The Masterful Mr. Montague

Chapter 8




So,” Stokes said, slouching in one of the chairs facing Montague’s desk, “no one saw any woman who might have been our mysterious lady in the vicinity of Runcorn’s office. I’m inclined to think that she may have been brought in, even hired, purely to withdraw the money from the bank.” Stokes glanced at Barnaby, seated to his right. “Did you learn any more in Threadneedle Street?”

“As it happened,” Barnaby said, “luck favored me, and in more ways than one. First, I can report that the payments in question were deposited using a courier service. The tellers who received them are experienced enough to recognize the signs, and have remembered because they thought it odd that couriers were making deposits into Lady Halstead’s account.”

Stokes grunted. “That increases the odds that this is something illegal and, what’s more, being carried out by someone with a criminal connection.”

Montague nodded. “That also fits with something I’ve discovered, but before we get to that”—he looked at Barnaby—“what else did you find?”

Barnaby grinned. “A young and observant street-sweeper, who remembers seeing our veiled lady come along the street from the bank to where a coach was waiting, drawn up by the curb. The door opened and the boy saw a gentleman inside the coach help the lady in.”

“And could our observant tyke describe the gentleman?” Stokes asked.

“He saw enough to tell me that the gentleman in question didn’t have a beard but sideburns, that his face was roundish, and he had brown hair. He couldn’t tell me how tall he was, and wasn’t sure about age.”

Stokes looked grim. “It seems that every clue we uncover points to our villain being one of the Halsteads.”

“True.” Barnaby grimaced. “But that leaves us with five—Mortimer, Maurice, William, Walter, and Hayden—and thus far all five fit our bill.”

“And,” Stokes said, “we shouldn’t at this point discount the possibility that two or more are in this together.” He frowned. “If that proves so, it’s going to make our job a lot more difficult.”

“Hmm.” Barnaby frowned, too. “If one did the first murder, and another the second . . .”

Stokes shook his head. “I don’t even want to think about it.”

After a moment, Barnaby looked at Montague. “You said you’ve discovered something?”

Montague, who had been following Stokes’s and Barnaby’s somewhat dismal line of thought, shook himself back to the present. Then smiled. “Yes, indeed.” He lifted the list of payments with his annotations from his blotter. “We can thank my senior assistant, Gibbons, for the vital insight, but once he suggested that the payments looked like income from the sales of something, it was easy enough to work out.” Reaching over the desk, Montague handed the sheet to Stokes, who held it so he and Barnaby both could view it.


After giving them a moment to scan his sums, Montague explained, “If one assumes that our villain is selling items each of which nets him two hundred and fifty pounds, and that he sells between five and nine such items every month, and that he then pays one of the courier services their customary two to three percent for the delivery into Lady Halstead’s account”—leaning back, he concluded with some satisfaction—“then it’s possible to account for each and all of those payments.”

Barnaby glanced at him, then looked back at the list. “Fourteen different payments, and they all fit that pattern.”

Stokes grunted. “I’m no expert with numbers, but even I would say that’s conclusive.” Looking at Montague, he waved the list. “Can I keep this?”

Montague nodded. “I’ve already made another copy.”

Folding the paper, Stokes shifted to stow it in his coat pocket. “So at this point, we have a gentleman who appears to be one of the Halsteads, or Walter Camberly, who is selling, or causing to be sold, items valued at two hundred and fifty pounds each, and he sells five to nine such items a month on a regular basis. Given that he’s sought to conceal his activities by using Lady Halstead’s account to hide his cash, and also accepting that there aren’t that many legal items one can sell for two hundred and fifty pounds at such a steady rate, then it’s reasonable, I would say, for us to assume that whatever trade this gentleman is dabbling in is illegal.”

“And that, presumably,” Barnaby said, “is why he’s sought to conceal the money. Which raises the interesting question of which of the Halstead males has most to lose from his illegal activities becoming known?”

Stokes considered, then said, “Correct me if I err, but for my money the answer to that question is Mortimer Halstead, tied neck and neck with Wallace Camberly—and given there’s the possibility his son may be acting in conspiracy with Camberly, I believe we have to include him, too, even if he’s not the actual murderer.”

Barnaby nodded. “And after the two older men, I would list Hayden Halstead and Walter Camberly. Within their circles, both are sons of prominent men—if their involvement in some illicit scheme became known, it would cause a scandal.”

Montague frowned. “What about Maurice Halstead, and the youngest brother, William?” When Barnaby glanced his way, Montague lifted one shoulder. “My impression of the pair is that neither would care all that much, not from the point of view of concealment. Were either of them the villain, they would be more worried about being caught and stopped by the authorities than about hiding their identity and avoiding scandal.”

Barnaby thought, then slowly nodded. “I would have to agree. I can’t see any reason why either Maurice or William would bother with using their mother’s account, much less using couriers to do so. In fact, I can see at least two to three percent of earnings that would influence them not to do any such thing.”

Stokes pulled a face. “It’s tempting to speculate that William, at least, and likely Maurice, too, are more likely than any of the others to know how to contact the courier services, but you’re right—they appear to have no pressing motive for doing so.”

