The Masterful Mr. Montague (11 page)

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.”