The Masterful Mr. Montague

Chapter 7




Stokes spent an hour and a half at Runcorn’s offices, finalizing details and overseeing the securing of the premises. “Just as a precaution,” he said to the local sergeant, “I want two men watching the place at all times, but there’s no need for them to make themselves visible. One can be inside, the other keeping an eye on the door and the street from the pub across the way.”

The sergeant arched his brows. “Think he’ll come back?”

“I think it’s a possibility.” Stokes looked up as the three constables he’d sent to ask around as to any veiled lady sighted in the area over the last days returned.

They saluted. At Stokes’s questioning look, the more senior shook his head. “No luck, sir. We’ve asked up and down both legs of Winchester Street, even managed to catch that match-seller again—she’s an observant one—but no one’s seen any veiled lady loitering about.”

Stokes nodded. “It was a long shot, but one we had to rule out. Good work.”

Two minutes later, he left the sergeant and the constables to organize the details of the watch and headed back to Scotland Yard.

Barnaby elected to question the bank staff first, before the head clerk had a chance to forget him. He produced Montague’s card anyway, judging that Montague’s reputation had more weight in this sphere than his own.

“Mr. Montague suggested that some of your tellers might recall the means by which recent cash deposits into Lady Halstead’s account were presented.” He took care to affect a hopeful expression. “Any help you or the staff can give us would be much appreciated.”

“Hmm.” The head clerk, a somewhat officious, self-important little man, pursed his lips, but then nodded. “While I can’t promise anything—this is a busy branch with many accounts—if you will give me a few minutes, I’ll see what I can learn.”


Barnaby inclined his head and drifted to where a row of chairs stood against one wall. Sitting in one, he watched as the clerk returned to his desk, flipped through a stack of papers, and withdrew one—presumably another bank record of some sort. After perusing the document, the head clerk took it with him. He scanned the four tellers at their stations, then made his way to one particular teller, an older man at the last window along the counter.

The clerk waited until the teller finished with the customer before him, then stepped in and, showing the teller the back record, pointed to it and asked a question. The two men exchanged words, then the teller nodded.

Barnaby fought the urge to rise and go and see, to question the teller directly . . . he would need to speak to the man directly, regardless of what the head clerk thought or said.

Luckily, the head clerk looked over and beckoned.

When Barnaby came to the counter, the head clerk smiled with arrogant satisfaction. “Mr. Wadsworth recalls receiving the last cash deposit into Lady Halstead’s account clearly, and believes it was presented in the same manner as the previous cash deposits over the last year or so.”

Barnaby inclined his head to the clerk. “Excellent.” He looked at the teller. “Can you remember who paid in the money?”

“Indeed, sir,” Wadsworth said. “I and my colleagues noted it especially, as it seemed . . . well, out of character for what one might imagine for a lady of Lady Halstead’s standing.”

Puzzled, Barnaby asked, “Out of character in what way?”

The teller glanced at the head clerk, as if confirming he was permitted to speak. When the clerk nodded, Wadsworth returned his gaze to Barnaby. “It was a courier service, sir. Always a different person, but they have a valid deposit slip, all properly signed, so we have to accept the cash.”

Barnaby hesitated; the news wasn’t at all what he’d anticipated, but . . . perhaps he should have. “A courier service—by that you mean the sort of service that criminals use for . . . shall we say, suspect payments?”

Wadsworth nodded. “Exactly that sort of service, sir. We tellers get to recognize the couriers, and we certainly recognize their sort. It’s really rather obvious, of course, because they aren’t the sort of person one would imagine having the amount of cash they’re handing over the counter.”

Barnaby nodded. “Thank you both. I’ll take this information back to Mr. Montague and Inspector Stokes.” He met both men’s eyes and lowered his voice. “I’m sure I don’t need to mention that this information is highly sensitive and needs to be kept under your hat.”

“Of course not, sir,” Wadsworth said.

The head clerk drew himself up. “We at Grimshaws Bank pride ourselves on our discretion.”