For several minutes, the three of them silently mulled over all they’d learned, then Stokes rose, and Barnaby followed. “I should get back to the Yard,” Stokes said. He arched a brow at Barnaby.

“I want to have a word with the police surgeon, just to confirm there’s no more he can tell us. I’ll come up and see you if there is.” Barnaby and Stokes both looked at Montague.

He noticed and, frowning, met their eyes. “There’s one more thing I ought to do, just to be complete. The money taken from her ladyship’s account has to go somewhere.” He glanced at the clock on his desk. “Although I doubt I’ll get any answer until tomorrow, I will make discreet inquiries as to whether any of the Halsteads, or the Camberlys, made any large deposit into any of the accounts they have access to.” He met Stokes’s eyes and faintly smiled. “I would prefer that you didn’t ask me how, but I can also arrange to be notified should such a deposit be made over the next week.”

Stokes inclined his head. “As that would be useful to know, I’ll refrain from asking you about your methods.”

“Of course,” Barnaby said, “it’s unlikely there’ll be any trace of it, not after he used her ladyship’s account presumably to ensure the money never appeared in his, but”—saluting Montague, he turned for the door—“you’re right. We do need to check, because when dealing with villains, you never do know when they’ll slip up—”

“And then we’ll have them.” Stokes tipped a raised finger to Montague in farewell and followed Barnaby from the office.

Rising, Montague went to stand in the doorway to the outer office. Once Stokes and Barnaby had left, and Slocum, who had shown them to the door, shut it and headed back to his desk, Montague called, “Slocum? I have some letters to dictate.”

After shutting up the office, Montague had intended to go upstairs, to his home, but the cool of a surprisingly pleasant evening drew him outside. The lamps were just being lit, but there was still enough light to comfortably stroll and enjoy the blanket of quiet that descended over the City now the bustling hordes who worked within it had streamed home to their dinners.

It was harder to use the pleasantness of the evening to excuse his hailing of a hackney and his consequent journey across town to Lowndes Street.

He understood Stokes’s wish not to inform Violet of Runcorn’s murder and the involvement of a lady who some might imagine to be Violet herself in the removal of funds from Lady Halstead’s bank account. He even agreed with Stokes to some extent, but over the past hours, Penelope’s and Griselda’s words had tirelessly replayed in the back of his brain. Now . . . despite not wishing to further distress Violet, the notion of keeping her uninformed of what had occurred smacked too much of leaving her unnecessarily defenseless.

Some very determined part of him he didn’t entirely recognize couldn’t abide that.

The hackney pulled up outside the Halstead house. After paying off the driver, Montague opened the gate, walked up the path, and climbed the steps to the pillared front porch. Removing his hat, he knocked on the door.

And steadfastly refused to think of precisely what he was doing, and why.

Footsteps approached, then Violet—when had he stopped thinking of her as Miss Matcham?—opened the door. The instant she saw him her expression lightened. “Mr. Montague. Good evening.” Stepping back, she waved him in. “Do come inside, sir. I take it you have news?”

Stepping over the threshold, he replied, “Of a sort.” Now he was there, he had to think of all that he’d determinedly not thought of during the journey. “Ah . . . I hope I’m not interrupting your meal.”

She smiled and reached for his hat. “No—Lady Halstead preferred to dine late, and we’ve . . .” Her voice faded and she blinked.

He handed her his hat. She took it and turned away to hang it on the hat-tree.

When she turned back, her face was solemn, but composed. She waved him to the sitting room. “Please, come in, and let’s sit comfortably.”

He inclined his head and stepped back to allow her to lead the way. She did and he followed her into the sitting room, the same room that Lady Halstead had received him in. In contrast to the more formal drawing room, it felt pervasively lived in; a small fire sent busy fingers of flame leaping up from the grate, chasing away the chill that had closed in with the fading of the light.


“So”—Violet sank into one of the chairs before the hearth—“what news, sir? Does Inspector Stokes have any suspicions as to who the murderer is?”

Sitting on the sofa facing the fire, Montague took in the angle of her chin, saw the tension in the fingers she clasped in her lap. “As to that . . .” He hesitated, then said, “I regret I must inform you that when I called at Mr. Runcorn’s office this morning in company with Mr. Adair, we discovered poor Runcorn murdered.”

One hand rose to her throat. Her face blanched; her eyes seemed to grow huge. After an instant in which she seemed to cease breathing altogether, she hauled in a swift breath and blindly—instinctively—reached out with one hand, as if seeking support. “My God—was it because of this business? Because of Lady Halstead’s affairs?”

Montague didn’t think but simply reached across and closed his hand about her fingers. They were icy; shifting forward on the sofa, his eyes on her face, he chafed her hand between both of his. When her horrified gaze focused on his face, he inclined his head gravely. “Sadly, it appears that way. Lady Halstead’s papers were scattered over his desk—his clerk had left him working through the Halstead file, and we believe the documents had been searched.”

