The Masterful Mr. Montague

Chapter 6




There it is.” Montague nodded across Winchester Street at the office of Runcorn and Son.

Beside him, Mrs. Adair—Penelope, as she’d insisted he call her—held up a gloved hand to screen her eyes. “Ah, yes. It looks decently prosperous.” Lowering her hand, she scanned the street. “I haven’t been in this area before. I’m always amazed by how immense London is.”

Striding along on her other side, Adair grinned but said nothing. He, too, was surveying the street, taking note of the area and the office.

The pair had arrived at Montague’s office for the meeting arranged the day before, bringing with them the news that Stokes had been summoned to a meeting on another case but hoped to join them within a few hours.

Adair had briefly explained his wife’s interest in the case, and that Stokes was aware of her involvement. Having been exposed to ladies of Penelope Adair’s ilk through his association with various noble families, Montague took her presence—and her interest—in his stride. He wasn’t foolish enough to underestimate her abilities, and he could easily imagine several ways in which her insights might prove valuable. Consequently, he’d felt no reservations over sharing everything he’d thus far learned about Lady Halstead’s accounts, investments, and estate with Penelope as well as Adair.

Although he’d spent hours combing through the copies of Lady Halstead’s financial records, he had yet to find any hint of a legitimate source for the odd payments. However, as he’d told the others, Sir Hugo Halstead had had his finger in a great many pies, and tracking, accounting for, and excluding every last possible avenue that might explain the odd payments was going to take considerable time.

The payments didn’t follow any recognizable pattern, but that didn’t mean some peculiar investment hadn’t been structured to pay out in such a fashion. Until they excluded such a source—and that could only be done by exhaustive searching and analysis—that the payments were legitimate had to remain a possibility.

Against that, as Penelope had noted, stood the fact that her ladyship had been murdered all but coincident with her announcement that she was looking into her financial affairs.

Or rather, having them looked into.

They’d concluded that consulting with Runcorn as to whether he had a complete listing of the Halsteads’ investments, past as well as present, would be a helpful next step. Adair and Penelope had also been keen to meet the young man-of-business, in their eyes another player in the drama.

Crossing Winchester Street, they reached the door of Runcorn and Son. Opening the door, Montague stood back while Penelope and Adair entered, then Montague followed.

Only to walk into consternation.

An ashen-looking Pringle came hurrying up, waving his hands. “No, no—I’m sorry, ma’am, but the office is closed.”

Penelope blinked, then looked past the slight man at the two constables hovering about an inner door. “Why?”

Her question threw Pringle into an even greater fluster. “Ah . . .” Wringing his hands, he looked past Penelope to Adair, then further . . . and recognized Montague. “Oh, sir! Such a thing! It’s Mr. Runcorn, sir—he’s dead.”

“Dead?” All three of them echoed the word.

Adair threw Montague a glance.

“How?” Montague asked, moving forward to face Pringle.

“I’m . . . not sure.” Pringle looked unsteady on his feet. “If I had to guess, I’d say he was knocked on the head and strangled. Oh, my!”

“Here.” Penelope took Pringle’s arm and gently steered him to a chair—the one behind his raised desk, as it happened. “Sit and compose yourself.” She glanced around the small office. “Is there somewhere I could make you some tea?”

Pringle babbled his gratitude and pointed out the small door that led to a cramped service area. Penelope patted his arm and headed that way.

Montague studied Pringle’s face; if anything, the man had paled even more. He gentled his voice. “When did it happen, do you know?”

Pringle gulped. “I left him here as I usually do, about seven o’clock last night. He was still searching through Lady Halstead’s file—he had all the documents spread out on his desk.” Pringle looked toward the inner office. “They’re still there. I saw them when I went in this morning . . . and found him.” His voice broke. “Lying on the floor behind his desk . . . dead.” Pringle looked at Montague. “I knew he was dead right away.”

“Why did you go into the office?” Barnaby quietly asked. “Did something alert you?”

“No, no.” Pringle shook his head. “I went in to return the originals of the documents I’d copied for Mr. Montague. I finished the copies late yesterday afternoon and hadn’t yet returned the originals to the Halstead box. Mr. Runcorn had the box with him and was up to his eyeballs, so to speak, so rather than disturb him, I left the documents I had in my desk. If he’d wanted them, he knew I had them and where they would be. So this morning I thought he’d be finished with the box, and I went in with the documents to put them away . . .” He swallowed. “And that’s when I found him.”

“How very distressing.” Penelope arrived with a mug of strong tea. “Here—drink this, and try not to think about anything for a while.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Pringle accepted the cup, wrapping his thin hands around it. “You’re very kind.”

Barnaby waited for Pringle to take a sip of the tea—highly sugared, he had not a doubt; Penelope knew what was needed—then he asked, still speaking in a gentle tone, “After you found Mr. Runcorn, what did you do?”

Pringle sighed. “Didn’t know what to do, did I? I panicked, dropped the documents on his desk, and rushed out into the street—and there were the two constables on their beat. I dragged them in and showed them.” Without glancing at the inner office, he nodded that way. “They’ve been in there ever since. I think they’ve sent for help from their station.” He sipped, then glanced at the clock. “It hasn’t been that long. I didn’t go into the office until after nine.” He looked down. “I just thought he was in there working.”

Barnaby glanced at Montague, then walked toward the inner office. The door was fully open, but before he reached the doorway, a burly constable hove into view.