Hiding a smile, Barnaby inclined his head. “Again, thank you. I bid you gentlemen a good day.”

With polite nods all around, Barnaby left the counter and, suppressing the spring in his step, strode out to the pavement. “One matter accomplished.” He looked about. “Now for the second.”

He spent the next hour in fruitless ambling along the streets surrounding the bank, asking any of those who were, for whatever reason, fixtures along the way if they had sighted the veiled lady earlier that morning. He’d almost given up hope—had almost accepted that one success a day was as much as he could expect—when he saw a boy of ten or so years wielding a broom at the corner of a lane just around the bend in Bishopsgate.

Strolling up to the lad, hands sunk in his greatcoat pockets, he used the line of patter he’d developed over the past hour. “I was supposed to meet my sister here this morning, and, of course, I slept in. She was supposed to go to the bank back there and meet me outside, but now I don’t know if she came and left, or if she hasn’t shown at all. She’s a lady, and she would have been wearing a veil—she usually does when she travels here.”

“Yeah?” The boy eyed him. “So what does she look like, this sister of yourn? Other than being female and wearing a veil?”

Barnaby rattled off the general description—brown hair, middle height, about Barnaby’s own age.

He could barely believe it when the boy nodded. “You saw her?” he asked in response to the boy’s nod.

“Aye.” The boy pointed along the street. “She came walking up from Threadneedle Street, and I’m sorry to have to tell you this, guv, but a gentleman was waiting for her in a coach pulled up to the curb just along there.”

“A gentleman?” Swallowing his leaping excitement, Barnaby adopted a resigned air. “I expect that must have been my cousin. Did you see him?”

“Not well—he stayed in the carriage. Just opened the door and gave the lady his hand to help her inside.” The boy looked at Barnaby questioningly.

Barnaby sighed, pulled out a half crown, and held it up. “So what did he look like?”

“Gentleman—couldn’t say how tall ’cause he was sitting down.” Like a magpie’s, the boy’s eyes had fixed on the shiny coin. “He didn’t have a beard but those side bits as is common now, and his face was roundish, and he had brown hair.” The boy looked at Barnaby as if to ask if that was enough.

“One last thing—how old was this gent?”

The boy blinked. “Thought he was your cousin—don’t you know how old he is?”

“I have several cousins. I’m trying to decide which one it was.”

“Oh.” The boy hesitated, then screwed up his face. “Can’t be sure, can I? I didn’t see him clearly, but . . . the same age as the lady?”

His tone made it clear that his estimation was pure guess. Nevertheless, Barnaby handed over the coin. “Good enough.”

The boy had told him enough to be sure that the veiled lady was working with—or perhaps for—one of the five Halstead males.

Barnaby turned to leave, then halted, hunted in his pocket, and pulled out a sovereign. He swung back to the lad, who had pocketed the half crown. “Here!” When the boy looked up, Barnaby tossed him the sovereign.

Swift as a hawk, the boy plucked the coin from the air. The dawning wonderment in his face as he turned it between his fingers and realized his good fortune made Barnaby grin.

When the boy glanced up, Barnaby jauntily saluted him. “That’s for being observant. Put it to good use.”

He left the boy staring at the wealth in his palm. Feeling thoroughly pleased, Barnaby strode down the street toward Montague’s office.

After returning to Chapel Court and his office, Montague’s first act was to check on Pringle. Seated at the desk Slocum had cleared and assigned to him, Pringle was steadily working his way through the accumulated Halstead financial records.

“They go back nearly thirty years.” Pringle held up one account. “Sir Hugo dealt with young Mr. Runcorn’s father, who had the business before him. I can’t tell whether it was the villain who did it, or the constables when they gathered them up, but the papers are in a right jumble.”

“So you can’t yet say if anything’s missing?” Montague asked.

Pringle shook his head. “Not until I get everything in order again.”

