The Masterful Mr. Montague (20 page)

“For once I must agree with my sister, Inspector.” Mortimer’s expression suggested that doing so was akin to sucking a lemon. “Which brings me to ask what the police are doing to catch this murderous thief.”

Refusing to respond to the undisguised jab carried in the tone of Mortimer’s demand, Stokes smoothly replied, “The investigation is proceeding on several fronts. The family will be informed in due course of the outcome, but at this stage, our immediate next step is to establish the alibis of all those who are, by virtue of their association with the victim, potential suspects. Anyone who might, directly or indirectly, gain from her ladyship’s death is, in the eyes of the law, a potential suspect. Consequently, while I assume it will be a mere formality, I must ask each of you for an accounting of where you were on the three evenings on which the murders took place.”

The gathering erupted in protest, the ladies feigning shock and incipient outrage, the three Halstead brothers blustering and disputing the necessity.

Neither Walter Camberly nor Hayden Halstead added their voices to the clamor, but Barnaby noted that both looked uneasy. However, their wariness was focused on their respective mothers, which, Barnaby suspected, suggested guilt not over the murders but over something else. Something possibly entirely understandable and not at all villainous.

Wallace Camberly, too, did not bother verbally protesting; he sat in the corner of one sofa, his lips compressed, his expression that of a man whose temper was being sorely tried. He radiated irritation and severe annoyance, but, unlike the others, he gave the impression he fully understood that, in this instance, there was nothing to be gained from resistance.

Unruffled, stoic, Stokes waited out the protests, but Camberly reached the end of his patience first.

“Inspector—I’m a very busy man.” Camberly straightened and met Stokes’s gaze. “As I can see you are bound and determined to take our alibis, might I ask that you take mine first? There’s a debate in Parliament later this afternoon that I wish to attend.”

As all the other comments faded, Stokes inclined his head, but before he could say anything, Mortimer declared, “I, too, am expected elsewhere.” He caught Stokes’s eye. “I must return to my desk and my duties. The wheels of government will not pause for something as minor as domestic murder.”

Barnaby suspected that Stokes, like he, might argue that last, but . . .

Stokes, no doubt quite pleased but hiding it, inclined his head to Mortimer, then glanced at Camberly. “Perhaps, Mr. Camberly, you would step this way?” Stokes waved to a round table with two chairs that sat in an alcove at the end of the long room. “And after I have your statement, I can deal with Mr. Halstead.”

“Indeed.” Camberly rose, straightened his jacket, settled his sleeves, then followed Stokes to the end of the room.

Mortimer Halstead watched them go.

His wife and his sister drew deep breaths, then started to argue over which of them was most urgently expected elsewhere such that they, and not the other, should follow Mortimer in giving Stokes their alibis.

Barnaby battled a grin. He glanced at Montague. Under cover of the din, Barnaby murmured, “Any insights?”

Montague shook his head. “Both Camberly and Mortimer Halstead are too accustomed to guarding their expressions. They were too often blank, or held rigidly to blandness—I couldn’t identify any specific reaction to any of the revelations, or rather, none that would denote guilt.”

Barnaby grimaced lightly. “Let’s hope the ladies had more luck.”

Across the room, Penelope turned to Violet. “Did any of them behave in a manner you hadn’t expected?”

Violet considered, then shook her head. “I was mildly surprised that Caroline actually spoke, but what she said wasn’t out of character. She, Hayden, and Walter usually attend this house under sufferance because their parents insist they must. They rarely contribute to any discussion and, I often think, are usually absorbed with thoughts of other things. Today . . . I would say all three were attending, concentrating on what was said, but . . .” She grimaced. “I sensed their interest stemmed more from curiosity—that sort of horrified fascination violent death tends to evoke.”

Her gaze moving over the gathering before the fireplace, Griselda nodded. “Indeed—that’s precisely how I read it, too.” Glancing across Violet, she met Penelope’s gaze. “I didn’t detect any suspicious reaction, did you?”