“I’m sorry, sir, but you can’t come in here. Murder most foul. We’re waiting for the doctor and our sergeant—can’t let anything be touched until they say.”

“Indeed. I do hope you’ve touched as little as possible.” Barnaby drew out a card case and flicked it open. “I’m a consultant to the Metropolitan Police and am presently working on a case with Inspector Stokes of Scotland Yard. The case concerns a client of Mr. Runcorn. She, too, was recently murdered. It’s therefore highly likely that Runcorn’s murder is linked to Stokes’s case. That connection is why we”—with a wave, he indicated Penelope and Montague—“arrived to consult Mr. Runcorn.” Handing the constable one of Stokes’s cards, Barnaby added one of his own for good measure; there were times when being an “Honorable” could be helpful. “I strongly suggest you send someone to summon Stokes immediately. He’s presently at the Yard in a meeting.” Imagining Stokes’s response, Barnaby hid a wry smile. “I can assure you he’ll want to be disturbed.”


The constable frowned at the cards, then looked up at Barnaby and nodded. “Right. Thank you, sir. I’ll send my partner right away.”

Barnaby inclined his head and drifted back to rejoin the others. “Let’s give them a few minutes to get themselves organized.”

A few minutes was all it took; the burly constable sent his young, gangly partner off with orders to take a hackney to Scotland Yard and report to Inspector Stokes with all speed.

When the door shut behind the younger man, Barnaby arched his brows at Penelope and Montague, then ambled back, the other two following, to the inner office.

The burly constable saw them coming and straightened. “Sir?”

Knowing that the police surgeon for the district, harassed individuals though they always were, was likely to arrive before Stokes, Barnaby thought it wise to push a little. “I wondered, Constable, if I might take a brief look. Our own investigations are pressing, and as what happened here was almost certainly an outcome of the earlier murder, if I could view the body, and even more the desk and the papers on it, we might be able to move matters forward at a better pace.”

From his expression, it was obvious the constable wasn’t sure he should agree but equally wasn’t sure of the wisdom of refusing.

In an understanding tone, Barnaby promised, “I won’t touch anything.”

The constable glanced past him at Penelope and Montague. “Just you?”

Penelope smiled reassuringly at the man. “We’ll wait in the doorway and just watch.”

The constable considered, then glanced at Barnaby. “All right, then. Just as long as you don’t move anything. Worth me job, that would be.”

Barnaby inclined his head and, sliding his hands into his greatcoat pockets, moved into the room. The constable watched from his station to one side of the open door. Penelope edged into the room, taking up position on the other side of the doorway while Montague hovered on the threshold.

While Adair slowly paced around the desk, Montague scanned the room, identifying what had changed since his previous visit.

Adair noticed. “Anything different?”

“Aside from poor Runcorn being sprawled on the floor”—Montague could see an out-flung hand, the arm, and not much more; it appeared Runcorn had been pulled backward out of his chair—“there’s a bookend missing off that shelf.” He pointed to a shelf behind the desk, midway up the wall; the empty space was obvious once pointed out. “I think it was a horse’s head. And”—he surveyed the documents scattered over the desk; other than the stack that Pringle must have left, obviously dropped on one corner, the entire surface of the desk was awash in a ruffled tide of paper—“that mess isn’t normal. Last time I was here, he had documents on the desk, but most were in stacks. That looks like someone searched through all the stacks, one after the other, without setting the documents back as they went. Runcorn would never have done that.”

“Hmm.” Adair had halted on the other side of the desk, looking down at the body lying stretched upon the floor. “Constable . . . I’m sorry, what was your name?”

“Watkins, sir.”

“Constable Watkins, did you or your colleague move the body at all?”

“No, sir. Just checked his pulse at his wrist and neck—which, of course, there wasn’t any.”

“Good.” Adair glanced at Penelope. “Check with Pringle, will you?”

With a nod, Penelope went, slipping past Montague.

She returned less than a minute later. “He said he didn’t touch the body at all.”

Looking down, Adair grimaced. “Understandable.” Hitching up his trousers, he crouched, then bent lower until all Montague could see were the blond curls on the back of his head. “Very well. I can see the bookend—it’s lying off to one side. We won’t know for certain until the doctor examines him, but I’d wager he was hit on the back of the head with the bookend—it looks more than heavy enough—and then . . .” His voice hardened. “The murderer, whoever he was, and I think we can be sure it was a he, looped a length of cord of some sort . . .”

Adair’s head and shoulders swiveled as he looked about, searching the floor. “And there it is. Rather sloppy of our murderer to leave it, but what looks like a length of silky curtain cord—the sort used to loop back curtains—is lying half under the desk.”

Rising, his hands still sunk in his pockets, Adair bent over the desk, head tilting this way and that as he scanned the documents rumpled and shuffled and flung in disarray upon it. “As far as I can make out, all of these relate to the Halstead estate. There’s nothing obvious, like a piece torn away, or a blot where something may have been copied.” Bending, he peered at the underside of the rocking blotter. “And nothing that looks recent on the blotter.”

“The most likely outcome”—Montague waved—“of all this would be something taken—a letter, an account, a statement—a record of some sort removed.”

Straightening, Adair grimaced. “Which will be very hard to identify.”

Montague nodded. He glanced at Watkins, then looked back at Adair. “When the police are satisfied here, my staff might be able to pinpoint some gap in the records, perhaps with Pringle’s help. We can at least look.”