Her face, her fine features, registered a depth of sadness he hadn’t expected to see; he hadn’t thought she’d known Runcorn that well.

“That poor young man. He was so . . . eager and keen to make a go of his firm—you could see that just by looking at his face. Oh!” She looked down, her other hand rising to her lips, the fingers of the hand he still clasped clutching lightly. “I’m sorry. Pray forgive me . . .” She briefly waved.

“There’s nothing to forgive.” His voice had lowered, softened, affected by her reaction, and more, drawn by it to acknowledge a sense of loss he hadn’t yet allowed himself the time to feel.

Raising her head, blinking rapidly, she murmured, “It’s bad enough to lose someone like Lady Halstead to a murderer, but when the victim is young, innocent, and had so much potential, so much to live for, the loss is even more tragic.” She met his eyes; her lips twisted wryly. “I only met him three times, and briefly at that, but he seemed so earnest and . . . true, if you know what I mean.”

As if only then realizing they were holding hands, she gently drew back her fingers; reluctantly he allowed them to slip free of his grasp. “I’m sorry,” she said. “You must think me quite witless, being so affected by the death of someone I barely knew.”

“No. Not at all. I think you quite”—lovely, wonderful, glorious—“admirably sympathetic.” After a moment he added, gravely and sincerely, “Runcorn was a loss the world did not need.”

Her gaze had drifted to the flames, but at that she met his eyes directly. “Exactly. You do understand.”

He inclined his head.

She studied him for a moment, then prompted, “Is there anything more you can tell me? Are there any suspects in Runcorn’s murder?”

Montague hesitated, then mentally decided: Stokes be damned. “There was a man—a gentleman . . .” He told her about the Halstead-like male seen near Runcorn’s office before and after the murder, then went on to relate all they’d done, all they’d discovered through the day. He told her of his discovery of the likely meaning of the odd payments into Lady Halstead’s account; when he tried to heap praise on Gibbons, she seemed determined, while acknowledging Gibbons’s input, to focus on his own contribution . . . enough to have him wonder if this was what it felt like to be seduced.

By her words and the thoughts behind them, by the admiration he saw shining in her fine eyes.

He was careful not to give any real details about the veiled woman who had conspired with the murderer to remove the suspect funds and more from Lady Halstead’s account. But when he reached the end of his tale, Violet grew pensive, then proved that she was not at all lacking in intelligence. Meeting his eyes, she stated, “The family will try to say that it was me, that I was the woman who withdrew the money from Lady Halstead’s account. And by that reasoning, I am also guilty of her murder, or was at least an accomplice.”

There was something in her face, in the set of her chin, that warned him not to pretend he didn’t think the same.

Resigned, he sighed and inclined his head. “Stokes, Adair, and I believe so. Either you, or, failing that, her ladyship’s maid. However, I cannot sufficiently stress that none of us believe it, either of you or Tilly.”

She straightened, incrementally drawing back, drawing away.

Spurred by an instinct, an impulse he had no name for, he reached across to take both her hands, one in each of his; she surrendered them with no resistance. He caught her eyes. “Violet—if I may call you that?”

She held his gaze for a moment, then, almost as if it was against her better judgment, fractionally nodded.

He drew breath and rushed on. “You must believe that none of us—those of us investigating this case—believe you or Tilly are in any way involved in these crimes. To us, it makes no sense to suspect you, but we realize that the family will attempt to point the finger at anyone rather than at one of their own, so . . .” He paused to draw breath, and something in him calmed, grew more certain. “Stokes knows what he’s doing. He has standing, experience, and a great deal of discretion in what he consents to tell the family. A part of the reason he has not yet summoned them again, has not even as yet informed them of Runcorn’s murder, much less the situation with her ladyship’s account, is that he wishes to gather more facts and information before he does. The more knowledge we have of what occurred, the more obvious it will be that none of these crimes can be laid at your door.”

Holding her gaze, he went on, his voice lowering. “You must believe me when I say we are all working to catch the murderer, and parallel to that, to exonerate you.” It was suddenly very important that she did believe that. His eyes locked with hers, he murmured, “Trust me, Violet. Regardless of all else, I—we—will ensure that no harm comes to you.”

Violet looked into eyes that overflowed with sincerity. With such rock-solid certainty that she couldn’t deny what he asked of her—that she believe him. That she trust him.

She wasn’t sure how he had managed in so short a time to figure so highly in her regard, yet somehow, at some level she could not question yet didn’t understand, he had come to be her rock, the one person she could rely on.

“I do trust you.” The words fell from her lips in a tone that instantly brought warmth to her cheeks. She cleared her throat, strengthened her voice to quickly add, “And Inspector Stokes and Mr. Adair. I . . . do have faith that you’ll identify the murderer, or at least do your best—”

“We’ll find him.”

And there it was again—that unwavering certainty, the product, she sensed, of incorruptible devotion. From their earlier meetings, she’d recognized him as a cautious man who did not give his promises lightly, but when he did . . .

Looking into his eyes, meeting his certainty with the openness and directness she felt she owed him, she inclined her head. “Thank you.”