Leaving him to it, suppressing his impatience to get on and do—to analyze the accounts and find the murderer and so ensure Violet Matcham was safe—Montague spoke with Gibbons and Foster, reviewing their on-going work with the firm’s clients, then he confirmed the arrangements to have the pair take over all scheduled meetings for the next several days. His own slate thus cleared, he retreated to his office and settled behind his desk.


The papers Pringle had copied and sent to him sat in a thick sheaf to one side. They beckoned, but Montague resisted. There was one other effort he could and should make, an avenue he could pursue to directly identify the odd payments. Returning to his copy of Lady Halstead’s bank statement—the document that had given rise to the intrigue of money and murder—he made a neat list of all the odd deposits stretching back over the last fourteen months.

List completed, he studied it, then called in Slocum and dictated four letters.

Each letter was a separate request, reminding the recipient, each of them one of his peers, of a past favor done for them by Montague or his firm, before describing the pattern of deposits into the Halstead account and asking whether the recipient was aware of any similar deposits made into their clients’ bank accounts, and, if so, if they had identified the source and the purpose behind said deposits.

Within the circle of select men-of-business to which all those he’d elected to contact belonged, absolute discretion was assured.

As Slocum retreated to dispatch the letters, Montague stared at the list of deposits, then grimaced. “Who knows? Perhaps this is a more widespread occurrence, something that’s happening to others as well.” Alternatively, one of his peers might have some insight into possible sources of such not-quite-regular mystery deposits.

Inwardly sighing, he turned to the Halstead records, the pile comprised of the papers Runcorn had initially given him, as well as those documents Pringle had subsequently copied and sent; lifting the inches-thick pile, he placed it squarely on the center of his wide blotter. Leaning back in his chair, he considered the stack.

Could Runcorn have been a party to whatever scheme the murderer had been running?

In his mind, Montague returned to his meeting with the younger man-of-business, studied again his fresh, open face, reviewed again his eager expression, his patent wish to please . . . the touch of awe he’d accorded Montague.

Everything Montague had sensed about Runcorn had rung true; even in hindsight, he could see no reason to change his assessment of the honesty and trustworthiness of the younger man.

“So”—Montague refocused on the pile of papers—“Runcorn had no idea what was going on, but the murderer believed that when Runcorn reviewed the file to get Lady Halstead’s affairs in order, he would discover something, enough to be alerted to whatever illegality the murderer was engaged in.”

Getting a client’s affairs in order involved, among other things, a complete listing of all assets, including all investments currently held, an estimate of their current capital worth, and an accounting of the income deriving from them, as well as a complete reconciliation of bank accounts and monies in the Funds and similar deposits. The last review of the Halsteads’ affairs would most likely have been done ten years earlier, at the time of Sir Hugo’s death.

Between them, Runcorn and Pringle had extracted, copied, and had delivered to Montague all the papers necessary for him to perform such a review, essentially to get both the Halstead estate’s affairs, as well as Lady Halstead’s personal affairs, in order.

“Which means,” Montague murmured, reaching out to check the numbers inscribed in Pringle’s neat hand at the bottom left corner of each page, “that somewhere in this pile should lay some sign of what the murderer has killed twice to conceal.”

Confirming via Pringle’s notations that the pile was assembled earliest to most recent, Montague lifted the top sheet and started at the beginning.

The clock on his desk stolidly ticked on. Immersed in the documents though he was, checking and making notes on past and present investments, he found his gaze drawn, again and again, to the list of the odd, unaccounted-for deposits that he’d made earlier and had laid aside.

An hour passed. Then another fifteen minutes and he could stand it no longer.

Setting aside the larger pile along with his notes to that point, he picked up the list of deposits, studied it one more time, then rose and went to his door. Looking over the outer office, he called, “Gibbons?”

When Frederick Gibbons looked up, Montague waved the list. “If you would, I’d like your opinion.”

Sometimes a fresh pair of eyes saw matters more clearly.

Gibbons promptly rose and followed Montague back into his office.