Adair nodded; his gaze had returned to the body. “I think the blow to his head was powerful enough to render him unconscious. I can’t see any evidence that he struggled, that he fought.”

The weight of the silence that followed suggested that none of them found any great solace in that fact.

Adair was on his way back to the door, and the others were moving back into the outer office, when a dark-suited individual carrying a black bag came through the street door. A sharp, shrewd gaze from very weary eyes found Watkins. “Constable?”

Watkins waved the doctor to the inner office. “He’s in here, and no, no one’s touched him.”

The doctor briefly nodded to Adair, Penelope, and Montague, then strode past and into the inner office.

Montague returned to stand by Pringle at his desk. “The Halstead file—did you notice the documents on Mr. Runcorn’s desk?”

Pringle, whose color had improved, nodded. “Aye—looked like the lot had been thoroughly searched.”

“Any chance of you being able to tell if anything’s been taken?” Montague asked as Adair and Penelope joined them.

Pringle’s brows rose as he considered. “Well, I had the most important records with me, in my drawer, so we know he didn’t get any of them.”

“You’re sure they weren’t searched?” Barnaby asked.

“Aye. I’d left them in a nice neat stack in my drawer there”—Pringle looked down at the second drawer on the right side of his desk—“and set my ink-bottle and capped nibs on the top of them, as I usually do. When I opened the drawer this morning to get the stack out, the ink-bottle and nibs were exactly as I’d left them.”

“Good,” Barnaby said. “So we know those records, at least, are intact. What about the rest of the Halstead documents, the ones Runcorn was looking through?”

“As to that,” Pringle said, his thin chest swelling a trifle, “we have our own system of numbering.” He glanced toward the inner office. “If the police let me at them, I can re-sort the file, check by the numbers if any pages are missing. If any are, there’s a master list of numbers—it was in the file with all the rest in Mr. Runcorn’s office, but unless he knew what the numbers and our notations meant, I can’t see any reason any murderer would have taken the list.” Pringle’s voice had grown stronger. He straightened, meeting Barnaby’s gaze. “I can at least do that if it will help catch whoever did for Mr. Runcorn. Young he might have been, but he was a good man.”


Barnaby nodded. “I’ll do what I can to make sure you get a chance to check the documents.”

On the words, the door swung open and Stokes strode in. He came straight to them. “What’s happened?”

Barnaby told him what they knew, and what they’d deduced, in a rapid-fire report.

Stokes took it all in without a word, his face giving nothing away. When Penelope introduced Pringle and explained his role, Stokes inclined his head, his gray gaze absorbing every little detail about Runcorn’s clerk.

“So,” Barnaby concluded, “other than having the police surgeon verify our deductions about how Runcorn was killed, the two most important clues we have are that length of silk cord and the documents.” He nodded to Pringle. “Pringle here will re-sort and tell us if anything’s been taken.”

Stokes nodded. “Good. Let me handle it.” Stepping past them, he walked with a powerful, prowling stride to the inner office.

The deep growl of Stokes’s voice reached them, but Barnaby couldn’t hear exactly what was said. In less than five minutes, however, Stokes walked out of the office, a foot-high pile of papers filling his arms, an envelope balanced atop them.

Stokes handed the documents to Pringle. “That’s everything that was on Runcorn’s desk. Scotland Yard have officially seized them as part of the investigation, and I’m now handing them to you to sort for us. Just so we’re clear, the papers are for the moment the property of the police, and not to be handed to anyone without my express authority.”

“Indeed, sir.” Pringle accepted the documents.

Stokes lifted the envelope from the top of the stack, held it up to Barnaby, then slid the envelope into his pocket. “The cord. Interesting find.”

“We can only hope it’ll prove useful,” Barnaby said.

Settling the roughly stacked documents on his desk, Pringle turned to Montague. “Sir—I’m not sure what to do.” He waved at the office. “There was no other partner, just Mr. Runcorn, and while I can manage the documents well enough, I can’t handle the clients, and some will surely turn up soon.”

Montague thought, then nodded. “Indeed.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a card. “I suggest you place a note in the window, stating that the office is closed and will remain so for the foreseeable future, but that clients of Mr. Runcorn can seek information at this address.” He handed Pringle his card. “Then take the Halstead papers, and . . .” Drawing a sheet of fresh paper from the pigeonhole along the top of Pringle’s desk, he drew out a pencil and wrote rapidly. “Take this letter to my office and give it to Mr. Slocum, my head clerk. He’ll find a desk for you. Your first task must be to re-sort the Halstead file and determine if any pages have been taken, and if so, which. If any of Mr. Runcorn’s clients appear, my junior assistant, a Mr. Phillip Foster, will assist you in dealing with them.” Reaching the end of his missive, Montague signed the letter, then tucked away his pencil, folded the sheet, and handed it to Pringle. “That will take care of business, as it were, for the moment. We can work out what’s to be done once this matter of murder is behind us.”

Pringle met his gaze, then bowed. “Thank you, sir.” Tucking away the letter, he looked at the mammoth task represented by the pile of papers on his desk. “I’ll get on to this straightaway.”

“Before you do,” Stokes said, “I need to ask you a few questions.”

Pringle nodded; straightening, he waited.

Stokes glanced at the others. “I’ve already sent constables to canvass the neighborhood, asking if anyone noticed anything.” Returning his gaze to Pringle, he said, “So first, I want you to think back to when you last saw Mr. Runcorn alive.” When Pringle nodded, Stokes asked, “When was that?”

