The Masterful Mr. Montague

Chapter 4




At two o’clock that afternoon, along with Stokes and Adair, Montague took one of the four chairs arranged about the head of the dining table in the Lowndes Street house. Violet, who he had ushered into the room and seated in the chair alongside him, had described the family in detail, guided by questions from Adair, Stokes, and himself.

All three of them had instantly realized the difficulty they would face, the care they would have to exercise in interrogating and investigating a family that included a Member of Parliament and a high-ranking Home Office official, as well as both men’s wives. Such men were wont to stand on their dignity and consider themselves above such things as police interrogations, and their wives would almost certainly support them in such a stance.

Consequently, Stokes, Adair, and Montague, aided by Violet’s insights, had discussed their best approach and had settled on an exploratory, relatively gentle, first foray.

After learning the structure of the family and confirming that all had been present at the recent dinner, and provided by Violet with a list of names and directions, Stokes had dispatched messages to each family member, stating only that a tragedy had occurred at the Lowndes Street house and Scotland Yard requested their attendance at the house at two o’clock.

When Montague and Violet, followed by Stokes and Adair, had entered the dining room, all of those summoned had already been seated about the table. As Lady Halstead’s family took note of Violet’s appearance and their hushed whispers died, and they looked—puzzledly, expectantly, and with dawning suspicion—at Stokes, Adair, and himself, Montague found putting names to faces not at all difficult.

Stokes was no doubt discovering the same as he allowed his gaze to sweep the group.

If Montague’s assumptions were correct, Wallace Camberly sat to the left nearest the head of the table, with Mortimer Halstead opposite. Both men were middle-aged, but while Camberly bore his years with hawkish grace, Mortimer wore the faintly harried air and quick-to-frown mien favored by many upper-level civil servants who considered their work—and therefore themselves—of supreme importance. Camberly was dressed to project an image of conservative elegance eminently appropriate to a Member of Parliament, while Mortimer Halstead appeared fussily, rigidly correct, the cut of his dark coat lacking the flair that distinguished Camberly’s.


Next to each man sat his wife—Cynthia Camberly, née Halstead, alongside Wallace, and Constance Halstead beside Mortimer. Both women were handsome enough, the former more slender than the latter. Both were fashionably turned out, but neither radiated any warmth; their expressions appeared carefully controlled.

Next to Cynthia sat her son, Walter. An idle gentleman, according to Violet twenty-seven years old, Walter Camberly kept his chin sunk in his overblown cravat and otherwise watched and observed the rest of his family in silence. Opposite Walter sat his cousin Hayden Halstead, Mortimer’s son, an unremarkable gentleman of twenty-three summers, and beside Hayden sat his equally unremarkable sister, Caroline, just twenty.

Completing the company about the table were Maurice Halstead, who lounged elegantly in the chair beyond his nephew Walter, and William Halstead, who had slumped in the chair at the end of the table with a black look and a faintly curling lip, not-so-subtly distancing himself from his siblings and their children.

As he settled on the chair, Montague found it difficult to imagine any of the three of the younger generation—Walter, Hayden, or Caroline—as their grandmother’s murderer; to his eyes, they lacked the requisite gumption. Their elders, however, were a different matter.

And as the constable who had carefully searched the house for signs of how and where the murderer had entered had reported no evidence of any door being forced or window latch being broken or tampered with, the suspicion that it was one of those seated about the table who had held a pillow over Lady Halstead’s face had gained considerable weight.

The last to take his seat, Stokes finally did, then baldly stated, “I am Inspector Stokes of Scotland Yard. I regret to inform you that Lady Halstead was found dead this morning.” Stokes paused to let the inevitable exclamations roll through the room.

It was instructive to watch the reactions; the initial expressions of shock, of surprise, were all but immediately superseded by expressions of calculation, of speculation and consideration of what Lady Halstead’s death might mean for each individual. Although he watched closely, Montague detected no suggestion of sorrow, even of simple sadness; Violet had warned them that the family were a self-centered lot, but even so, he hadn’t expected such a comprehensively detached response.