Penelope wrinkled her nose and looked back at Lady Halstead’s assembled family. “No.” After a moment, she added, “That said, having now seen and observed them all, and thus finally comprehending just how overwhelming their self-interest and self-absorption truly are, I’m even more convinced that someone here, someone presently in this room, is indeed the murderer”—she looked back at Violet and Griselda—“for the simple reason that I cannot imagine any other person having a sufficiently good motive for killing first Lady Halstead, then Runcorn, then Tilly the maid, and going one step further and attempting to murder Violet, too.” Penelope looked back at the Halsteads and Camberlys. “So it’s someone here, but which one?”

“Perhaps their alibis will give us some clue.” Griselda studied her husband, presently seated at the round table writing in his notebook as Mortimer Halstead, with a patently dismissive air, recited his whereabouts on the nights in question. Wallace Camberly had completed his turn and, with a brief nod to his wife, had departed, leaving through the door one of the constables had opened for him; Griselda knew there were two more constables in the front hall, waiting to ensure the family members quit the house directly and weren’t tempted to stray into the sitting room or upstairs.

Mortimer Halstead rose from the table; after surveying the room, his expression cold and closed, he headed for the door. His wife, Constance, replaced him at the table, having stolen a march on Cynthia, who had been delayed by her son, Walter; the pair stood together, heads bent close, by the fireplace. Observing the quality of their exchange, Griselda murmured, “I’d wager Cynthia is coaching Walter on what he should say.”

Penelope considered the sight, then snorted. “As if Stokes and his men won’t check.”

Constance rose from the table. Noticing, Cynthia whisked in to take her place, waving Caroline, who had intended to follow Constance, back. Although she scowled, Caroline gave way to her aunt and stepped back to wait her turn.

Constance Halstead paused to study the room. Her gaze came to rest on Violet, protectively flanked by Penelope and Griselda, and, head rising, much in the manner of a frigate under full sail, Constance swept across the room, bearing down on the chaise. Halting before it, she looked down at Violet. Ignoring Penelope and Griselda to either side, her expression that of a matron dealing with a household chore, Constance stated, “Miss Matcham, I believe you are better placed than any of the family to undertake the responsibility of dealing with this unfortunate occurrence of Miss Westcott’s death. Indeed, I suspect it falls within the scope of your duties to her ladyship to do so.”

Looking into Mrs. Halstead’s face, taking in her somewhat petulant tone, Violet bit her tongue at that “unfortunate occurrence”; after a moment’s consideration, she stiffly inclined her head. “As you say, Mrs. Halstead, on her ladyship’s behalf I will contact Miss Westcott’s family.” She certainly wouldn’t want to leave the matter of making sure Tilly’s body and effects were properly dealt with to any of the Halstead brood. Glancing at Stokes, she saw him still busy writing as Cynthia rose from her seat at the table and Caroline swiftly took her place. Looking back at Constance, Violet amended, “Or at least, I will liaise with the police as to what should be done in that regard.”

Constance’s expression turned peevish. “I’m sure I don’t know why the police are making themselves so busy over this latest murder—it’s hardly of any great import.”

Before Violet, Penelope, or Griselda could voice any of the retorts that leapt to their tongues, Cynthia Camberly halted beside her sister-in-law in a swish of stylishly subdued skirts. All three ladies of the family—Constance, Caroline, and Cynthia—had made some attempt to dress appropriately for mourning, but, of course, their orders for new mourning gowns were still with their dressmakers.

Unsmiling, her expression arrogantly superior, Cynthia looked down her nose at Violet. “As I’m sure you will understand, Miss Matcham, the family will wish to close up this house as soon as possible. Given her ladyship is gone, all reason for your continued employment has vanished, as, indeed, is true for the rest of the staff. Although her ladyship’s funeral will be held at St. Peter’s, we’ve agreed that it would be most convenient to host the wake here. After that, however, we would prefer to see the house closed.”

“Indeed.” Constance Halstead nodded. “So if you could inform Cook that you and she will need to make other arrangements commencing from tomorrow evening?”

“To ensure an appropriate standard, I will send my butler, two footmen, and a kitchen maid to assist with serving at the wake and with the subsequent clearing of the kitchen,” Cynthia added. “However, both you and Cook should consider your employment terminated as of the end of that day.”

Keeping all reaction from her face, Violet studied the two harridans before her. She’d lived in the house, and had given exemplary service, for the past eight years, and Cook had done the same for even longer.