“Yesterday evening, about seven o’clock. I went into his office to let him know I was leaving. He was still working through the Halstead file.”

“Was it normal for him to be working so late?”

Pringle nodded. “Often worked late, he did. Like I said, he was the only partner in the firm, so he had to handle everything I couldn’t.”

“Did he ever meet with clients late, after you’d left?”

Pringle wrinkled his nose. “Sometimes, but not often. Far as I know, he had no meetings arranged for last evening. If he’d had, the meeting would have been entered in the book, which I always check every morning so I can make sure he has the relevant file before I leave.”

“So we can be quite sure that whoever saw him last night—the murderer—did not have an appointment.” Stokes nodded rather grimly. “Was your master likely to have let anyone in who he didn’t know? Not just into the main office, but into his own office. It seems fairly clear that whoever was there with him, your master was relaxed enough to be sitting in his chair, with the murderer beside him, possibly looking over the papers, when he was attacked.”

Pringle paused, then shook his head. “I don’t know what I can say, Inspector. I never knew him to entertain any friends here. Only clients.”

Or, Stokes thought, clients’ relatives.

“When you left,” Barnaby asked, “did you see anyone at all? Did you pass anyone? Notice anyone, even if they’re people you might expect to see?”

Pringle blinked, clearly thinking back. “There was the usual crowd going in and out of the public house across the street, but I didn’t go that way. I walked down the street toward Broad Street and . . .” Pringle paused, staring into space, then more softly said, “There was a man I hadn’t seen before, standing under the overhang of the tobacconist’s next door. He was staring at the window, although, now I think of it, as the store was shut, I don’t know what he could have been looking at—Samuel, the tobacconist, always puts his wares away every night and leaves the shelves empty. But as for the man, I walked past him, but he had on a cloak and a broad-brimmed hat. The hat was tipped down, so I didn’t see much of his face.”

Stokes felt a familiar thrill go through him. “How tall was he?”

“Not that much taller than me,” Pringle said. “Maybe an inch or two, no more than that.”

“Medium to tall then. Did you see what color hair he had?”

Pringle squinted. “Not clearly, but it was at least brown. It wasn’t blond.” His gaze went to Barnaby’s curls. “Definitely not fair.”

Stokes drew breath, and asked, “What about his face? Did you see it well enough to recognize him?” It was a long shot, but . . . stranger things had happened.

But Pringle visibly deflated. “No.” His lips twisted in a grimace. “I’m sorry, Inspector, but I only caught a glimpse of his profile. All I can tell you is that he was clean shaven but had side-whiskers.” Pringle drew phantom whiskers on his own cheeks. “And his cheeks weren’t . . .” He looked at Stokes, then Barnaby. “Like yours—they were rounder.”

Stokes nodded. “Thank you. You might not be able to identify him, but that’s still very helpful.”

“I have a question.” Penelope’s softer, yet still commanding, voice was such a contrast that it focused all attention. They all looked at her, but she was studying Pringle. Capturing his gaze, she tilted her head and smiled encouragingly. “You see clients all the time. You’re used to dealing with lots of different sorts of people. You will know the answer to my question. When I put my question to you, I want you to think of the man you saw and answer immediately—the first answer that pops into your mind. All right?”


Pringle looked a touch uneasy but nodded.

“The man you saw outside the tobacconist’s—was he an aristocrat, a gentleman, a merchant, or a working man?”

Pringle answered without hesitation. “A gentleman.” Then he blinked and looked surprised, but he didn’t retract the answer.

Penelope beamed. “Thank you.”

“Indeed,” Stokes said. “Thank you, Mr. Pringle, you’ve been of considerable help.” He nodded at the Halstead papers. “If you wish to put up that notice and take yourself off to Mr. Montague’s office, you’re free to leave.”

Pringle half-bowed. “Thank you, Inspector. Ma’am. Sirs.”

Turning to his desk, he started neatening the papers, then searching for string to tie them up.

Stokes beckoned the other three closer to the door, but before he spoke, someone tapped on the glass.

Stokes turned to see the constables he’d sent to ask questions around the neighborhood in a loose group on the pavement, clearly waiting to report. “One moment,” he said to the other three. Opening the door, he beckoned the sergeant in charge inside. “Well, Phipps? Anything?”

“Bits and pieces, sir. Other than those at the pub, there weren’t that many people out and about. Dinnertime for many, so most were indoors. That said . . .” Portentously, the sergeant flicked open his notebook. “We’ve several people, most from the pub, but also a match-seller who has her spot just on the corner, who saw a gent going into this office, and then leaving again about half an hour later. Time seems right—all say it was after seven when he went in, and somewhere after the half hour when he left, and they can hear the bells easy from here.”

“What description did they give?” Stokes asked.

“Nothing definitive. No one who says they’d recognize the blighter.” Phipps proceeded to recite the descriptions given by five different people.

The descriptions matched Pringles’s in every degree.

“So,” Stokes said, “we have a gentleman—they’re all clear on that—clean shaven, but with shortish side-whiskers and rounded cheeks. Not tall, but a little above average height. Brown to dark hair.”

“That sums it up, sir.” Phipps closed his notebook.

“One question, Sergeant.” Again all eyes swung to Penelope. “These people who saw the man—did any of them mention the man giving any indication that he’d noticed them?”