Across Stokes, Montague briefly met Adair’s blue eyes and saw the same realization—and the same instinctive disapprobation—reflected there. Then Barnaby looked back at the assembled company, and Montague did, too. If they were correct in their reasoning, then at least one person seated at the table had already known Lady Halstead was dead. Yet given the singular lack of finer feelings on display, search though he did, Montague couldn’t say one member of the family was less affected by the news than any other.

Wallace Camberly shifted restlessly. After sharing a glance with his wife, Camberly looked at Stokes and somewhat peevishly remarked, “While that is, indeed, a tragedy, Inspector, I fail to see what interest Scotland Yard might have in this matter.”

“As to that, sir, permit me to inform you”—with his head, Stokes indicated all those about the table—“and the rest of those gathered here that Lady Halstead did not die peacefully. She was murdered.”

Once again exclamations of shock and surprise rang out, but, as before, it was impossible to label one person’s response less convincing than the others. The reactions of all the family members lacked emotional depth; although all seemed genuinely surprised, even shocked, by the news, they displayed no strong emotional link to Lady Halstead. Instead, their thoughts turned immediately to themselves—leaving no simple way to distinguish a murderer who had acted out of self-interest from the rest of the group.

That somewhat shocking superficiality of emotional connection with her ladyship was borne out by the next exchange.

“How did she die?” Constance Halstead asked, her tone making it clear that the question was prompted by curiosity, plus, perhaps, a realization that someone should ask.

Her query, however, was drowned out by her husband’s clipped and rather pompous observation, “Be that as it may, Inspector, I am unclear as to who these other gentlemen are, and what their interest in what is plainly a private family tragedy might be.”

Stokes looked first at Mrs. Halstead. “Her ladyship was smothered. A pillow was placed over her face while she slept, and held there until she died. Although frail, she struggled, but to no avail.”

Montague saw nothing beyond expressions of detached distaste pass across the family’s faces at that news.

Shifting his gaze to Mortimer, Stokes smoothly continued, “And as for my colleagues, this”—he gestured to Adair on his right—“is the Honorable Mr. Barnaby Adair, consultant investigator to Scotland Yard.” Stokes indicated Montague on his left. “And this is Mr. Montague, of Montague and Son, whom Lady Halstead recently consulted. Mr. Montague holds a letter of authority from Lady Halstead giving him far-reaching powers with regard to her ladyship’s financial affairs. I have viewed that letter and found it to be genuine and comprehensive. Consequently, in this matter, Mr. Montague will be an observer, in effect nominated by Lady Halstead herself.”

That news caused puzzlement and minor consternation as the family decided how they should react. Noting the assessing glances thrown his way, Montague felt certain that had Stokes not confirmed his good standing, his presence would have been challenged.

William Halstead, slouching deeper in his chair, his hands in his pockets, his dark eyes, his entire expression, cynically dour, drawled, “It seems Mama was more farsighted than any of us knew.”

Violet had described William as the family’s pariah; his appearance suggested he relished the position. His dark suit had once been of good quality, but it was now irretrievably creased and showed patches shiny with wear; his jaw was shaven, but roughly, his eyes somewhat sunken, his lips appearing more likely to twist in a sneer than lift in a smile.

Viewed against the strictly conservative fa?ade the rest of the family clearly took pains to project, William stood out. Stood alone.

The heads of all the rest of his family had swung William’s way, but after an instant of observing him, all returned to looking at each other, then, almost as one, they looked at Stokes, Adair, and Montague. Experienced at assessing clients’ reactions, Montague understood that the consensus was that the family had more pressing matters to contend with than his presence.

Cynthia, Lady Halstead’s second child and only daughter, fixed her gaze on Stokes and rather chillingly inquired, “Are you certain, Inspector, that my mother was murdered? Could she not merely have died by some”—Cynthia waved—“misadventure?”

“She was old and frail, after all,” Constance Halstead put in. “Are you certain she didn’t simply stop breathing?”

As expected, the family would much rather her ladyship’s death wasn’t declared a murder.

“Both Lady Halstead’s doctor, who was summoned to attend, and the police surgeon concur.” Stokes paused, then definitively stated, “There is no doubt whatever that her ladyship was murdered.”