His fingers tightened about hers and he drew breath as if to speak, but then the wind howled outside, and he fell silent. After a moment of studying her face, he lightly squeezed her fingers, then released them. Rising, he gave her his hand to help her to her feet.


When she straightened, her head barely reached his chin. Again their gazes met; again she sensed he debated his next action. Then he took a small step back. “I really must go—I’ve interrupted your evening for long enough.”

She could have disabused him of any notion that she had tired of his company, but she suspected he lived some distance away, and from the sound of the wind the evening had turned vicious. “I’ll see you to the door.”

He followed her from the room and took his hat from her hand, but paused on the threshold. His gaze traveled her face before locking with hers for a last fleeting moment, then he inclined his head. “I will call again when we have news.”

Stepping outside, he placed his hat on his head, settled and buttoned his coat, then went down the steps.

Violet pushed the door almost shut, blocking the chill wind, but she remained peering out. Watching him stride away.

Only when he had passed into the square and out of her sight did she close the door. She stood staring at the panels for several moments, wondering, reliving in her mind the past minutes, the swirling eddies of emotion he, his presence, had evoked, the currents that both of them—she would swear—had been aware of, had been sensitive to. She’d never felt the like, that strange mutual awareness.

The wind shrieked and broke the spell.

Abruptly shaking herself, she reached up and threw the heavy bolt at the top of the door, then bent to slide the lower bolt into place as well. She doubted they would have any further callers; the night had turned dark and ominous outside.

Glancing into the sitting room, she checked that the fire would safely burn down without further tending, then closed the door and walked down the narrow hall to the green baize door at the rear. Pushing through, she continued to the kitchen.

Since Lady Halstead’s death—had it truly only been two nights ago?—the kitchen had become the hub of their small household. She, Tilly, and Cook gathered in the warmth, surrounded by the familiar smells of baking and roasting meats and vegetables, the better to hold the chill that had invaded the rest of the house at bay.

Truth be told, had it been at all possible, Violet would rather have slept in the kitchen than in her bedroom on the first floor, three doors from the room in which Lady Halstead had been killed.

Cook heard her footsteps and looked up, her ruddy face flushed as she ladled thick stew into three bowls. “There you are. Thought I’d have to send Tilly to fetch you. Who was it?”

“Mr. Montague.” Violet slipped into a chair on one side of the table. Although she’d attended formal dinners at her ladyship’s side, on all other occasions, she’d taken her meals in the kitchen with Tilly and Cook; the years had forged a strong bond between the three of them, one that stood them in good stead now.

“That special man-of-business her ladyship consulted?” Tilly was seated opposite Violet; she handed around the bowls as Cook filled them.

Violet nodded. “Yes, him.”

“What did he want, then? You sat with him for over half an hour.” Cook set her pot back on the stove, then took her seat at the table’s head.

Violet took her first mouthful of the savory stew, waited until the others did the same, then swallowed and said, “He had news to impart.”

Briefly, she told them of Runcorn’s murder, and of the lady who had taken the money from Lady Halstead’s account. She dwelled rather more on the sighting of a man who might have been one of the Halsteads near both Runcorn’s office and the bank. As both Tilly and Cook were convinced that it was one of Lady Halstead’s own family who had murdered her, they were very ready to focus on that aspect; neither saw the unwelcome possibility that Violet had—of either herself or Tilly being accused by the family of being involved in the crimes—and she saw no reason to point it out and cause Tilly and Cook more distress than the news of Runcorn’s murder already had.

“Cor.” Tilly shivered. “What happenings, to be sure.” Across the table, she searched Violet’s face. “But we’re safe, aren’t we? I mean, there’s no reason to think this madman will come back here?”

Violet considered. “I can’t see why he would. If this was about the money, then he’s got what he wanted.” She frowned, then shook her head. “It’s all too complicated for me, but Mr. Montague and that Inspector Stokes and Mr. Adair are all working on catching the murderer.”

“Aye, well.” Cook scooped up another mouthful of stew. “I say we leave the a-hunting of the murderer to them. The three of us—we’ve got more pressing concerns.” Cook looked at Tilly, then Violet. “We’ve been paid until quarter-day, but we’ll have to find new posts, won’t we, come the funeral and the family closing up this house?”

After a discussion with the police surgeon, during which he’d learned nothing of any significance that they hadn’t already known, Barnaby joined Stokes in his office.

Stokes looked up as Barnaby entered. “Anything?”

Barnaby shook his head. “It was as we’d thought—the villain clouted Runcorn with the bookend, then strangled him with the curtain cord, pulling him up and out of his chair as he did.”

Stokes grunted, then, sitting back, waved the note he’d been reading. “We’ve been summoned.”

“Oh?” Barnaby dropped into his accustomed chair angled before Stokes’s desk. “To where? For what? And by whom?”

“To Albemarle Street. To dinner. By your wife and mine.”

“Ah.” Barnaby nodded. “They want to pick our brains for every little fact we’ve managed to glean.”

