokes wished to exclude him, he wouldn’t have been able to. As it happened, given it had been Montague who had summoned him, and Stokes already knew the man, knew his caliber, Stokes was very happy to have him present—another pair of observant eyes and ears to call on.

Montague nodded. “I needed the scope so I could freely investigate this matter of the odd payments into her account.”

Montague opened his mouth to continue, but Stokes held up a staying hand. “One moment.” Looking at Violet Matcham, he said, “I know what you’re going to tell me, but I have to ask. No tensions between yourself and her ladyship, or between her ladyship and her maid or cook?”

The look he got was predictably frosty. “No.” After a heartbeat’s pause, Miss Matcham added, “This was a very peaceful and contented household.” The past tense made it sound like a eulogy.

Stokes nodded and looked at Montague. “Tell me about these odd payments.”

Montague did, in concise and strictly chronological fashion, commencing from the moment he’d been approached by Violet Matcham on behalf of Lady Halstead. Stokes questioned how that had come about—how Lady Halstead had chosen Montague, someone she hadn’t previously dealt with. Consequently, they—Stokes, Adair, and Montague, too—learned of the enterprising notion the old lady had had of asking the question of The Times’s columnist.

Montague stared at the lady seated beside him. “So it was you who sent that question to The Times?”

“On behalf of Lady Halstead.” Miss Matcham colored. “I do apologize for any embarrassment or inconvenience the article might have caused, but it was the only way we could think of to quickly and reliably learn who would be best to approach over those odd payments.” She looked at Stokes. “Lady Halstead had grown seriously agitated and was in dire need of reassurance, and because of young Mr. Runcorn’s age, and therefore his inexperience, she didn’t feel able to place her faith in his findings alone.”

Montague had explained about Runcorn, of Runcorn and Son, her ladyship’s man-of-business.

Barnaby nodded. “I can understand that.” He met Stokes’s eye. “Old ladies can get distinctly querulous.”


Having met the old ladies to whom Barnaby was alluding, Stokes suppressed a snort and returned his gaze across the table. “So it’s possible that her ladyship was murdered because of her sudden and, by all accounts quite dogged, interest in these odd payments.” He looked from Miss Matcham to Montague. “So who knew about her ladyship’s concerns? Who had she told about the payments?”

Violet Matcham frowned. “Me. Tilly. And I suspect Cook would have heard me and Tilly talking.”

“In my office,” Montague said, “only I know the reason for Lady Halstead consulting me. I haven’t confided in anyone else. Runcorn, of course, knows, and so does his clerk, Pringle, but there’s only the two of them there.” Montague frowned, clearly checking his memory, then stated, “I can’t think of anyone else who would know. I haven’t yet inquired directly of the bank, and Runcorn had done no more than ask for the statements, which is nothing out of the ordinary and shouldn’t have occasioned any alarm.”

Stokes met Montague’s gaze. “Are you sure Runcorn himself isn’t responsible?”

Montague returned his regard. “Professionally, that’s not a question I would prefer to answer, but if you insist that I reply yea or nay, then I would have to give it as my opinion that Runcorn is as honest as the day is long.”

Violet Matcham nodded. “That would be my reading of him, too. He was quite sure, to begin with, that the payments must have come from some investment.”

Stokes grimaced. “If her ladyship’s interest in these odd payments is the motive behind her murder, that doesn’t leave us with many possible suspects.”

Violet Matcham’s expression blanked, then her eyes widened. “No, wait—all the Halsteads knew.”

Barnaby straightened. “Her ladyship’s family?”

“They were here for dinner—that’s a regular monthly event.” Violet paused, then said, “But I have to qualify—Lady Halstead didn’t mention, not in any way, the odd payments, but she did say that she was having her affairs and those of the estate put in order so that when she eventually died, there would be no questions concerning the estate.”

A second passed, then Barnaby asked, “I take it that Lady Halstead’s will, such as it might be, will essentially bring her life-tenancy of Sir Hugo’s estate to a close and allow execution of the provisions already stipulated in Sir Hugo’s will?”

Violet glanced at Montague. “That is my understanding.”

Montague arched his brows. “I would be exceedingly surprised if that wasn’t the case. From all that I’ve seen and been given to understand, Lady Halstead had little real wealth of her own. As one might expect, the majority of the funds and all property belong to the estate, the disposal of which will be governed by her husband’s will.”

“So,” Barnaby concluded, “her will can’t hold any surprises, at least not with respect to the estate. Even if she’d changed her will, she can’t affect anything that matters.”

“I’d gathered,” Violet said, “that the estate is to be divided equally between the four children.”

Stokes grimaced. “So there’s unlikely to be any motive arising out of the will—at least, not directly. However, if the person responsible for these odd payments heard that the estate’s affairs were going to be reviewed, it’s possible—depending on just what those payments are—that they might have felt, for some reason, that it was better for Lady Halstead to die now, before any investigation could get properly underway.”

“I should point out,” Montague said, “that having studied these payments as far as I’ve thus far been able, my conclusion at this point is that they’re being made in order to conceal funds—and as we all know, the principal reason for concealing funds is that they derive from some illegal activity.”

Stokes was nodding. “So the villain, hearing that the payments are likely to be uncovered—” Breaking off, he looked at Violet. “Neither Lady Halstead nor you mentioned the payments to the family?”

When Violet shook her head, Stokes continued, “So there was no reason for the villain to realize that the existence of the payments had already been uncovered. With that in mind, learning that her ladyship was about to order a presumably extensive review of her affairs and those of the estate, the villain—wishing to conceal the evidence of his illegal activities—therefore had a strong motive to murder her ladyship.”

They all thought that through; no one disagreed.

“And,” Barnaby said, “if the villain is a member of the family—and we should remember that a murder of this sort usually is committed by a family member—that also explains something else that’s been bothering me.” He glanced around the table, meeting the others’ eyes. “How did the murderer get into the house? Is there any evidence of a break-in, of a door or window being forced?”

Violet blinked. “Not that I know of.” She glanced at Stokes, who was already getting to his feet.

“I’ll have my constable take a look around the house, have him check all the windows and doors. And while he’s doing that”—Stokes caught Violet’s gaze—“you can tell us all about the Halsteads.”