Phipps shook his head. “No one mentioned him noticing them, ma’am. All said he strode along, eyes forward. The match-seller did say that she was certain he hadn’t even seen her—marched right on by, his cloak swinging, as if he hadn’t registered her at all.”

Penelope smiled and inclined her head. “Thank you, Sergeant.”

Phipps looked to Stokes, who nodded a dismissal.

As the door swung shut behind the sergeant, Stokes lowered his voice and said, “So we have a description that, from memory, could fit any of the Halstead males.” He paused, then allowed, “I’m not sure if it fits all of them, but certainly some of them. More than one.”

“I think,” Barnaby said, also lowering his voice in deference to Pringle, who was putting on his heavy coat and getting ready to leave, “that, all the evidence considered, it’s safe to assume that both Lady Halstead and Runcorn were murdered because of those irregularities in Lady Halstead’s account.”

Montague started to nod, then froze. He blinked, then whirled. “Pringle—one thing.”

Caught in the act of hefting the bound pile of papers into his arms, the clerk looked across. “Yes, Mr. Montague?”

No one had mentioned Lady Halstead’s death in Pringle’s hearing. Montague asked, “Were Runcorn and Son notified of Lady Halstead’s death? Of her murder?”

Pringle’s face told the tale. “Murder?” His eyes goggled. “Her ladyship, too?”

If Runcorn hadn’t known, then . . . Montague swung around. “Good God! The money!” He strode for the door.

The others stared for a second, then recovered and piled out of the door on his heels.

They quickly caught up, even Penelope, holding up her skirts so she could hurry along. It was she who demanded, “What about the money?”

Montague didn’t slow but forced himself to order his thoughts. “If we’re right about the payments being the motive for the murders, then the money is the murderer’s. Now that Lady Halstead is dead, sometime soon her account will be closed—normally Runcorn would have been advised of the death and would have handled it—and the money will be bound over—”

“—and the murderer will lose it.” Penelope went on, “So he has to get it out of the account as soon as he can.”

“And,” Stokes grimly concluded, “if he hasn’t already done so, we have a chance to set up a watch and catch him when he comes for it.”

“Which bank holds the account?” Adair asked, taking Penelope’s arm as they neared the busier thoroughfare of Broad Street.

Montague rarely forgot such details. “Grimshaws in Threadneedle Street.”

Threadneedle Street wasn’t far; there was no sense taking a hackney. This was Montague’s territory; he led the way past the Excise Office and down a narrower street, then they were on Threadneedle Street and the bank was just ahead of them.

“Do you have that letter of authority?” Stokes asked.

Montague patted his top pocket.

“Good,” Stokes growled. “You lead, and I’ll hang back. Let’s not alert anyone to the murder unless we have to.”

Montague nodded, opened the door to the bank, and led the way inside.

His card ensured that his request to see the manager was instantly granted; few working in that square mile of the City did not recognize his name, did not know of his reputation.

The letter of authority from Lady Halstead was duly produced and examined, then the manager called in the clerk of accounts, who quickly produced Lady Halstead’s register.

The manager looked at it, then blinked and somewhat carefully turned it around so Montague could see the entries for himself.

“Ah-hem.” The manager cleared his throat. “It appears, Mr. Montague, that Lady Halstead closed that account this morning, a little over an hour ago.”

His face setting, Montague looked at the figure. “It was withdrawn in cash?”

He glanced up at the clerk, who nodded. “Indeed, sir. I was consulted, of course, but everything seemed in order . . .”

Montague grimaced, then glanced at the manager. “With your permission . . .” He looked at the clerk. “If you could ask the two gentlemen and the lady waiting just outside to join us, I believe you both need to be informed of some recent developments.”

The manager’s eyes widened, but he nodded to the clerk, who went to the door and admitted Stokes, Adair, and Penelope.

The manager and Montague stood. Montague performed the introductions, then, when chairs had been found and all but the clerk were seated, Stokes informed the manager, “I regret to inform you that Lady Halstead was murdered, sometime during the night two nights ago.” He shifted his gaze to the clerk. “We believe that the money in her ladyship’s account with this bank is a large part of the reason she was killed. I must therefore ask who withdrew the money, and what form of authority they presented to you to be able to do so.”


At a curt nod from the manager, the clerk cleared his throat. “The money was withdrawn by a lady—because of the amount, I was summoned and attended to her myself.”

“Please describe her,” Stokes said.

The clerk hesitated, then said, “She was of average height, neither fat nor thin, but as to her face, she was wearing a hat with a fine veil. I could see her face, but not clearly.”

“What color was her hair?” Penelope asked.

“Brown—not dark.” The clerk’s gaze had risen to Penelope’s lustrous locks. “More a mid-brown. Ordinary brown.”

“And,” Penelope continued, “how old would you say this lady was?”

The clerk clearly thought back, then wiggled his head. “Not old—not middle-aged. But she wasn’t a young lady, either.”

“Lady.” Penelope arched a brow. “Why did you think she was a lady?”

“Well, she was well dressed and well spoken, ma’am. Easy to deal with and . . . well, confident, if you know what I mean.”

Penelope nodded. “Thank you.” She sat back.

“Do you have the withdrawal authority?” Montague asked. “I would like to examine it.”

The clerk exchanged a look with the manager, then, receiving another terse nod, reached for the ledger still lying open before Montague and turned the page, revealing a handwritten letter. “This only happened an hour or so ago, so I haven’t had a chance to put it in the file.”