Cynthia’s pinching lips testified to her irritation, but she said nothing more.

Constance grimaced and sat back.

“That being the case, Inspector, what progress has been made in apprehending the villain?” The question came from Maurice Halstead, according to Violet and all appearances the black-sheep-cum-rake-cum-roué of the family.


Maurice’s question, unsurprisingly, focused the attention of the rest of the family. They all looked to Stokes with varying degrees of haughty demand.

Stokes’s expression remained stoically uninformative. “Our investigations have only just begun. I called you here as a formal courtesy, to ensure you learned of the murder firsthand. We will be pursuing several avenues, and will speak with you all in due course.” Stokes had decided to postpone asking for alibis, explaining that he would rather each family member had a chance to concoct one, as a fabricated alibi, which the police usually found relatively easy to break, was a surer indication of guilt than the absence of an alibi.

“But you must have some idea,” Maurice pressed. “You said you had ‘avenues’ to follow.” His gaze shifted to rest heavily—meaningfully—on Violet. “It seems somewhat far-fetched to imagine some blackguard just happened to choose this house to break into and kill an old lady, apparently for no reason.”

Stokes showed his teeth. “Indeed. But equally, at present, we have no reason to suspect any particular person—nor to discount anyone, either.” He sent a raking gaze around the table. “My immediate question for everyone here is whether you know of or in any way suspect anyone of bearing ill will toward Lady Halstead. For any reason whatever.”

Silence ensued, then the Halsteads and Camberlys looked at each other; brows rose, but no one spoke.

Stokes nodded. “Very well. I will take that as a negative—that none of you know of any reason to suspect anyone of Lady Halstead’s murder.”

A fussy, civil-service frown had appeared on Mortimer’s face as he, too, now stared at Violet. “As you are investigating everyone, am I to take it that that includes females—for instance the three females who live in this house, all of whom could easily have entered my mother’s room, and any of whom might have had some reason, a reason known only to them, to wish my mother dead? My mother was weak and frail. It wouldn’t have taken much strength to overcome her.”

Stokes had warned Violet that such an accusation might well be made, and he had assured her that he, Adair, and Montague considered it without foundation. Despite the warning, she still felt the instinctive urge to violently rebut the notion, to defend not just herself but Tilly and Cook, too, against the scurrilous slur, but remembering Stokes’s caution against doing so, she literally bit her tongue and remained mute.

She did, however, hold Mortimer’s gaze unflinchingly, returning his suspicion with silent defiance.

Mortimer looked away first, glancing questioningly at Stokes.

Who had watched the exchange with unrelenting patience. “I am discounting no one. That includes everyone about this table, and anyone else who has had contact with her ladyship.” His expression mild, Stokes glanced to his left. “That even includes Mr. Montague, although considering his position in the City and his significant reputation, I cannot imagine I will have any difficulty confirming his alibi.”

Gravely sober, Montague inclined his head.

Turning back to the gathering, Stokes swept the faces with his steely gaze, then, his expression and tone growing harder, said, “Unless we gain some early indication of the murderer’s identity, you may expect to be interviewed at some point within the next few days. It would be helpful if you made a note of where you were throughout last night, and who, if anyone, can confirm your presence there.”

Easing back his chair, Stokes stood. “That will be all for now.” He inclined his head to Mortimer Halstead, then to Wallace Camberly. “We will, of course, inform the family once we have the murderer in custody.”

Barnaby, Montague, and Violet also rose.

Cynthia Halstead looked at Stokes. “One moment, Inspector. When may we view the body and make arrangements for the funeral?”

“Her ladyship’s body is presently at the morgue. I believe it will be released for burial the day after tomorrow, but you may send your undertaker there. He will know how to inquire.”

Cynthia’s face blanked. “That’s thoroughly inconvenient.”

Unmoved, Stokes responded, “That’s the way things are done.”

Cynthia sniffed and desisted.

“What about her things?” Constance Halstead asked. When Stokes looked at her, she waved. “In her room, in the sitting room, elsewhere in the house.”