Returning to his chair, Montague waved Gibbons to a chair before the desk. He waited until Gibbons sat and leveled a curious look at him, before saying, “I want you to look over this list. It’s a set of deposits made into a bank account—I’ve listed both the amounts and the dates on which each deposit was made. I’m trying to identify what the source of these payments might be.”

With that, he extended the list.

Gibbons took it.

Montague watched as Gibbons scanned the amounts, noted the dates.

“It’s not payments from an investment—not quite regular enough in the timing, and the amounts vary too much . . .” Gibbons glanced up. “These look like deposits from trade of some sort—from sales of something.”

Montague blinked. He’d never dealt with trade accounts, but before he had joined Montague and Son, Gibbons had.

The list of figures he’d recently written flashed through his mind; reaching across the desk, he waved his hand for the list. “Give me that.”

Gibbons handed it over. Setting the list before him, Montague picked up a pencil and went to work, jotting amounts and sums alongside each of the deposits.

Figures were his forte; all his mind had needed was the clue Gibbons had provided and he had the solution.

Gibbons leaned forward, angling his head to read the sums Montague was writing down the side of the list.

Reaching the end of the list and finishing the calculation to account for the last payment, Montague picked up the list, scanned it again, then handed it back to Gibbons. “What do you think?”

Gibbons looked through the deposits, his eye following the line of Montague’s calculations. Reaching the list’s end, Gibbons nodded decisively. “That’s it. Each deposit is the payment from sales of between five and nine items, with each item being worth two hundred and fifty pounds, minus an amount of between two and three percent.” Gibbons glanced at Montague. “Were the deposits made by courier?”

“We don’t yet know—someone is checking that now—but most courier services charge between two and three percent.”

Gibbons was staring at the list again. “I’m trying to imagine what items one might sell at two hundred and fifty pounds each, and have such a level of consistent sales. Five minimum, month to month, reliable and regular.”

Montague thought, too, then shook his head. “It might be lucrative, but it’s almost certainly not legal.”

Gibbons snorted and handed back the list. “If it were legal, I wouldn’t mind getting into that trade myself. Nor would a host of others.”

“Indeed.” Taking back the list, Montague glanced at it again. “But this, it seems, is something someone has already killed twice to hide.”

“In that case”—Gibbons pushed back his chair and rose—“count me out. Is there anything else?”

Montague smiled. “No. Thank you, Frederick—you’ve been a great help.”

Gibbons grinned and saluted, then went back to his desk.

Montague studied the list and the notations he’d made. His smile turned grim. It was but a small breakthrough, but he felt they’d made headway. At least he’d have something to share with Stokes and Adair when they arrived later in the day.


As Penelope’s carriage rocked around the corner into Dover Street, she was still shaking her head over the wealth of information she and Griselda had gathered thus far that afternoon. “I will never not notice a shopgirl again.” When Griselda laughed, Penelope insisted, “No—it’s true. Now that I know how much they remember of what one says and does, I’ll be forever minding my p’s and q’s.”

“I rather think the Halsteads are a special case,” Griselda said. “Difficult behavior is always remembered.”

She’d taken Penelope to visit a long row of shops in Kensington High Street, within easy walking distance of Lowndes Street, where Lady Halstead had lived; as it transpired, those were also the shops favored by Mrs. Wallace Camberly, who lived with her husband and son in Belgrave Square, and, even more importantly, by their household staff. While Penelope had played the lady, examining items with a view to purchase, Griselda, in the role of lady’s maid, had chatted with the shopgirls at each of the establishments.

“Yes, indeed, but behavior aside, the comments and information passed on by the Camberlys’ staff were . . . well, amazing.” Behind her spectacles, Penelope widened her eyes. “Amazingly detailed.”

“It helped that the shop assistants still remembered Mortimer and his family from before they moved out of the area.” Griselda glanced out of the window as the carriage slowed. “So what we heard wasn’t simply bad-mouthing on the part of the Camberlys’ staff but attitudes the shopgirls had had confirmed by the Halsteads’ staff directly.”

The carriage halted.