Montague nodded as he picked up the letter. He read it, then handed it to Stokes, seated beside him. “It’s supposedly from Lady Halstead, authorizing the withdrawal, the bearer of the letter to be given the full sum of the monies in the account.”

While Stokes scanned the letter, Montague again took out the letter of authority Lady Halstead had written for him. When Stokes reached the end of the withdrawal authority, Montague held out his letter. Stokes took it and held the two side by side.

Montague leaned closer; Penelope, on Stokes’s other side, did the same. All three of them looked from one letter to the other, comparing.

Eventually, Stokes sighed. Handing Montague back his letter, Stokes lowered the withdrawal authority and, across the bank manager’s desk, met the man’s eyes. “I’ll be keeping this, and I’ll also have to take the ledger. Both are now evidence of a crime.”

The manager looked a trifle ill. “The letter?”

“Is a forgery,” Penelope said. “But a very, very good one. Without having, as we have, a letter known to have been written by Lady Halstead to compare, I seriously doubt anyone could have spotted it.”

“I don’t believe there will be any repercussions with respect to the bank or its employees,” Montague said. He glanced at Stokes.

Stokes nodded. He slipped the withdrawal authority back into the ledger, then closed the book, picked it up, and rose. “Thank you for your cooperation. We’ll see ourselves out.”

They halted on the pavement outside the bank and looked at each other.

“What now?” Montague asked.

“Now . . .” Stokes glanced at Adair, then Penelope, then looked back at Montague. “If you all have the time, I believe we should take an hour or so to revisit everything we’ve seen, heard, and learned this morning.”

Penelope nodded decisively. “If we don’t, something vital might slip past us.” She looked at Stokes. “Speaking of which, might I suggest that we adjourn to Greenbury Street?” She glanced at Montague. “Stokes’s house. Griselda will be there, and as she’s the only one of us who hasn’t been through all the events of the morning, she’s the only one of us who is likely to have a truly detached view.” Penelope looked at all three men’s faces. “I vote we go to Greenbury Street and tell Griselda all.”

Stokes met Adair’s eyes, then sighed and nodded. “Very well. Greenbury Street it is.”

They took two hackneys and arrived in Greenbury Street as Griselda was pushing Megan’s perambulator up the front path, having just returned from taking her daughter for an airing in the nearby park.

Griselda was delighted to see them. Grinning, Penelope touched cheeks, then bent to coo at Megan, who waved her chubby fists and chortled in reply. Barnaby greeted Griselda, then joined Penelope in admiring Megan.

Stokes kissed his wife’s cheek, then considered the sight of his friends paying their dues to his daughter with a proud, paternal air.

Montague hung back, watching the interaction between the two couples, noting the warmth and the strong friendship so openly on display. Then Stokes turned to him and drew him forward, introducing him to Mrs. Stokes—Griselda, as she, like Penelope, insisted he call her—and then to the small girl-child, who looked up at him with wide, curious eyes.

“Careful,” Stokes murmured. “They wind you about their tiny fingers with looks like that.”

Montague realized he was grinning in the same faintly besotted way Stokes was.

Somewhat to his surprise, Montague found himself swept up in the camaraderie, in the wave of relaxed enthusiasm that carried them all inside to settle in a neat sitting room. They sank onto chairs and the sofa. After handing little Megan into her nurse’s care, Griselda joined them.

Settling on the sofa alongside Penelope, Griselda commanded, “So! Tell me all.”

They proceeded to do so, and in the telling consolidated and refined their collective understanding.

By unvoiced agreement, they held to the facts as they knew them until they’d told the story to the end, to the moment when they’d left the bank, the forged letter of withdrawal in Stokes’s keeping.

Only then did they turn their minds to the questions those facts raised, to speculation, to the possibilities.

“The woman who presented the letter of withdrawal,” Stokes murmured. “Where did she get it? And what does that tell us about who she is?”

Penelope straightened; as if taking up the challenge, she replied, “The letter is such a good forgery that it could only have been created by someone familiar with Lady Halstead’s hand.”

“Or someone with access to letters her ladyship wrote,” Adair put in.

Penelope inclined her head. “True. Which puts the companion, Miss Matcham, at the top of the list of possible suspects.” She held up her hand. “However, I have severe doubts that it was in fact her.”

“Why?” Stokes asked, before Montague could.

“Well, I haven’t yet met Miss Matcham, so I can only go by what you’ve said of her, but it strikes me that, if she was behind the withdrawal of the money, she’s intelligent enough to ensure no one would associate the withdrawal with her. The letter gave the money to ‘The Bearer,’ not to any named individual, so she could have dressed however she wished. She could have enlisted male assistance. Or—and this is what I would have done—she could have pretended to be male. It’s not that hard, especially for only a short time, with only a bank clerk to fool.” Penelope frowned. “Regardless, I have a strong suspicion that we’re intended to think it is Miss Matcham, to leap to that as the obvious conclusion—which, of course, means it’s untrue.”

“There’s also the fact,” Montague said, “that Miss Matcham was, and still is, sincerely devoted to Lady Halstead. I really cannot see her condoning, much less doing, something that is, in effect, stealing from her late employer.”


“And,” Stokes said, “the same can be said of the maid, Tilly Westcott. At a pinch, she could have been the woman who presented the letter at the bank, but she, too, is devoted to her ladyship.” He looked at Montague. “I take it there’s no suggestion that Lady Halstead was in arrears with their wages?”