“This house is a crime scene, Mrs. Halstead—no one will be permitted to remove anything from it until I give my permission, which I anticipate will be in a day or two. I will advise the family when they are free to come and go. Until such time, access to the house will be restricted.”

Constance pulled a face, and with a glance at her sister-in-law, mimicked her. “Exceedingly inconvenient.”

Cynthia huffed, then beneath her breath, but not quite softly enough, said, “At least let’s get Mama buried first.”

Constance colored. She drew in a huge breath, her bosom swelling dramatically. “The funeral—”

“Will be held at St. Peter’s, of course.” Cynthia’s tone had turned brittle.

“I would have thought St. George’s would be more appropriate,” Mortimer observed.

“Nonsense!” Cynthia sat bolt upright. “St. Peter’s is where Mama attended. It’s been the family’s church for decades, and just because you chose to move away—”

Violet turned and led the way to the door. Montague followed, and Stokes and Adair fell in behind. She paused before the door, allowing Montague to reach around her and open it. Stepping into the long front hall, she walked toward the front of the house.

Montague joined her, pacing alongside. “Is it always like that?” He tipped his head toward the dining room. “Them at each other’s throats, even about something like their mother’s funeral.”

“Always.” Halting before the sitting room door, Violet glanced back. Adair had followed close behind Montague, but Stokes had paused to instruct his constable—no doubt ensuring that the family obeyed his edict against removing items from the house. She looked at Montague, then Adair. “They are worse than squabbling infants. I doubt Lady Halstead’s passing will change anything—as far as I ever saw, their sniping wasn’t dependent on her presence but is simply their established way with each other, regardless of the subject.”

“Delightful people,” Adair murmured. “I suspect Stokes will want a short conference.” Adair indicated the sitting room door. “Can we speak privately in there?”

Violet nodded, opened the door, and led the way in.

She and Montague took the chintz-covered sofa, while Adair claimed one of the pair of armchairs facing them.

They’d just settled when Stokes walked through the door they’d left open. Shutting it, he said, “Camberly has excused himself—apparently there’s a parliamentary session he needs to attend—and William simply upped and left without a word. The rest are still hard at it, arguing the merits of this burial ground versus that.” Crossing the room, Stokes shook his head. “I’ve seen some difficult families in my time, but these people take the cake.”

Dropping into the second armchair, Stokes studied Violet. “From your lack of surprise, I take it such behavior is the norm for them.”

She nodded. “For the Halstead brood, that performance was entirely unremarkable.”


“I must say,” Adair drawled, “that I appreciated the nice touch of splitting your announcement—first stating that her ladyship was dead, and then subsequently mentioning that she was murdered. That gave us two chances to catch the murderer out, to see if he failed to react appropriately, but I, for one, saw nothing that would distinguish one from the other.”

He glanced at Violet and Montague. “Did either of you notice anything?”

Violet shook her head.

Montague grimaced. “What I did notice was that none of them appeared to care that her ladyship was dead—their attitude seemed to be that she was old, and she’d died, and that was that. But as for her being murdered, I got the impression the family as a whole viewed that as a great nuisance.”

“Sadly, that’s true.” Violet fought to maintain a suitably detached distance, tried hard not to think of Lady Halstead, not to dwell on the fact that she’d been killed, murdered, most likely by one of her poisonous brood. Remembering all the calm, gentle hours she’d spent with the old lady, who had rarely had even a grumpy word to say, much less any sharpness or ill temper, made it difficult to maintain her composure and not give in to the sweeping sadness.

“Tell me,” Stokes said, and, glancing up, Violet saw he was regarding her. “In all the time you’ve been with Lady Halstead, have you ever heard of any argument between her ladyship and one of her children or grandchildren?”

She cast her mind back over the years but, in the end, shook her head. “No.” She hesitated, then said, “But you shouldn’t be surprised by that. As far as possible, Lady Halstead kept them—her family—at a certain distance. For instance, I joined this household after Sir Hugo died, but none of the family was involved in hiring me. Normally, family members—daughters, daughters-in-law, even sons—take care to be there to vet whoever an older female relative takes on as a companion.” She shifted, then added, “I’ve only been interviewed for two positions—the one here with Lady Halstead, and my previous position with Lady Ogilvie—but with Lady Ogilvie, both her daughters were present, and from all I’ve heard that’s the norm.”