“That,” Stokes conceded, consulting the note again, “but they also mention that they’ve had a wonderfully successful day learning more about the Halsteads and the Camberlys.”

Barnaby widened his eyes. “Have they, indeed?” He blinked. “I wonder how.” After a moment of pondering, he met Stokes’s eyes. “Perhaps we’d better go and find out.”

“My thoughts precisely.” Stokes got to his feet and reached for his greatcoat. “I’ve nothing further to attend to, so . . .” He waved Barnaby out, then followed him into the corridor and shut the door.

They could have walked down The Mall and through Green Park, but that would have taken more than half an hour. Reaching the pavement, they hailed a hackney and, ten minutes later, reached Barnaby’s front door.

Barnaby used his latchkey and led the way into his front hall. Mostyn, summoned by some mysterious alchemy, arrived to take their coats. “The ladies and the children are in the garden parlor, sir.”

“Thank you, Mostyn.” Barnaby led Stokes down the short corridor to the comfortable parlor that ran along one side of the rear half of the house.

Other than the library on the opposite side of the town house, the garden parlor was the room Penelope was most likely to be found in, especially when she had Oliver or others with her. One long side of the room and the wall at the far end were principally composed of windows and French doors; during the day, the room was awash with light. On chilly evenings, as now, the windows and glassed doors were covered by long curtains, and a large fire burned in the fireplace that occupied the center of the long inner wall. Well-padded damask-covered sofas and chairs were arranged around the room, and numerous lamps added their warm glow to the golden light thrown by the fire. Penelope’s garden parlor was a perennially cozy and welcoming space.


The sight that met Barnaby’s and Stokes’s eyes as they walked in was one designed to warm the cockles of any man’s heart. Both Penelope and Griselda were sitting on the floor in the space between the twin sofas, their skirts billowing about them. Both were laughing, their gazes, their entire attentions, fixed on the two infants who were rolling on a thick fur rug spread over the Aubusson carpet a safe distance from the grate and its screen.

Hearing their footsteps, both ladies looked up; seeing their husbands, they smiled.

Barnaby and Stokes halted, both drinking in the sight, then, as one, they smiled back and went forward to join their families.

To kiss their wives’ proffered cheeks, then sink onto the floor and join in the game of interacting with and entertaining their children.

For the next twenty minutes, no mention was made of murder, money, or anything to do with the investigation.

But eventually the children grew sleepy. Getting to her feet, Penelope paused to look down at their small assembly with a certain satisfaction, then went to the bellpull and tugged.

The nursemaids—Oliver’s Hettie and Megan’s Gloria—had been waiting for the summons. Both arrived and carted their charges off to settle them in the nursery. Mostyn, who had also come in, gathered up the rug and the children’s toys and followed, pausing only to say, “Dinner is waiting, ma’am. We can serve immediately if you wish.”

“Thank you, Mostyn,” Penelope said. “We’ll go in.”

Wrapped in the lingering warmth the children brought to them, the couples ambled toward the dining room, still sharing anecdotes of the children’s days, of their latest fascinating exploits.

Only after they’d settled about the dining table and Mostyn had served the first course did the talk turn to matters criminal.

At their ladies’ urging, Stokes, aided by Barnaby, reported on theirs and Montague’s discoveries over that afternoon. Neither made any attempt to hold back; given Penelope had been present when they’d stumbled upon Runcorn’s murder, any notion of keeping their ladies distanced from proceedings was, both accepted, futile.

As Barnaby and Stokes had come to expect, Penelope and Griselda had questions, some especially insightful and acute.

It was Penelope who focused on the grounds on which both the teller and the street-sweeper had labeled the woman who had removed the money from the bank a lady. After several minutes of discussion, they agreed that the judgment had been based on dress, deportment, and speech, all of which, as Griselda pointed out, could easily be assumed.

Subsequently, Penelope summarized, “So on the basis of the sightings near Runcorn’s office, and the associated searching of the Halstead papers, we believe Runcorn’s murderer to be one of the males of the Halstead bloodline. We’re assuming he killed Runcorn and arranged for some female, who was to pass as a lady, to present a forged letter to the bank the following morning and thus remove all the funds from Lady Halstead’s account.” Dark eyes bright, she looked around the table. As heads nodded, she asked, “Is it possible that someone else killed Runcorn, and the Halstead male simply searched the papers left on Runcorn’s desk?”

Stokes considered for only a moment before shaking his head. “Unlikely given the timing of the sightings of our Halstead male outside the office. He entered soon after Pringle had left. If his sole purpose for visiting Runcorn was to search the papers—or have Runcorn provide information from them—then he would have seen Runcorn alive and left while Runcorn was still alive, and the papers on Runcorn’s desk wouldn’t have been in such a mess.”

“Hmm.” Penelope nodded. “Yes, I will have to allow you that—which means that it was, indeed, our Halstead male who killed poor Runcorn.”

Griselda frowned. “From your description of Runcorn’s body, I take it that you don’t believe he could have been killed by a woman, lady or not.” When Stokes, Barnaby, and Penelope nodded, Griselda asked, “What about Lady Halstead? Could she have been killed by a woman?”