Montague took a second to bring the appropriate payments to mind, then shook his head. “No. We’re in the middle of a quarter, and all the staff were paid as expected to this point.”

“Right, then.” Stokes stretched out his legs and crossed his ankles. “I believe we can discount the notion that either Miss Matcham or Miss Westcott was the woman behind the veil—”

“But we should perhaps accept that someone intended us to suspect them.” Adair glanced about the company. “Because whoever wrote the forged letter was almost certainly a family member.”

“Indeed.” Stokes nodded. “And what’s more, I’ll lay odds the family will want to use the vague but suggestive description of the mystery woman to point the finger at Miss Matcham, or if not her, the maid.”

“They’ve already tried that once,” Montague reminded the gathering.

“And I’m quite sure they’ll do it again,” Penelope said, “if only because it’s easier than accepting the alternative—that the murderer is one of them.”

“Which,” Stokes said, “brings us neatly back to the murderer, the gentleman seen by several people entering and later leaving Runcorn’s office. The description would fit, and certainly suggests one of the Halstead men, but which one?”

Stokes, Adair, and Montague exchanged glances.

Viewing their uncertainty, Penelope helpfully recited the description, concluding, “Neither Griselda nor I have seen the Halstead gentlemen, but surely those side-whiskers give you some clue.”

Barnaby grimaced. “So one might think, but, sadly, that isn’t the case. They all have them, more or less to the same degree.” He hesitated, then continued, “For me, at least, that description doesn’t distinguish between the five males of Halstead blood—Mortimer, his son Hayden, Maurice, William, and Cynthia’s son Walter.” He glanced at the others. “In fact, if I encountered any of the Halstead men in the street at night, in poor light, I seriously doubt I would be able to tell one from the other. In good light, they are easy to distinguish, but in shadows . . .” Barnaby looked at Stokes. “Similar build, similar height, similar coloring, with key features, including the round cheeks, all similar, too. Even their dress is not wildly dissimilar.”

Stokes slowly nodded. “It’s their eyes that are different—Hayden’s and Walter’s, and also Maurice’s, are all lighter—and there’s also a slight difference in the set of their lips, and possibly the prominence, although not the shape, of their noses. But unless you can see all those details”—he tipped his head to Barnaby—“I agree. Telling those five apart isn’t easy.”

They pondered that fact, and its implications, in silence.

Griselda broke it; slapping her palms on her thighs, she rose. “No, don’t get up. I’m going to organize some sandwiches for luncheon. You could all do with some food to fuel all this cogitating.”

“I’ll help.” Penelope rose, too.

When the ladies had disappeared deeper into the house, Stokes looked at Barnaby and Montague. “We need to very carefully think through how we’re to press forward with this. Especially with the complication of Camberly’s position—even if he isn’t a suspect, his son is—and we’ve also got Mortimer Halstead to contend with. My reading of him is that he will prove difficult over one of the family’s being our prime suspect.”

“Oh, yes.” Barnaby nodded. “He’s exactly that sort. And given the astounding lack of loyalty to Lady Halstead—or rather their devotion to their own interests over seeking justice for her, which they’ve already amply demonstrated—dealing with this family while ferreting out the murderer in their midst is not going to be a simple matter.”

Montague sighed. “One assumes that, in investigating a crime of any sort, those involved who are not the criminal will hold justice being served to have the highest priority, but, sadly, that’s often not the case.”

A disaffected silence fell. It was broken by Penelope, who appeared in the open doorway to announce, “If you will come to the dining room, gentlemen, luncheon awaits.”

The three men rose and followed Penelope into the dining room, where they took seats about the oval table. They passed around platters of sandwiches and cold meats. A young maid poured ale for the gentlemen and lemonade for the ladies.

While they ate, they exchanged only the most minor comments.

Stokes waited until the sandwiches were gone and, replete, they sat back, the men sipping their ale, before returning to what he saw as his dilemma. “We have to investigate the Halstead family, thoroughly and exhaustively. Whoever this murderer is—and l think we all agree that it’s one of the five males, with only Camberly thus far excluded—he isn’t stupid. He acted swiftly to, as he saw it, put a stop to Lady Halstead looking into her affairs, presumably because he knew she would notice the odd payments. He wasn’t to know she already had. And then, just to ensure the matter went no further, he eliminated Runcorn—again, in his eyes, the only other person who might have been in a position to raise a question about those odd payments. The murderer wasn’t to know—and still doesn’t know—that Montague already knows about the payments.”

“Hmm.” Sitting forward, her elbows on the table, Penelope narrowed her eyes on Montague. “If all was as the murderer believes, and you didn’t know about those odd payments, how would this situation—her ladyship’s death, followed by Runcorn’s, followed by the withdrawal of the money by some mysterious lady apparently with her ladyship’s approval—be expected to play out?”

Montague took a moment to think before saying, “If I didn’t know that there was anything odd about those payments . . . with both her ladyship and Runcorn removed, as well as the money, then barring the theft of the extra funds from the account this morning, everything should balance up nicely enough, at least as far as a cursory examination of the estate’s books would go. If we didn’t know about all the rest, this morning’s theft would be put down as a regrettable loss, and there would, therefore, be no reason the estate wouldn’t simply pass through probate without further question.”