Montague was nodding, as were Stokes and Barnaby.

“To your knowledge, were any of the Halstead children ever involved in any of her ladyship’s financial decisions?” Montague asked.

“No. And I’m quite certain of that,” Violet replied. “Lady Halstead once made a comment about feeling much happier making her own decisions, and I know she rebuffed Mortimer, and also Maurice—both independently offered to assist her with managing her fortune, but she declared Sir Hugo had taken care of it all, and she was quite happy with the way things were.”

“Hmm.” Adair had a faraway look in his eyes, as if he was replaying the moments around the dining table. “One thing I noticed—and perhaps, Miss Matcham, you might confirm—but the impression I received is that the animosity, as witnessed by the tensions and tart comments flung across and down that table, lies primarily between Lady Halstead’s children, with supporting contributions from the two spouses.” Meeting Violet’s gaze, Adair arched his brows. “Was it always like that—them against each other—or was the animosity sometimes directed at Lady Halstead?”

“No,” Violet said. “Their sniping was never directed at her. It always amazed me that, during the dinners, her ladyship paid the strife no attention at all. She would eat and ignore them—unless they became too noisy. Then she would insist they ended it, but . . . no. Even at such times, their viciousness was never directed at her.”

Barnaby sighed and shifted his gaze to Stokes. “So out of that interlude, while we’ve established that the Halsteads are a highly unpleasant lot, overall we’ve got not one decent whiff of the murderer.”

Stokes inclined his head. “Maybe so, but what we did gain was confirmation that, regardless of their behavior toward each other, there is no suggestion of any personal motive—no hint that any of her ladyship’s family held a grudge against her, no evidence of arguments or disagreements between her and any of her children.”

Nodding, Montague picked up the train of thought. “And as we have reason to believe that the murderer is a family member, not just because of the apparent ease of entry to the house but also the timing of the murder so soon after her ladyship’s announcement that she intended to have her affairs looked into—”

“And”—Barnaby sat straighter—“as we also have every reason to believe that there is something illegal behind these payments into her ladyship’s account, we’re left with that, and only that, as a strong motive.” He looked at Stokes. “It’s money, simply money, behind this.”

Gravely, Stokes nodded. “What we’ve established is that there is no suggestion of any other motive—no personal animosity, nothing about her will. It’s those payments, whatever they are. Keeping them hidden is the motive behind Lady Halstead’s murder, that and nothing else.” He glanced at Montague, then Violet, then Barnaby. “Until and unless we get information to the contrary, I suggest we should proceed on that understanding.”

Their small meeting broke up shortly afterward, with the three men making arrangements to meet the following morning at Montague’s office to examine the evidence he’d already assembled regarding the odd payments they all believed were behind Lady Halstead’s murder.

Violet accompanied the men into the front hall. She had felt not just accepted and appreciated but also reassured to have been included in the discussions thus far. Everything had happened so rapidly—the discovery of Lady Halstead’s body, the summoning of help, calming Tilly and Cook, coping with the doctor, and then the police, much less all the rest—that she hadn’t yet had time to grieve, to come to grips with her own roiling emotions. But of one thing she was instinctively sure: She wanted to help. She needed to do whatever she could to help catch the murderer and win justice for Lady Halstead. The violence of her feelings was unexpected and unsettling; she was relieved the three men seemed to understand without her having to explain.

On his way out of the front door, Stokes paused to tell her, “I’ve left a constable on guard inside the house, and there’s another outside—he’s out of sight, but he’s keeping an eye on the place.” Stokes hesitated, then added, “I meant to go into the kitchen and assure the maid and the cook that neither of them are suspects, not in our eyes. Perhaps you could tell them?”

Violet nodded. “Of course.”

Stokes left; with an encouraging look and a salute, Adair followed him down the steps. Realizing Montague had hung back in the hall, Violet closed the door and turned. Gently smiled.