Stokes glanced at Barnaby. “Yes, she could have been. Her ladyship was ageing, frail, and physically weak. Any woman of average height and strength could have held the pillow over her ladyship’s face long enough to do the deed.”

“So,” Griselda went on, “it’s possible we’re looking at two different murderers, whether acting in concert, as a conspiracy, or even possibly independently. We might be looking at a female and a Halstead male, or even two Halstead males, or a single Halstead male.”

Several seconds ticked by, then Barnaby grimaced. “You’re right that we can’t tell if we’re looking at one murderer or two, but I seriously doubt they acted independently. The correlation between Lady Halstead being murdered so soon after announcing she was having her affairs put in order, and then Runcorn, the person actively engaged in putting her ladyship’s affairs in order, being murdered is simply too great.” Barnaby met the others’ eyes. “The motive for both murders is the same—to conceal those deposits. Subsequently, to prevent that money being absorbed into the estate, he, or they, removed it before we had a chance to put a watch on the bank and catch them.”

Penelope nodded. “That’s logically sound.” After a moment, she went on, “From what Montague discovered, those deposits derive from some illegal trade, so we can assume that the drive to conceal the deposits is fueled by the fear of scandal. So by my reckoning, the one person in the family who isn’t involved in the murders is Wallace Camberly. He couldn’t have been the man seen near Runcorn’s office, could he? And so . . .” Breaking off, she wrinkled her nose. “I’ve just seen the hole in that. The person fearing the scandal might be Wallace, but he or his wife or his son could have killed Lady Halstead, and his son could have killed Runcorn.”

“Exactly.” Glumly, Stokes grimaced. “If you entertain the possibility that there’s more than one of them involved, then any member of the family, females as well as males, could be one of the murderers—a male or a female having killed Lady Halstead and any male having killed Runcorn.”

“But”—Griselda held up a hand—“it’s very much harder to see anyone other than a family member, even a female, being one of the murderers.”

“Not unless there was evidence of some relationship between said female and one of the family’s males,” Penelope said. “And given what you’ve told us of the family’s social attitudes, I seriously doubt any of the men would have stooped to dallying with Lady Halstead’s staff, not even with Miss Matcham.”

Barnaby snorted. “I’d put the boot on the other foot—I seriously doubt Miss Matcham would have stooped to having anything to do with any of the Halstead males.”

Penelope frowned. “So where does that leave us?”

Stokes growled, “Wanting alibis from the lot of them for the nights of both murders.” He stirred, sitting straighter as Mostyn reached around him to remove his plate. “I’ll have to see them all again shortly and broach that topic, which will no doubt prove to be a minefield.”

Mostyn had silently worked around them, pouring wine and serving and removing courses. As he unobtrusively set out the cheese platter and a fruit trifle, Barnaby glanced at Penelope. “In your note you said the pair of you had had a wonderful day learning more about the Halsteads and the Camberlys. So what did you learn? And from whom?”


“I fear what we learned was more by way of background information than directly relevant fact.” Reaching to serve herself from the trifle, Penelope grinned. “Griselda can tell you about the first part, which was the most interesting, then I’ll fill you in on the rest.”

Griselda described their visit to the shops in Kensington High Street and related the gist of all they’d heard from the shop assistants. “In essence, the households of Mortimer Halstead and that of Cynthia Camberly, née Halstead, are engaged in a form of competition.”

“A cutthroat one, by all accounts.” Penelope was engaged in hunting out the raspberries in her bowl.

“Mind you,” Griselda said, “while the competition rages fiercely at the family level, the staffs view the antics of their betters with general amusement that borders on bemusement.”

Stokes frowned in open puzzlement. “Why would an adult brother and sister behave like that?”

“Ah.” Having emptied her bowl, Penelope set down her spoon. “Remember my earlier conjecture, based on, I might remind you, your own observations from your meeting with the family—that there was an intense competitiveness between Mortimer and Cynthia that I attributed to them being so close in age and therefore vying for their parents’ attention?”

When both Barnaby and Stokes nodded, Penelope grinned. “I was right about the competitiveness—although it’s even worse than I guessed—but I wasn’t entirely right about the reason for it. And despite the Halsteads and the Camberlys largely falling outside the sphere of the grandes dames, both Lady Osbaldestone and Caro had significant insights to share.”

Penelope proceeded to present a concise summation of the pertinent observations those ladies had imparted. “So, to bring it all down to a nutshell, it’s a combination of personal ambition and intense inter-sibling rivalry that drives all the Halstead children—Mortimer and Cynthia especially, but I doubt either Maurice or William are unaffected, at least with respect to the rivalry.”

Stokes and Barnaby had been following the ladies’ revelations with all due concentration.