“So no further ripples or ructions from the murderer’s point of view.” Penelope nodded. “So at this point, he should be satisfied that he’s done all that’s necessary to obliterate his tracks.”

“But,” Stokes said, “he might see Montague as a threat.” Slate gray eyes met Montague’s gaze. “He might come after you.”

Montague arched his brows, then raised a shoulder. “I can’t see why he would—at least not over what we’ve let fall to this point. All he knows regarding me is that Lady Halstead recently gave me a letter of authority to oversee her financial affairs. He doesn’t know she specifically engaged me to look into the odd payments. He also doesn’t know that I have all the Halstead papers and am analyzing them for the police. If we don’t mention those things, there’s no reason for him to believe I or my office pose any active threat. For all he knows, my involvement in this is, and will remain, purely superficial.”


Stokes’s lips slowly stretched in a predatory smile. “Which brings me back to the question of how to deal with the Halsteads.” He glanced around the table. “Given we believe the murderer is one of them, I intend to tell them as little as possible.”

“Hear, hear,” Barnaby said. “As Montague just illustrated, the less they know, the better.”

Stokes faintly grimaced. “In addition to that, however, at this juncture I think it will be best if Miss Matcham and Miss Westcott are also not informed of our progress. Even though we believe they’re entirely innocent, they are nevertheless suspects, at least in the family’s eyes, and”—he raised his shoulders in a slight shrug—“like it or not, we need to treat them as such.”

Penelope didn’t share that view and said so. Somewhat tartly.

Even though neither lady had yet met Violet Matcham or Tilly Westcott, Griselda agreed. “For all you know, they might be in danger, and not telling them of your findings might fail to put them on guard.”

Montague cleared his throat. “As to that, I believe Miss Matcham’s intelligence is such that she is already well aware that the murderer is most likely a family member. That being so, I can’t see that telling her of Runcorn’s murder at this point will serve any purpose other than to add to her distress.” He met Stokes’s gaze. “She met Runcorn recently, several times, when he called upon Lady Halstead.”

Stokes nodded. “So it’s agreed—we do our best to investigate the family while keeping our findings close to our collective chest.”

The men all agreed; the ladies abstained but didn’t argue.

“Right, then.” Stokes set down his empty ale mug. “I need to return to Runcorn’s office and finalize things there. And while I’m doing that, I’ll have the constables go around again and ask for any sightings of a veiled lady.” He met Adair’s, then Montague’s, gazes. “Just to ensure our mysterious lady hasn’t played a larger role in this drama.”

Adair nodded. “And I rather think I should return to Grimshaws Bank and see if anyone noticed which way the lady went. You never know—that might give us some clues.”

“While you’re there,” Montague said, eyes narrowing in thought, “you might ask to speak with the head clerk again and inquire as to how the payments were made. It’s a very long shot, especially with deposits made in cash, but one never knows—the tellers might recall.” He met Adair’s eyes and shrugged. “It’s worth asking. And if the head clerk doesn’t recall your connection to this matter”—he pulled out a card and handed it to Adair—“feel free to use my name.”

Adair took the card, raised it in salute. “I will. It’s a good point.”

“And I,” Montague stated, “will continue to seek information in my usual sphere. Those payments are puzzling. If I can’t get to the bottom of them by analyzing the Halstead accounts, I might call in a few favors and see if any of my colleagues have any suggestions.” He looked at Stokes. “All with the utmost discretion, of course.”

Stokes nodded and pushed back his chair. “So we all have things to do.”

Adair rose, too. “Matters to pursue, avenues to follow.”

Montague hid a smile and got to his feet. With compliments and thanks to Griselda, and a bow to Penelope, he followed Stokes and Adair through the house, out of the front door, and out through the gate.

Stokes paused on the pavement, met Adair’s, then Montague’s, eyes. “I suggest we meet again at your office in the City later this afternoon and pool what we’ve learned. We’ll need to see the family again, clearly, but I would like to have as much information as possible before we call them together again.”

Adair nodded. So did Montague. With salutes, the trio parted and went their separate ways.

Penelope stood at the front window of the sitting room and, with Griselda beside her, watched the three men stride away. “Off they go, busily investigating. What odds will you give me that they plan to meet later—just the three of them—to compare notes?”

Griselda snorted. “That’s no wager—it’s a certainty.” Arms crossed beneath her bosom, she nodded toward the pavement. “That’s what that little gathering was about—setting a time and place.”

“I suppose,” Penelope said, head tilting as she considered, “in the circumstances, the violence of murder can only be expected to make them more protective.”

“Not that they weren’t protective enough to begin with, but I take your point.” Griselda glanced at Penelope. “Matters have changed, and adequate adjustments have yet to be made.”

“Indeed.” Penelope nodded. “So they’ve headed off, and we know what they’re doing. What does that leave us to do?” After a second, she answered her own question. “I rather think we should see what we can learn about the Halstead family from a social perspective. The Halsteads, and the Camberlys, too.”

“Oh,” Griselda said, her voice rising with interest and subtle excitement, “I know just where to start.” She met Penelope’s eyes, read her speculative, questioning gaze, and smiled. “Just let me have a word to Gloria and make sure Megan’s settled, then I’ll grab my bonnet and show you.”

“Show me what?” Penelope asked.

Griselda grinned. “The other side of fashionable shopping.”

Penelope looked intrigued. She waved Griselda on, then followed on her heels. “I’ll get my coat and bonnet on and meet you at the door.”