With a brief, answering smile, Montague went forward. Greatly daring, he reached for one of Violet’s hands, lightly held it. “This has all happened very quickly.”

He wasn’t simply speaking of Lady Halstead’s death and the consequent happenings of the tumultuous day; he was still coming to grips with his feelings for Violet, with the intensity of his reaction to her being within the orbit of a murderer, and to the implicit, if nebulous, threat hovering over her. He looked into her eyes, studied her expression. “This was the first time you’ve met Stokes and Adair—I wanted to reassure you that you may have every confidence in them. The investigation couldn’t be in better hands. They will work tirelessly to bring Lady Halstead’s murderer to justice.” He held her soft blue gaze. “I know that’s important to you. I understand why. It’s much the same compulsion I experience when one of my clients is harmed, but, I imagine, you feel the need even more keenly, as clearly you were close to Lady Halstead.”


Violet felt her smile go awry. “She was a dear and didn’t deserve to be murdered.”

“No. But”—Montague inclined his head in a gesture that was a vow—“I, too, have an interest in this now, and with the four of us devoted to the cause, her ladyship will not go unavenged.” He held her gaze for a moment more, then bowed briefly and released her hand.

Violet turned to open the door. “Thank you for all your help today. I’m more grateful than I can say.”

Pausing in the doorway, he met her gaze again, then dipped his head. “I’ll call when we have further news.”

She inclined her head and watched him go down the steps and out of the gate. Lingering in the doorway, she let her gaze follow him as he strode down the pavement, broad shoulders square, head held high, solid, masculine confidence in every powerful line.

When he rounded the corner and disappeared from her sight, Violet sighed, then, feeling the tug of the sadness waiting within, she closed the door and turned away, sternly telling herself that this was neither an appropriate nor useful time to discover she still possessed the ability to dream.

After quitting the Lowndes Street house, Barnaby and Stokes hailed a hackney, and after a brief discussion elected to journey to Stokes’s house in Greenbury Street, in St. John’s Wood, there to mull over their impressions and observations in peace and comfort.

Through the rocking, rattling trip they kept their private counsels, allowing their minds to freely pick over the accumulated observations, searching for fresh insights to share once they’d gained the quiet of Stokes’s sitting room. But on arriving in Greenbury Street and entering Stokes’s neat abode, they discovered their wives already in possession.

Both ladies were sitting on the floor, their skirts puffed about them, playing with young Oliver and the slightly younger Megan. Both babies were rolling on their backs, alert and chortling as they batted at toys their mothers dangled over them.

The sight brought Stokes and Barnaby to a halt in the doorway.

Barnaby felt as if something—some power—had punched him in the chest. He knew from the sudden stillness, the complete and utter absorption of the man beside him, that Stokes felt the same.

Penelope and Griselda had heard their footsteps—had seen them enter and had taken the moment of their stillness to study their faces and appreciate their reaction.

Then Penelope smiled and, with a flick of her wrist, sent the toy with which she’d been distracting Oliver flying at Barnaby’s chest.

Reflexively, he caught it. Spell broken, he glanced at her, met her dark, too-observant eyes.

Her smile deepened, edged with intent. “The investigators return—and clearly with some case afoot.” She waved to include the children. “So come and join us—and tell us all.”

Griselda, also smiling, nodded. “Indeed.” She threw the toy she’d been jiggling to Stokes. “Come and take over.” She started to get up. “I’ll have Mindy bring in the tea tray, and meanwhile you can sit, stretch your legs, and share the news about your latest case.”

They know us far too well. Resigning himself to the inevitable, Stokes helped his wife to her feet, lightly kissed her cheek, then let her go to the kitchen to arrange for the tea tray. Crouching, he looked into the smiling, laughing blue eyes of his tiny daughter—and promptly fell under her spell again.

Grinning and dutifully jiggling the toy over her, he didn’t feel so bad—quite so silly—when at the edge of his vision he saw Barnaby sprawling on the floor next to his rolling bundle of a son.

Penelope rose, looked down at them for a moment, then, apparently satisfied that they knew what they were doing, went to the sofa and sat. She said nothing, merely watched over them; Stokes got the impression she was overseeing to make sure he and Barnaby did nothing wrong.