“Regardless”—Penelope sat up and eased toward the carriage door—“we’ve now got one quite definite view of the Halsteads and the Camberlys. Let’s see what the grandes dames can add.”

When the groom opened the door, Penelope let him hand her down to the pavement, waited until Griselda joined her, then spoke to the coachman. “We’ll walk home, Phelps.”

“Very good, ma’am.”

With a salute, Phelps set the coach rolling again; Albemarle Street was only a block away.

Turning, Penelope led the way up the front steps of the house of her aunt-by-marriage, Horatia Cynster.

“Are you sure my presence won’t be . . . well, awkward?” Griselda murmured. “I’m not the sort usually found swanning about ladies’ drawing rooms.”

Halting on the narrow porch, Penelope threw Griselda a reassuring glance “Don’t worry. Horatia’s at-home is such a regular event it goes like clockwork. By this time, the only ones left will be the Cynster ladies and perhaps Lady Osbaldestone. All of them have met Stokes at one time or another, and all of them know he’s helped the family at numerous times. They know he helped Henrietta and James, and that was only recently.” Lips lifting mischievously, Penelope turned and plied the knocker. “Trust me, if anything, they’re going to be quite interested in meeting you.”

Griselda shut her lips on a tart retort as the door swung open, held by a rather stiff-looking butler, who, on lowering his gaze to Penelope, immediately unbent enough to smile. “Mrs. Adair—a pleasure to see you again.”

“Thank you, Grantley. Is her ladyship still receiving?”

“Not in general, but in your case I’m sure Lady Horatia will be delighted to have you join the ladies still here.”

Leading the way into the front hall, Penelope inquired, “So it’s the Cynster ladies, and who else?”

“Only Lady Osbaldestone, ma’am.”

Penelope allowed Grantley to take her pelisse, then waved at Griselda. “This is Mrs. Stokes, Inspector Stokes’s wife.”

“Indeed.” Grantley bowed. “Welcome, ma’am. May I take your coat?”

Griselda nodded. “Thank you.” She mimicked Penelope’s earlier stance, allowing the butler to help her out of her coat.

“The drawing room?” Penelope inquired.

“Indeed, ma’am.” Grantley crossed to a door. “Allow me.” Opening the door, he announced, “My lady—Mrs. Adair and Mrs. Stokes.”

Penelope, of course, swept over the threshold; quashing a sudden attack of nerves, Griselda raised her chin and followed.

Only to have the doubts she’d harbored over being welcomed into such an august and exclusive social circle instantly banished. Five ladies were seated on the sofa and the armchairs arranged before the fireplace; they smiled warmly at Penelope, but the instant their gazes moved on to Griselda, their eyes lit and expressions of expectant delight bloomed across their fine features.

All of the ladies were older matrons, and one—who, Griselda assumed, was the notorious Lady Osbaldestone—was bordering on ancient.

One dark-haired lady, presumably their hostess, Lady Horatia, rose to greet them. “Welcome, Penelope, dear!” She pressed Penelope’s fingers and they touched cheeks. Immediately she released Penelope, Lady Horatia’s bright eyes fixed on Griselda. “And this is Mrs. Stokes? Inspector Stokes’s lady?”

“Yes, indeed.” Penelope glanced at Griselda with a smile that clearly said, I told you so. “Griselda, I’d like you to meet . . .”

Griselda smiled, shyly touched fingers, and exchanged greetings with Lady Horatia, Lady Louise Cynster, Lady Celia Cynster, Helena, the Dowager Duchess of St. Ives, and, finally, with Therese, Lady Osbaldestone.

While Griselda was so engaged, Lady Horatia instructed Grantley to set chairs for her new guests. Once the introductions were over, and Penelope and Griselda were seated and supplied with cups of nice, strong tea and tiny, delicate tea cakes that Griselda quite approved of, Lady Osbaldestone rapped the tip of her cane on the floor—much as if calling a meeting to order. “So, my dears, how can we help you?” Her ladyship’s finely drawn brows arched over quite terrifyingly piercing black eyes. “I presume that is why you are here?”