Violet felt Penelope’s fingers tighten about her own in both support and warning; on her other side, Griselda shifted a fraction closer, without words signaling her support as well. Holding onto her composure with an iron grip, Violet stiffly inclined her head. As if from a distance, she heard herself say, “I will convey your instructions to Cook.”

“Excellent.” With a nod of dismissal, Cynthia turned, as did Constance, as Caroline joined them.

Constance and Caroline gathered their shawls and headed for the door.

Cynthia remained standing for several moments, through narrowed eyes watching her brother Maurice take his turn at the table with Stokes. Then she audibly sniffed, turned on her heel, and, head rising high, followed her sister-in-law from the room.

Griselda, Penelope, and Violet watched her go.

After a moment, Penelope observed, “I cannot recall ever meeting such dislikeable people.”

Griselda smothered a cynical laugh. She looked at those still in the room. “I have to admit it’s rare to meet such a universally unattractive group—there’s not one my heart warms to.”

“Are they always like that?” Penelope glanced at Violet. “Always so unlikeable?”

She thought back over the years, then nodded. “Yes. I’ve known them all for eight years, and they’ve always been as they are—coldly self-serving.”

So self-serving she was going to have to find a new roof over her head . . . just the thought of trying to sleep upstairs, of being in this house when night again fell, sent a shiver down her spine.

Violet looked up and found Montague watching her; even across the room, she sensed his concern.

Once the ladies had departed, it didn’t take long for the remaining men to give Stokes their alibis; as the last, Hayden, took himself off, Stokes rose and walked up the room.

Barnaby and Montague, who had hung back by the fireplace, observing the men, stirred and came forward to join the group as Stokes halted before the chaise Violet, Penelope, and Griselda still graced.

“Anything?” Barnaby asked, nodding at the notebook Stokes was perusing.

Stokes cast him a jaundiced look. “I asked for alibis for all three murders as well as the morning when the money was taken from the bank. With regard to the evenings, the ladies, unsurprisingly, have alibis of a social nature—messy, but they can be checked. However, as we’ve all agreed no female killed Runcorn or Tilly, and it was a male who met the woman from the bank, then our ladies are largely irrelevant.” Stokes flipped over a leaf of his notebook. “The gentlemen’s alibis are rather less specific, and much less easy to verify. For instance, all of them claim to have been either in bed, or walking in the park, or generally about on the morning when the money was taken from the bank. Their evening alibis are this club or that, this hell or that, this party or that. It’s highly unlikely we’ll be able to easily verify any of those.” Stokes looked down the page and snorted. “William Halstead’s alibis, while overtly the weakest, are probably going to be the easiest to confirm—he says he was drinking in a tavern by the docks on all three nights.”

Barnaby nodded. “If it’s his regular drinking hole, the barman and bargirls will know him and, most likely, be able to tell us if he was there.”

Grimly, Stokes nodded. “Exactly.” He glanced at the three ladies, then at Montague and Barnaby. “So other than predictably unhelpful alibis, what else did we learn from this exercise?”

Sliding his hands into his trouser pockets, Barnaby volunteered, “I doubt either Walter Camberly or Hayden Halstead is the murderer. Neither can yet control their expressions all that well—not like their elders—and neither reacted to the news of the deaths with any reaction that might suggest guilt.”

Penelope and Griselda exchanged glances. “The ladies,” Penelope reported, “also showed no consciousness or any awareness that would suggest they knew anything about the crimes.”

“Unfortunately,” Montague said, “the older males were impossible to read.” Montague met Stokes’s eyes. “In all my years of meeting with and assessing the reactions of clients, I have rarely met such . . . controlled façades.”

Stokes nodded. “Indeed. William Halstead appeared to be the easiest to read—he appeared unconcerned and detached throughout—but was that a mask, or was that reality? Given the artfully crafted faces Mortimer, Camberly, and Maurice all showed, I can’t have any confidence I read any of them aright.”

Montague sighed. “So in terms of flushing out the murderer, this exercise fell somewhat short of our mark.”

The others all rather glumly nodded.

Violet glanced at their faces, then rose. “I believe we can all do with some tea. Just let me have a word with Cook first—I have to tell her the family are letting us go and wish to close up this house tomorrow evening.”