After several moments, Stokes slowly nodded. He met Penelope’s eyes, then looked at Griselda. “Thank you. Courtesy of your efforts, we now have a very firm idea of what these people are like, of what’s important to them. And through that, you’ve solved one looming difficulty about motive—it’s rare for anyone to commit matricide, especially without any strong degree of personal animosity between mother and child. We know there was no strong antipathy between Lady Halstead and her children, so, if the family had been otherwise normal, it should have required a motive of immense weight to force one of her children to kill her. But they aren’t a normal family, and with the degree of parental neglect described by Lady Osbaldestone, the reason behind Lady Halstead’s murder at the hands of one of her children wouldn’t need to be so overwhelmingly powerful.” Stokes’s lips curved in almost feral anticipation. “Your information puts us on a much firmer footing with regard to the Halsteads. That’s going to be a considerable help when next we interview them and ask for their alibis—which is going to have to be soon.”

“Apropos of that next meeting,” Penelope said, “in light of the usefulness of the information Griselda and I gathered, I really think that, if at all possible, she and I should be present.” Undeterred when neither Stokes nor Barnaby looked enthused, Penelope stated, “We see more than you do.”

That was uncontestable. Stokes shifted. “I can’t imagine how we might arrange that—the family will question your presence.”

“Actually,” Penelope said, “Lady Halstead’s funeral is to be held the day after tomorrow. The notice was in The Times this morning. As far as I can see, there’s nothing to prevent me and Griselda from joining the mourners, or attending the wake afterward, and I’m sure if we have a word to Miss Matcham, we’ll be able to pass ourselves off as her supporters and, with any luck, attend the reading of the will as well.”

Barnaby eyed his wife’s irrepressible smile and inwardly shook his head. She had it all worked out, and as there was no danger involved . . . he glanced at Stokes. “It’s a good idea.” He could see in Stokes’s gray eyes that, despite his reservations, he agreed. Looking back at Penelope, Barnaby said, “If nothing else, you and Griselda will be able to monitor the family’s reactions and emotions while Stokes and I deal with the alibis.”

“Exactly,” Penelope beamed. She looked at Stokes. “So it’s settled. Griselda and I will accompany you to the funeral and the wake.”

I have to admit,” Penelope said, leading the way into their bedroom several hours later, “that I am very much looking forward to attending Lady Halstead’s funeral, and even more her wake.”

Following his wife into the room and shutting the door, Barnaby grinned. “Only you, my love, could say such a thing, and with such jubilant, jaunty expectation.”

Penelope shot him a grin of her own. “It’s . . . engaging to be involved in an investigation like this.” Turning to the mirror set above her dressing table, she started pulling pins from her dark hair, which had been anchored in a complicated knot on the top of her head. “I’d forgotten how enthralling it can be. Identifying a murderer, especially one in a case such as this, is such a complex puzzle, one made even more absorbing and challenging because one needs to learn about people, to understand them, their aspirations and motivations, and put those all together in order to find one’s way through the maze and reach the conclusion.”

Barnaby shrugged out of his coat and draped it over his dressing stand, then unknotted and unraveled his cravat. While he understood—few better—Penelope’s attraction to investigations, especially those of the criminal variety, he still wasn’t entirely sure of how he felt about her plunging back into that arena.

“I know Griselda and I helped a bit with that business with Henrietta and James, but that was primarily by way of planning and organizing, which is all very well but lacks the challenge of an investigation.” Her dark hair swinging loose, Penelope removed her necklace and earrings, then picked up her brush and started drawing it through her lush locks.

His shirt hanging open, Barnaby found himself, as ever, drawn by the sight. Walking slowly to stand behind her, he set his fingers to the long row of tiny buttons running down the back of her gown.

Feeling the tugs, after a moment Penelope set down her brush and stood straight and still, her hands on her hips, making it easier for him to slip the tiny loops over the rounded buttons.

“That said,” she declared, “we—Griselda and I—are both still feeling our way, at least as to how much of our time we are willing to devote to investigating. Clearly, there has to be a balance struck, a weighing up, if you will, between all the other things we value in our lives, against the intellectual stimulation we derive from investigations.”

He found knowing she was thinking along those lines comforting, yet . . . still engaged with her buttons, he murmured, “You and Griselda did well today.” After a moment of inner wrestling, he added, “I hadn’t realized you were going out again, that you had such an excursion in mind.”


“We hadn’t thought of it before you left, but once we did . . .” She shrugged. “It was something Griselda and I could do that you and Stokes couldn’t. And, even better, it required no special consideration.”

He frowned. “Special consideration?” The last button undone, he looked up.

She slid the sleeves of the gown down her arms, pushed and wriggled until the skirts shushed to the floor, then stepped out of them. Tossing the gown over her dressing table stool, she set her spectacles on the table and, clad only in a gossamer-fine chemise, turned to him. “Special consideration as to whether there was any danger involved.”

“Ah.” He reached for her and she came into his arms, her small hands slipping under the hanging halves of his shirt to spread, tactilely greedy, over his chest, even as his fastened about her waist, the sleekness of her skin screened from his touch only by the finest silk.

Tipping back her head, she looked into his face, then arched a questioning brow.