Transparently unrattled, Penelope nodded. “We—by which I mean Barnaby and Stokes, assisted by myself and Griselda, and also, in this case, Mr. Montague, who you all also know—are trying to unravel a puzzling case which we believe has led to two murders. The first victim was Lady Halstead, who lived in Lowndes Street, and the other was her man-of-business. Griselda and I have spent the last hour learning what we can about the Halsteads and the Camberlys, Lady Halstead’s children and their families, from more general sources, and have now come to see if you can tell us more about both the Camberlys and the Halsteads from a social perspective.”

Four of the five faces looked blank. Lady Celia said, “Exactly who are these people, dear?”

Penelope grimaced but answered, “Mortimer Halstead and his wife Constance—Mortimer holds some reasonably senior position at the Home Office—and they have two children, Hayden and Caroline. The Camberlys are Mr. and Mrs. Wallace Camberly—he’s a Member of Parliament, and they live in Belgrave Square and have one child, a son, Walter.”

Horatia, Celia, Louise, and Helena all exchanged looks. Lady Osbaldestone, meanwhile, was frowning in concentration, as if dredging the depths of her memories—memories that extended fathoms deep.

After glancing at Lady Osbaldestone, Helena met Penelope’s eyes. “Sadly, we can’t help—those people do not move in our circles. However, I suspect darling Caro would know at least something of them—she and Michael are still so very heavily involved in government circles.”


“And,” Celia said, “you might ask Heather, especially about the Camberlys. Now that Breckenridge—Brunswick, I should say—has acceded to the earldom and assumed his father’s seat in the Lords, he’s become much more heavily involved in politics.”

“Indeed.” Lady Osbaldestone nodded. “And now Michael Anstruther-Wetherby has his seat in the Commons, he would know something of Camberly, too.” Lady Osbaldstone’s black gaze settled on Penelope. “Of course, I used to move in both political as well as government circles, but that was long ago. I can’t tell you anything about Mortimer Halstead or the Camberlys, but I remember Sir Hugo Halstead quite well, and I’m sorry to hear of his wife’s death.”

Penelope looked her interest. “You knew them?”

“Not to say knew, but he was in the Foreign Office, so of course I met him. He was considered a very sound man.”

“Can you tell us more about him—about them?” Penelope asked.

Lady Osbaldestone faintly arched her brows. “He spent most of his active years in India—he was a large, quite jovial, agreeable gentleman who was one of those people others trusted on sight. You can imagine how helpful that was in dealing with the natives. He was seconded to the East India Company for many, many years, and also assisted the Office of the Governor-General. His wife—I’ve been trying to think of her name, and I think it was Agatha—was a quiet lady, but pleasant company and a good foil for him. She accompanied him on his postings and was by his side for most of his service. At the time of Sir Hugo’s retirement, they were considered an exemplary couple who had made a very real contribution to King and Country.” Lady Osbaldestone paused, frowning again. “The only comment I recall regarding the Halstead children was that they bred true for looks, but sadly not for character.”

The front doorbell pealed, then feminine voices echoed in the hall. A minute later, the door opened and a youthful-looking matron of middle years led in a bevy of others. “Our apologies, Mama-in-law—we were delayed leaving Osterly Park. I will leave it to you to guess by whom.”

Horatia laughed and accepted a kiss on her cheek, then signaled to Grantley to produce more chairs. “As it happens, my dears, you’ve arrived at precisely the right time. Penelope here, and Griselda—who is Inspector Stokes’s wife—have presented us with a social query that we are unable to answer but on which several of you might have some insight to offer.”

Griselda’s head whirled as introductions were made; as had happened with the older ladies, the younger matrons showed no awareness of any great distinction between her class and theirs, at least not in this setting.