Twenty minutes later, with the now drowsy children handed over to Gloria, Megan’s nursemaid, and carted off to the nursery, with the tea poured and slices of pound cake passed around, the four of them settled into the comfort of the well-padded chairs and, finally, with the air of one who had waited patiently and was now due all she wished, Penelope said, “So, gentlemen, what’s your new case?”

Stokes glanced at Barnaby; they’d been colleagues and friends for long enough now that he had little doubt about the thoughts, the considerations, rolling through Barnaby’s mind. It still surprised him, the easy rapport they shared—the son of an earl and the son of a merchant, albeit a merchant’s son with a better-than-average education. As for the friendship, real and true, that had formed between their wives, that was an even greater wonder—an ex-East-Ender-milliner-shopkeeper-cum-police inspector’s wife rubbing shoulders with the wife of the son of an earl, herself the daughter of a viscount and connected by marriage to several of the most powerful noble families in the land.

Yet there they all were, sipping tea and munching pound cake in his small but comfortable sitting room. And in the past, before their foray into motherhood, their wives had, indeed, been of significant help in several of their cases. He and Barnaby had both hoped that the advent of Oliver and Megan would permanently distract Penelope and Griselda from their earlier interest, but as that patently wasn’t to be, then the Halstead case was, perhaps, a gift horse he and Barnaby shouldn’t try to turn away.

A murder where the motive was solidly and simply financial transactions held far less risk of any danger.

Meeting Stokes’s gaze, Barnaby all but imperceptibly nodded—an encouragement to go ahead, to take the lead, with his blessing.

Stokes shifted his gaze to Penelope’s eager face. “It’s a matter of murder.” When she and Griselda only looked more interested, he went on, “This morning, a Lady Halstead, who lived in Lowndes Street, was found dead by her staff . . .” In his usual, bare-bones, policeman’s language, he described all that had happened that day.

Predictably, Penelope asked questions, and Griselda posed a few, too. Both focused on the people, insisting that Stokes, and Barnaby, too, report what they’d sensed, as well as what they’d seen and heard, of all those involved.

Stokes had forgotten that, unlike him and Barnaby, their wives tended to concentrate on people, their foibles and emotions first, and secondarily on facts and actions.

Penelope knew Montague; she gave Griselda a quick verbal sketch, ending with, “He’s utterly reliable and trustworthy. A real rock, the sort one can always rely on to behave . . . in the way that will best serve justice.” Penelope glanced at Stokes. “Montague’s amazingly astute about everything to do with money and finances, and his ability to get information on those subjects is nothing short of astounding.”

Stokes snorted. “I’ve heard tales enough of the information he can get. If it comes to that in this case, I won’t be asking questions about how or where he gets his facts.”

Penelope grinned. “Precisely.” She turned back to Griselda. “But the point I find most interesting is not that the companion, Violet Matcham, sent for Montague—the poor woman clearly had the family to rights and must have been desperate for a way to see her late mistress’s death properly investigated, so sending for Montague makes perfect sense—but that Montague dropped all his usual work and came. Now that I find quite fascinating.”

Barnaby eyed the light in his wife’s dark eyes and decided he wasn’t going to comment. Instead, he steered the conversation on. “We were in Smithfield when Montague’s message reached us, so by the time we got to Lowndes Street, the doctor had already arrived.” Going over all that had occurred and, in catering to Penelope’s and Griselda’s particular bent, having to describe the people and their reactions proved an excellent exercise in reviewing what they had actually seen, what they actually knew.


Unsurprisingly, the description of the family gathering consumed many long minutes as their wives extracted every last little detail Barnaby and Stokes had noticed about the Halsteads and Camberlys.

Penelope fixed Barnaby with a direct look. “Your father would know about Camberly. And your mother might know more about Mrs. Camberly and the son.”

Barnaby nodded. “I’ll ask.”

“We’re due there for dinner tonight, which will be the perfect opportunity.” Penelope looked at Griselda. “What do you make of the family? They seem . . . well, not quite right to me. They’re destructive rather than supportive.”