They hadn’t bothered to light any lamp. Through the dimness, he met her gaze. “While I’m glad—and relieved—to know that you do, in fact, stop to consider that point, I have to admit that the key issue for me, and Stokes, too, in you and Griselda involving yourselves to a greater extent in our investigations is the question of the danger such involvement may bring. The risks you might, even unwittingly, take, the physical threats that might eventuate.”

She tilted her head, a particular habit, as she studied his face, reading not just his eyes but his expression, then her lips gently curved. “You might be interested in a particular insight Lady Osbaldestone shared with us today. While she was speaking of the Halstead family, both Griselda and I took due note—as one needs to do when a lady as old and wise as Lady Osbaldestone shares her views.”

“Indubitably,” Barnaby said, the cynicism in his tone quite clear.

Penelope grinned. “Regardless, I—and Griselda, too—believed this was one time, one revelation, that was too apt not to give due weight. In describing how the Halstead family, the current generation, came to be such a fractious brood, Lady Osbaldestone pointed to the single fact that, as children, they did not have the direct presence of their parents. Their parents weren’t dead, but they were not there. Not present to guide and steer, to act as examples. In Lady Osbaldestone’s view, that’s the reason why, despite the senior Halsteads being exemplary people, their children are anything but.”

Barnaby arched his brows. “And the lesson you and Griselda took from that?”

“Is that whatever balance we strike between investigating, and, indeed, all the other endeavors of our lives, it’s our responsibility, and even more our duty, to ensure that, regardless of all those other distractions, we give our children the time with us they need.” She arched a brow back. “And, incidentally, as the Halstead example also illustrated, that mandate applies as much to fathers as mothers.”

Barnaby held her dark gaze, saw, investing her expression, the commitment to finding her way forward, her balance, her wish to engage in investigations already tempered by her devotion to their son—and to any other children that might come—and with equal commitment, inclined his head. “I have no wish to argue that.”

Penelope smiled. Reaching up and wrapping a hand about his nape, she stretched up and brushed her lips over his. “So, you see, you and Stokes have nothing to be concerned about.”

His lips were hungry, following hers. “Why’s that?” he murmured, then closed the gap to sample the sweetness of her delectable mouth.

When he raised his head, she murmured, her tone suggesting impatience, “Because, having taken Lady Osbaldestone’s dictum to heart, we’ve agreed, Griselda and I, that, regardless of temptation, we will never do anything that might keep us from returning safe and sound to our children every night.”

“Ah. I see.” There were times, especially when she was explaining the intricacies of feminine thought, that he felt quite dense, but as the links between all she’d said finally formed, he realized . . . and did, indeed, feel relieved.

Shifting to raise her other arm and drape both about his shoulders, she stepped closer still, pressing her luscious curves against the spare planes of his harder frame. “And just to settle the matter, I promise we won’t go beyond the fashionable areas without Phelps and two grooms, exactly as I used to do before Oliver came along.” Tightening her arms, she brought her lips to his. “So you can stop worrying.”

He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, to read in them her inherent understanding.

To appreciate anew that this was one of their strengths, their empathetic connection; it still made him uneasy at times to know how lacking in barriers he was when it came to her, how accurately and effortlessly she read him, yet there were benefits, too, and this was one.

She understood, and because she did, they would walk hand in hand through the minefield of their emotions. Of her wants and his needs. And they would find the balance.

A balance that would allow them both to enjoy their lives to the fullest, to exercise to the utmost the talents they’d been blessed with so that they gained the greatest, the deepest, and broadest satisfaction from their days. From the contributions they made, to themselves, to their family, to society.

He saw and appreciated, and inwardly acknowledged. Holding her gaze, he murmured, “Thank you.”

Her lips curved. “Perhaps,” she whispered, as at her command he bent his head, “you might express your gratitude in a way that doesn’t involve words.”

His laugh rumbled in his chest but never made it past his lips. She sealed them with hers, drank in his delight, and gave him her own, her passion and her joy, in return.

They moved into the dance in concert, in effortless accord.

Shedding their clothes, they let their hands roam, let them shape and sculpt, possess and surrender.

They found their way onto the bed, rolled and writhed, arched and gloried.

Delighted anew, as they did every time, in the passion-filled, desire-laced moments. In the exquisitely intense intimacies.

Heat rose as the last barrier fell.

Their bodies came together, merging on a single shared gasp.

Eyes closed, fingers laced, lips brushing, kissing, mouths melding, then parting, they journeyed through the familiar landscape that, as always, bloomed anew.

He’d wondered if they would lose this, if with the familiarity bred of matrimony this intimate intensity would fade.

It hadn’t. If anything, the wonders of the journey had grown richer, more vibrant, more varied, more pleasure-laden.

More shattering.

When at the last he hung poised above her, muscles like iron, veins cording his arms, the heat of their striving bodies nothing less than a furnace as he drove into her willing body and took them through the last veil into paradise, he knew beyond words, beyond thought, beyond understanding that this wonder, this joy, this aching togetherness would never end.

Not in this lifetime, and if they had any say in it, not in the next, either.