Grantley and two footmen ferried in more chairs and two fresh teapots, and finally everyone was seated and supplied with tea and cakes. Horatia fixed the newcomers with a commanding eye. “Mortimer Halstead and his wife, Constance—he holds a senior position with the Home Office—plus son, Hayden, and daughter, Caroline. Also Mr. Wallace Camberly, MP, and his wife, and their son, Walter. Whatever you know of these people, do share.”

“Mrs. Camberly’s name is Cynthia, and she was a Halstead—she’s Mortimer’s sister,” Penelope explained. “And there’s also a Maurice Halstead, who someone here might have heard of, and also a William, the youngest brother.”

“Oh, I’ve heard of Maurice,” the lady who had led the others in, Patience Cynster, said. She frowned. “But heavens, that was long ago, when I was first out in society. I was warned he was one to avoid.”

Penelope nodded. “The description we have is of a rake, an ageing roué, definitely a gamester and general profligate, but he’s thought to be harmless enough and can be charming.”

“Yes, that’s right,” Louise put in. “I remember him in the sense of warning the twins away from him.” She frowned. “But as I recall, he tended to hover on the outskirts of society, as it were.”

Penelope nodded encouragingly. “That sounds right.”

Several of the younger matrons had met the Camberlys, albeit only in passing. “My impression, for what it’s worth,” Honoria, Duchess of St. Ives, seated to Griselda’s left, said, “is that they are both exceedingly ambitious. Camberly for himself, for his advancement, and his wife to assist him in securing that.”

“And through that, securing her own advancement in the social ranks.” The lady who spoke was the Caro who had been referred to earlier. She nodded at Penelope. “I’ve met the Camberlys several times, and there’s no doubt that Camberly is pushy, but I would also say he’s careful and intelligent enough not to overreach. He’s building a solid reputation but is greedy for every little crumb of kudos and status he can legitimately garner to bolster his name. I expect he thinks to push for an undersecretary’s post after the next election.”

“What are they like as people?” Penelope asked.

Caro wrinkled her nose, took a sip of her tea, then, lowering the cup, said, “Not the sort of people you wish to claim as friends. Camberly is ruthless. Behind his easy smile and polished-to-a-gloss manners, he is utterly fixed on his goal, and one senses he would have no qualms over doing whatever he must to achieve it. His wife is equally ruthless, but in addition there’s an element of pettiness and spite there . . .” Caro paused, then concluded, “I can’t quite put my finger on what it actually is, but it’s very much a case of her viewing everything through the prism of what it might mean for her. I’ve come across the son only once, and, as often happens with overbearing parents, he’s something of a cypher and fades into the background.”

Penelope looked hopeful. “And the Halsteads?”

Caro pulled a face. “I’ve only met them once, and that in passing at a major function, but I have heard whispers about them from others—the sort of gossipy comments that are always floating about within government departments. I can’t vouch for their veracity, but if it will help, and I suspect you have other sources to check what mine have related, then . . .” Caro drew breath and went on, “I’ve heard that Mortimer, and Constance, too, are also ambitious, but with less reason, and far less likelihood of it coming to anything. Mortimer Halstead is known as something of a mediocre man—a pedant who is not intelligent enough to respond to new or unexpected situations. He’s considered sound in the general sense, but everyone, except presumably he and his wife, believe that he’s reached his level of competence and did so long ago, and is unlikely to move further up the Home Office tree.”

Shifting her gaze to Lady Osbaldestone, Caro said, “I have heard some wonder why he didn’t follow in his father’s footsteps into the Foreign Office, where the name would have counted for more, but it seems that Mortimer has absolutely no wish to ever leave these shores.”

“Actually,” Penelope said, setting her teacup on her saucer, “from the descriptions Barnaby and Stokes, and also Barnaby’s father, have given us of the Halsteads and the Camberlys, which mesh with everything you’ve said, I hypothesized that for all four Halstead children, their characters and dispositions might be the result of overblown competitiveness between Mortimer and Cynthia, who are older and close in age, stemming perhaps from their childhood, and the consequent effects that might have had on Maurice, forcing him to take the position of black sheep to gain attention, which in turn made William—the youngest brother—step outside society altogether.”