Her gaze abstracted, Griselda nodded. “But what makes them like that, what drives them . . .” She focused on Penelope. “Do you think it might have something to do with their ages?”

Barnaby straightened; he glanced at Stokes and saw his friend blink, then pay greater attention, too.

Frowning slightly, Penelope was slowly nodding. “I see your point—and, yes, that might well be it.”

When neither said anything more but just sat there cogitating deeply, Barnaby prompted, “ ‘It’ what?” When Penelope glanced up, he caught her eye. “What are you two thinking?”

“Well,” Penelope said, “it’s the sort of thing that can sometimes happen when two siblings are born close—a year or less apart. From what Miss Matcham told you, Mortimer is the eldest, but Cynthia is less than a year younger. People assume that children close in age will support each other and share a deeper bond, but it can also go the other way. Especially if the second child has a stronger, or even equally strong, character. Then you have competition, a battle for supremacy.” She glanced at Stokes, then back at Barnaby. “Is that what was happening across that table? Was it competitiveness? One-upmanship? That sort of thing?”

His gaze on her face, Barnaby nodded decisively. “That’s exactly what it was.”

“And if that’s so,” Griselda said, catching Penelope’s gaze, “that makes Maurice and William more understandable, too.” She glanced at Barnaby, then Stokes. “Imagine what it must have been like when all of them were children. Mortimer and Cynthia are fighting for dominance, most likely portraying themselves as the most perfect, the most successful, to gain the most praise and status. Maurice can’t compete, so, in a bid for attention, and even perhaps rebelling against his older siblings, he goes the other way. Because Mortimer and Cynthia are fighting over the perfectly correct end of social behavior, Maurice goes to the other extreme and becomes a black sheep.”

“But”—Penelope held up a finger—“Maurice can go to the other extreme while still remaining within the social pale. But when William came along, he had nowhere to go—no way to distinguish himself within the social pale because both the perfect end and the imperfect end had already been claimed.”

Barnaby was nodding. “So William stepped beyond the pale and out of society altogether.”

“Exactly!” Penelope looked at Stokes. “So that’s why those four are as they are, and if you bear that in mind, you’ll have a much better chance of predicting their behavior and understanding the reasons behind what they say and do.”

Stokes digested that, then said, “One thing—you say that the characters the Halstead children have grown into came about because they were, each of them, seeking attention.” When Griselda and Penelope nodded, Stokes asked, “From whom?”

Penelope looked at Griselda, then Griselda turned to Stokes. “Most likely from their parents.”

All four of them paused to consider, then Barnaby mused, “According to Violet—Miss Matcham—both Lady Halstead and her husband were nice people. Which suggests this is one of those strange instances where perfectly decent parents raise a brood of much less acceptable children.”

Stokes humphed. “It happens.”

After a moment, Penelope sat back and asked, “So what are you planning to do next?”

Stokes exchanged a glance with Barnaby and saw in his friend’s expression the same acceptance he felt. Their ladies’ insights were proving useful, even potentially invaluable, and, really, with this case, there was no reason they couldn’t assist. He looked back at the pair seated on the sofa. “Our next move is to examine all the information Montague has thus far assembled about these mysterious payments, and then, I suspect, while he pursues them as only he can, we”—he inclined his head toward Barnaby—“will continue investigating the murder itself.”

“And the family,” Barnaby added.

“Hmm.” Penelope frowned into space. “You need to find out how the murderer got in.”

Barnaby grimaced. “To be thorough, we should search Lady Halstead’s papers in general to see if there’s any document that might shed light on either the payments or some other issue as yet unknown to us that might have been behind this.”

“Regarding the payments, you might see if there’s anything known about any member of the family being involved in anything nefarious,” Griselda suggested.

Stokes grunted and set down his cake plate. “Regardless, after what we’ve discussed, I feel a need to interview the family again, but before we do”—he met Barnaby’s eyes—“we need more details about these peculiar payments.”

Barnaby pulled a face but nodded. “Much as I would like to press them harder, with the caliber of people involved, I suspect you have that right.”