Lady Osbaldestone viewed Penelope with something approaching pride. “How very astute of you, my dear—for I’ve just remembered the only criticism I ever heard leveled at the Halsteads, mère and père, and that was, in fact, that their offspring had been allowed by the Halsteads to develop as a group in a quite unhealthy way. The specific criticism was that the potential of the Halsteads, the fruit of their union   as it were, had been allowed to disintegrate, to decay and come to nothing, through lack of attention, indeed, put even more bluntly, through parental neglect.

“You see”—Lady Osbaldestone fixed her black gaze on Penelope’s face—“while the Halsteads spent their productive years abroad, they left their children in England, in the care of nannies, governesses, and tutors at their country house, often for years at a time. For Sir Hugo, of course, had ambition, too, and his was all for his work, and Agatha supported him in that.”

Arching her brows, Lady Osbaldestone glanced at the other ladies. “It should hardly surprise anyone that, under such circumstances, with no parental hand to guide them and what is most likely an inherited ambitious streak, then, as Penelope suggested, rather than bonding together, the two older children vied for attention, for dominance, forcing the younger two to find other ways to make their mark, to stake their claim.”

Many heads nodded in agreement. “That sounds very right,” Caro said. “That would account for exactly the impressions I’ve received from both Cynthia Camberly and Mortimer Halstead.” Caro narrowed her eyes. “I’ve never met them together—as far as I know, I’ve never seen them in the same room—but I sensed in both of them that there was some deep drive to their desire to get ahead, that it was a need more than a wish.”

Again there was a round of murmured agreement.

Penelope glanced at Griselda and arched her brows. “I’m so glad we came.”

Griselda smiled, nodded, and finished her tea.

Soon after, Penelope rose, and she and Griselda took their leave.

Gaining the pavement, Penelope linked her arm in Griselda’s and they set off strolling slowly along the street; turning right into Grafton Street, and then right into Albemarle Street was the fastest route to Penelope’s house.

The afternoon was cool, soft gray clouds slowly drifting across the autumn sky, the sun already hidden by the buildings to the west. A light breeze threaded between the houses, flirting with the ribbons of Penelope’s bonnet and teasing strands of Griselda’s black hair free from her restrained topknot.

“Hmm,” Penelope murmured as they slowly paced. “I truly want—even need—to involve myself in investigations again, to give myself that additional purpose, but, at the same time, I have absolutely no intention of neglecting Oliver and any other children we might be blessed with.”

Griselda wasn’t surprised to hear her friend’s thoughts echo her own, yet her lips twisted in a wry smile as she admitted, “I was thinking the same, but, more, that it isn’t just a matter of us taking time away from them to do our investigating but also that, when it comes to the situations those investigations lead us into, it’s incumbent on us, our responsibility, as it were, to ensure we, ourselves, are never at risk.” She glanced at Penelope and met her dark eyes. “Our children can’t afford to lose us.”

Penelope nodded, one of her curt, definite, forceful nods. “No, indeed. I agree, and that’s the challenge—well, one aspect of the challenge—of us finding our way back into investigating and defining our roles with regard to the future. That’s something we need to work on.”

“And not just us,” Griselda murmured.

Penelope laughed, then, sobering, tilted her head. “In fact, if we extrapolate from what Lady Osbaldestone said—and what has happened with the Halsteads should, indeed, stand as a salutary lesson—then it’s not just us, you and me, who need to ensure that investigating doesn’t pull us away from our darlings for too long. The time we need to devote to our children may be greater than what Barnaby and Stokes need to give them, but they do need to give them some part of their time.”

“Some part of their life,” Griselda said.

“Exactly.” Penelope fell silent until they turned into Albemarle Street. Setting eyes on the door of her home, she said, “That’s the responsibility one must accept in bringing a child into the world—that we, both parents, need to give that child a defined, and real, and uncontestable place in our lives.”

Griselda echoed, “A defined, real, and uncontestable piece of our lives.”